Bound to the Battle God (Aspect and Anchor, #1)

by Ruby Dixon

I can't help but feel that the voice in the next apartment was reaching out to the wrong person. Maybe that's why he stopped talking to me. A psychic wrong number.

I’m still not entirely sure how I got here. The kids from Narnia went through a wardrobe dresser and became kings. The chick from Outlander touched some stones and ended up with a hot kilted Scotsman. Me, I knock on my neighbor’s door because I hear voices shouting, and the next thing I know, I’m being shoved in a slave pen and referred to as “Tart.” Hollywood has definitely misled me.

I can always peck someone to death like the world’s angriest blonde chicken.

“Pleasant appearance…distasteful personality.” And he moves on. Sounds like my last annual review at work.

Okay, well, that answers that. God-cock is apparently very impressive.

“I don’t know if I am amused or annoyed. I want to wring your neck and laugh at the same time. It is very curious.”

"What is your name, mortal?" "Faith." Her brows draw together. "Is that a joke? Do you mock me?" Why does everyone have a problem with my name?

"There are four divine virtues and four divine flaws. Because the High Father wants to extinguish the flaws from his gods, he casts them out and fragments them into four copies of themselves. Each copy represents the flaw they are working to purge from their system." It's weird to think of Aron as a fragment of a god. "What are the four flaws?" "Lies, Hedonism, Arrogance, and Apathy."

She must eat for him, sleep for him, and perform all mortal functions on his behalf since he cannot. He gets his strength through her. And if she is destroyed…" He lets his words trail off.

He sniffs my hair again, and I wonder if he's hard right now. Is he overcome with lust for me? "You smell bad," Aron says. “When was the last time you bathed?” Man, fuck this guy.

She sews embroidery onto the delicate edges of her gowns, and I sew pockets into my traveling tunics, because pockets are awesome.

“Remember that you belong to me,” he says in a low voice. “And I do not give you permission to die.”

Amuse ourselves? He thinks this is a fucking game? “This isn’t for a party game, Harry Potter,” I retort.

“Fuck you, cunt.” Her voice is low and cold. I lift my hand—the one with the fragile vial—and smash it against the side of her face. “That’s tart to you,” I choke out.

“Never forget you,” he rasps, and I barely feel him brush his lips over mine again. “Never, Faith. I love you.”

“Mm. You talk a lot. I’m not used to the dead having so much to say.” “Because they’re afraid of you?” He nods. “Because of the places I can send them for eternal torment if they antagonize me.”

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt. He stares at me. “With a baby.” I slap his chest. “No, with a fucking roasted chicken. Yes, with a baby!”