Page 113 of Fallen Gods

The Gods are evil.

Maybeshe isn’t.

But her family is—and they deserve whatever they get.

I try not to let it bother me while I get ready and make my way to the elevator. Just as I look up and the doors are closing, I see it.

It has a different meaning now.

The stupid comic book picture of Odin fighting off Ymir at the end of the hall.

Odin. Loki. Thor. All standing by his side like heroes.

And an entire realm, Jötunheim, set on fire around them.

They destroy worlds.

How silly to think I had any place in hers.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Aric

I’m not in the mood.

If one more person mentions tonight’s party, I’m punching them in the face.

Rey’s been distant all day—on purpose. Everything she does is surgical. Which means she probably knows where the last rune is and wants to rip the bandage right off despite how much I may bleed.

Class blurs. My notes are a line of slashes that could be runes or a cardiogram but definitely won’t help me pass bio. Would be nice if I could get drunk fast and stay there tonight, but my body burns through alcohol like cheap gasoline. I’m an expensive drunk—and that won’t fix the actual problem.

Correction: problems.

I round the corner toward the dining hall—and Rowen’s posted at the doors like a gargoyle. The guy’s been shadowing Rey all week, too smooth, too pretty, the kind of pretty that looks better with blood on it. Scars that say he enjoys collecting them.

I turn on my heel. The last thing I need is him right now.

“Aric.” Even his voice irritates me. He talks to me like he has a reason to command me, and it pisses me off.

I sigh and face him. “Yes, asshole?”

He rolls his eyes. “About the party tonight.”

“Can I uninvite you?”

“I assume it will be supervised?” he says, ignoring me.

I bark a laugh. He doesn’t. “Who died and made you chaperone? Relax. Cameras everywhere, house staff on duty, nobody’s dying. Rey can handle herself.”

His blue eyes flash a shade colder. “And who watches you?Who controls you when you lose it?”

I glance around the empty corridor—polished tile, trophy case reflecting our shapes. “It’s my house, so I plan to exist in it. Drink. Have a good time. Forget for a little while and try to avoid you at all costs. That’s my plan.”

He steps in, close enough for me to smell his stupid mint gum. “Good. As long as that plan doesn’t involve her.”

I grin. “You warning me away like she can’t make good choices? She’s a grown woman—she does nothing she doesn’t want to.”

His jaw flexes. “Ah. That’s the problem. What she wants—”