Page 21 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor’s Destiny (Time for Monsters)

T he moment my boots touched solid ground, the world tilted strangely beneath me. I had gotten used to the sway of the ship, and now that the ground beneath me was unmoving once again, my equilibrium was thrown off even more than it had been when I boarded the ship. The gentle, sometimes rocky sways' absence was unsettling in its stillness. It made my legs feel weak, like they had forgotten how to hold me upright.

I swallowed, trying to shake the sensation. The journey from England had been uneventful, save for that one horrible storm and for Vardor's constant presence—a silent, immovable force at my side. I grew used to it, used to him, in a way that I wasn't sure I liked. It reminded me too much of Thomas.

How I had once convinced myself I could grow fond of him, even when I knew what he planned for me. Was this the same? A slow, creeping acceptance of what I could not fight?

But no. This was different.

Thomas had worked in secret, plotted behind my back. Vardor didn't scheme. He made his intentions quite clear. He was powerful and undeniably dangerous, but honest in a way that made my stomach twist. And insane , I reminded myself. A fact that I seemed to forget all too easily. He was still convinced he was a god, no matter the fancy clothes he was wearing now. He was uncomfortable in them, that was easy to see. He constantly fidgeted with his cravat and his shirt or adjusted the legs of his trousers. In a way, it was endearing, and that was exactly where the danger lurked for me. I was seeing more of the man behind the massive body. A man who was trying to fit in and cared for me in ways I had never known before. He fussed over me, made sure I got enough to eat, and ordered baths, much to the captain's and crew's chagrin. We started playing games at night, sometimes cards, sometimes backgammon or chess, and soon, he mastered all of them. Especially chess. His pride in himself was boyish and over-jubilant and made me smile. He was becoming more and more my companion, not my captor, and that frightened me. I had yet to muster the courage to ask him what would happen once we reached Cairo. He believed he was a god and I a goddess. He was convinced my memories would miraculously return once I saw the desert. What would happen when he found out they didn’t? I pushed these thoughts from me as always when they arose, unwilling to face reality. Just like I had always done. Living with my father had taught me that. It was easier to live by hoping things would be different in the future than by facing the reality of the present. Those lessons had ill-prepared me for Thomas. And now I was making the same mistake with Vardor.

The bustling port of Gibraltar was before us, and its sights distracted me. The air was thick with salt and spice; the scent of the sea mingled with roasting meats and tangy citrus. Men shouted in Spanish and English, their voices rising over the creak of docked ships and the constant chatter of merchants bartering their wares.

A group of sailors came toward us, passing too close on the overcrowded dock, and one of them accidentally brushed against my arm as he stumbled past, laughing drunkenly.

Vardor moved with his usual unnatural speed. One large hand shot out and gripped the sailor by the front of his salt-stained tunic, yanking him back with effortless strength.

"Watch yourself," Vardor growled.

The sailor's eyes bulged, and his friends froze in mid-step as they took in the sheer size of the man holding their companion captive.

"Apologies—apologies, Senor," the sailor stammered, hands raised in surrender. "No harm meant!"

"Vardor, please," I beseeched him, placing a hand on his arm. The tips of my fingers burned where I touched the material of his jacket, feeling how tightly it wrapped over his bulging, rock-hard muscle. A nervous flutter moved through my stomach that wasn't all unpleasant.

Vardor looked at me, "Are you unhurt?"

His eyes burned with a ferociousness that caught my breath. The realization that he was protecting me rushed through me like hot fire. Nobody had ever protected me. Defended me. It was an unfamiliar notion, but one I liked very much. I nodded hastily, nervously looking at the sailor whose face was turning purple. With a shove and a grunt of disdain, Vardor released the man, sending him staggering backward into the group of sailors.

"That was unnecessary," I muttered, because... because it was the polite thing to do, not because I was defending the sailor. Strangely, the man didn't mean anything to me. I hadn't wanted to see him die for brushing against me, but... I shook my head, having no idea who this person inside me was.

Vardor turned his black eyes on me, unreadable, unyielding. "No one touches what is mine."

My stomach tightened, and my breath caught in my throat for the second time in the span of minutes. I should have argued and told him I wasn't his, that he had no claim over me. But I didn't. Because some deep-rooted, primitive instinct buried deep inside me liked it. Liked it very much.

"Come," Vardor urged me on, leading me to an inn that had been suggested by the captain. He secured a room for us before we took off in search of a ship bound for Cairo. It didn't take long to find one, but it wouldn’t leave for three days.

Vardor's impatience was evident, but my excitement matched it in intensity. Everything around me was new and exotic, overstimulating every single one of my senses on our stroll down the harbor. The streets opened into a bustling market square wedged between the docks and the winding alleys that led deeper into the city. This place was so different from England, it made my heart soar. The air was warm and rich with the tang of citrus and a medley of spices. Some were familiar—cinnamon, cumin, saffron—but their scent here was far more potent than what I was used to in England, where the aromas had always been faint, dulled by time and distance. There, they had seemed exotic; here, they were intoxicating, vibrant, overwhelming in a way I had never imagined.

Stalls lined the streets, overflowing with silks, baskets of glistening fruit, beaded jewelry, and strange trinkets I had never seen before.

My eyes widened as I took it all in, my heart soared at the rich displays of color, scent and sounds. Merchants called out in Spanish, Arabic, French and other languages I had never heard before. Their voices blended with the lively hum of the crowd. I was becoming intoxicated by the overstimulation. From several stalls hung fabrics much more colorful than even in my father's store. Some looked like they had been spun from sunlight.

No rooftops threw shadows over the area. I had a clear view of the cloudless sky and saw the sun's rays reflected off hundreds of tiny glass beads, like a thousand colorful stars. Slowly, I turned in a circle, my fingers itching to reach out and touch everything. The silky scarf in a deep blue that was wafting from a stall beam, a bright red bracelet that looked like fire, a bright green parakeet sitting on a man's shoulder, and further down, a monkey. I giggled. A monkey.

But then I froze, remembering a similar moment. A moment where I had stared at the staircase at Carlton House. Thomas had been embarrassed by my unladylike behavior, and here I was, doing it again. I turned to Vardor, expecting him to scold me like Thomas had done. Instead, Vardor's eyes were alight with pleasure.

"You're enjoying this place?"

"This is incredible," I breathed, unable to hide my excitement. I searched his features for a hidden meaning, for a reprimand. Instead, he only smiled at me warmly.

"It is quite amazing," he admitted, never taking his eyes off me. A flutter stirred in my stomach upon realizing that not only did he have no intention of reprimanding my behavior, but he actually enjoyed it. I had already known that he wasn't like Thomas, my father, or any other man I had ever met, but now an unsettling truth started to seep into me. I was starting to like him.

I broke our eye contact and rushed to the nearest table because my emotions were running away from me. Intricately carved wooden figurines—some of animals, some of warriors, and others of gods I did not recognize filled the vendors display. Vardor silently followed me. I felt his hot gaze on me and worked hard to ignore it.

A glint of gold caught my eye, and I drifted toward another display of delicate earrings, each dangling with tiny coins or shimmering stones. Incredibly valuable gems lured me in, but once I reached the stall, my gaze caught on something unlike the others—a bracelet made of countless tiny, thin coins, each one etched with symbols and inscriptions worn by time. Some were smooth from centuries of touch, others still held faint impressions of gods, prayers, and celestial markings. It wasn't simply jewelry; it was a relic, something sacred.

I reached for it and reverently held it up.

"A pilgrimage bangle," the merchant said, watching me with knowing eyes. "Travelers once collected these, adding a coin for each temple they visited, each god they honored."

Vardor's hand closed over mine, bringing the bracelet up to his eyes for closer inspection. My breath caught at the touch. His hands were calloused and rough. I had seen their strength, had watched this hand break a man's neck, yet his touch was as light as a petal brushing against me. Incredibly gentle, as if he was afraid to break me. A thick clump formed in my throat, and a storm broke out inside my stomach. No, not a storm, a wind tunnel, churning and thundering with emotions that set my very pulse on fire.

"A belief forged in metal," Vardor murmured, his voice rough, unreadable. "A history of faith."

Recognition flickered in his dark gaze. He had seen this before. Or something like it. My heart hammered as he slid it on my wrist, the tiny coins jingled softly, whispering with the voices of those who had carried them before me.

"You should have this," he said simply, fastening the clasp.

For a long moment, I just stared at him, unable to shake the feeling that with this gesture, the past had bound itself to me just as surely as the man before me had.

"You didn't have to do that," I murmured.

"You wanted it." He replied.

I swallowed as heat crept up my neck. It wasn't about the bracelet. It was about him noticing. About him watching me as I explored this strange world, about him choosing to give me something simply because I had looked at it too long.

Thomas had bought me gifts, too. Perfumes, jewelry, beautiful things to show me off—but not because he cared what I liked. I had been a possession he liked to decorate. I couldn't say his gifts had never meant anything to me, they had. I had been starved for affection, wanting to make each of his gestures into something more. Into the illusion that he liked me, was falling in love with me, and never would follow through with his threat.

This was different. A strange tightness curled in my chest. I was starting to look at him like a man I was attracted to. Not as my abductor. Not as my travel companion, but as a man of flesh and blood, who made my stomach flutter and my heart hammer faster.

"Thank you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Vardor only nodded and took a step back. But I could still feel the weight of his presence, the way the simple act had changed something between us.

We kept walking through the market, but for once his silence wasn't heavy. After I pointed out various objects of interest, an ebony carved elephant, a bottle of delicate jasmine perfume, a bundle of delicate lace—all of which he offered to buy and I declined—he pulled me toward a stall, more animated than I had ever seen him. I didn't even mind that all the stall carried was weapons. Seeing his excitement made the hour spent holding and weighing various daggers and swords worthwhile.

"What is this?" Vardor pointed at a musket.

"Ah sir, you have excellent taste, this here is a Brown Bess musket. Best there is. The British Royal Army uses them." The salesman explained.

Awkwardly, Vardor picked the musket up.

"I see you never shot one of these before," the merchant observed shrewdly, hiding his surprise at discovering a gentleman like Vardor had never handled a musket before. "Let me demonstrate."

He picked up another, almost identical weapon, crooked his left arm, and levered the right, holding the musket over it. He peered down the barrel, indicating how to aim. Vardor copied his moves, becoming more familiar with the weapon by the minute.

Bored, but sensing Vardor would abandon his playing with man toys if I strayed, I stayed, eyeing the wares on the tables next to the arms dealer. My boredom soon shifted anyway, when Vardor shrugged his jacket off as well as his cravat and his vest. The long-sleeved white shirt stretched tightly over his muscles and opened at the chest, almost all the way down to his navel. I swallowed. With his black hair bound back at the nape of his neck and his olive skin, he looked like a rogue pirate. My heart suddenly stuttered. How had I not noticed how handsome he was? Somehow, over the past couple of weeks, I had lost my fear of his massive body with muscles packed on muscles, which allowed me to view him in a new light. He was beautiful. He looked like one of the miniature carvings of Greek gods I had admired earlier. A certain darkness hovered over him, but instead of frightening me, it was beginning to draw me in. So far, he had treated me well—besides abducting and leaving me bound and gagged—oh, what was I thinking. He was a brute. A brute's brute. But a brute who hadn't hurt me. Not physically. He had saved and protected me numerous times, and somewhere down the line, I had begun to appreciate his muscles.

The merchant had shown Vardor how to load the musket, and he was now lining up his first, real shot. I watched his neck tendons stand out as he leaned over, aiming the musket. I took in his expression of utter concentration as he lined it up, and yes, my eyes were glued to his flexing biceps underneath his shirt. I couldn't have said what came over me, but I stepped closer behind him, rose to my tiptoes, and gently blew against the nape of his neck, not once considering the danger of him shooting a loaded weapon inside a bustling market—thankfully, the proprietor had roped off an area, and people wisely stayed far away from it.

The shot went wild, hitting the trunk of a palm tree, and Vardor pivoted and stared at me, dumbfounded. That was worse than my momentary lapse in judgment. The look on his face delighted me, and I giggled.

"It seems my wife has a little bit of a mischievous streak in her," Vardor announced, keeping the pretense of our false identities up and smiling widely at me.

"It would seem so," Ahmed, the merchant, grinned. "Allow me, I'll reload it for you."

His words registered with me, but from far away. All I saw were Vardor's dark eyes looking at me with desire and an intensity that weakened my knees. His hand moved up ever so slowly, and gently, his knuckles brushed over my cheek. I leaned into the caress, fully absorbing the feeling of his scarred skin on my face. Deep inside me, I felt my soul sigh in recognition of the touch. My heart thumped heavily in my chest, and a longing for... for... I had no words for it, but it was an overwhelming sensation that burned through me like a wildfire.