Page 23 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor’s Destiny (Time for Monsters)

T he sun had long since begun its descent, casting the streets of Gibraltar in a twilight hush. The golden glow of lanterns flickered against old stone walls, creating dancing shadows. Vardor led me through the narrow, winding alleys, his pace steady, unhurried, yet I could sense the tension in him—he was always a warrior first, always aware of his surroundings.

I was starting to get used to the different air, but with the evening, new scents emerged. Roasted almonds, spiced meat, and something charred mingled now with the scent of citrus and the sea. Footsteps echoed in the distance, the murmur of merchants closing their stalls, but ahead, the streets stretched too empty, too still.

The only warning I got was a chill creeping up my spine, then suddenly, a hand encircled my arm, like a cold, iron vise. I barely had time to gasp before I was yanked backward and my body collided with something solid and unyielding—Vardor. His grip on me was tight, possessive, his heat a stark contrast to the chill of danger crawling over my skin.

Four men stepped from the shadows, their faces half-hidden behind scarves, their eyes gleamed like the knives they brandished.

"Leave your coin and the lady and walk away," one of them sneered, twirling a wicked-looking curved blade between his fingers. The weapons merchant had a similar one—he had called it a scimitar. The others fanned out, moving in a practiced, predatory formation. Different from the lowlifes who had accosted us in London. These men were organized and experienced.

Vardor's entire body went taut, his stance shifted as he braced himself. Every muscle in his frame coiled with lethal precision, like a storm ready to break. There was no hesitation in his moves, no attempt to parley with the men. His response was cold—a snarl, dark and furious, "Over my dead body."

I had seen him fight before, but never like this. One moment, the lead attacker lunged—the next, Vardor's hidden sword from inside his cane flashed, a gleaming arc of steel catching the lantern light before it met flesh. A wet, sickening cry ripped through the alley as the first man staggered backward, clutching his arm where blood now slicked his sleeve. Another attacker lunged, but Vardor was already turning, his sword a blur as he twisted the knife from the second man's grasp, flipped it in his hand, and drove his fist into the man’s gut with a force that sent him crumpling to the ground.

The last two hesitated.

"You should run," I heard myself say, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it rang sharp and certain in the night. It sounded like me, yet it wasn't me. Never in a hundred years would I have believed I would find the courage to speak in a situation like this. But I did, and to my amazement, they took my warning seriously.

But they never had a chance. Before I could blink, they were both dead and Vardor stood threateningly over the fourth, who was still bleeding on the ground. There was not a hint of mercy on Vardor's face as his blade crossed the man's throat.

I stood frozen. My back pressed against the wall; my hands trembled as much as my heart pounded. This had not been a fight. This had been a slaughter.

Vardor turned to me, his face set in stone, his breathing steady—as if he had done nothing more than swat away an inconvenience.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice low, rough, as his dark eyes scanned me for injury.

I could only shake my head. Not from pain—but from something I couldn't quite name. I sensed that it was dangerous, though. No matter how hard I tried, I could not summon any pity for the four men. With their cold and merciless demeanor, they had scared the wits out of me. I had no doubt what my fate would have been had Vardor not been there. Had it been another man at my side.

Thomas' name came unbidden to my mind.

Would he have fought for me? Would he have stood between me and death like this? Or would he have smiled politely, offered coin, and left me to my fate? I closed my eyes, knowing with absolute certainty what he would have done. Tears threatened to bubble up.

Vardor had no obligation to me.

And yet, he had not hesitated to protect me.

For all his madness, for all his danger, for all the ways he frightened and infuriated me—Vardor would never abandon me. And maybe, just maybe, that mattered more than I wanted it to.

"Thank you," I said in a trembling voice that resembled mine more than my inexplicable earlier words.

"For what?" his brow creased. I searched his eyes, his expression, but he really didn't know. What he did was normal for him. Part of him. As natural as breathing.

"For saving me, for not leaving me," I said, our gazes still locked.

"Never," he replied, and in that one word lay so much meaning, so many more words, it pulled the air out of my lungs.

Later, when I laid down on the bed that smelled of mold, I turned so I could see him. Vardor. Sitting on a chair by the window, leaned back. One could have thought he was sleeping, but I knew better.

He only twice left me alone at night on board The Orion's Tide : the first night and one other. I didn't know where he went or what he did those nights, but unless he only needed sleep once a week and had found a hidden spot in which to do so, he really hadn't slept at all. No man could do that—no human man.

Twice I had seen him fight now against men outnumbering him. Twice he had fought with a speed and strength that seemed supernatural, and my mind began to wonder... began to go places, forbidden places, places that teetered on insane. Yet, what if he was a god? The question repeated itself in my brain like a stuck gramophone, and with each turn, the possibility became more conceivable.

That wasn't all, though. Because even if he was insane, I was becoming more attracted to him. His insanity didn't sound as frightening anymore. It was becoming more acceptable to me, just like the alternative that he was indeed a god.

So what did that make me?

Given my track record with Thomas, I would have said I was like a chameleon—changing my attitude and mind, not my colors—had it not been for a deep-rooted sense that I was finding myself, that I was becoming myself more and more with each passing day.

I had always lived to please a volatile father. Would have married the man who would have ruined me. Over time, my self must have adapted, adapted in a way that made me a dreamer. A dreamer who ignored reality and chose to believe everything would turn out like it did in fairy tales. But I wasn’t that person any longer. I didn't think Vardor would ever harm me—I knew that wasn't wishful thinking on my part like it had been when I hoped to make Thomas fall in love with me.

Reality had caught up to me, but now I was torn between two. Was Vardor insane, or was he a god? It should have disturbed me that I was ready to accept, no, embrace either one. But it didn't.

I watched the moonlight cast shadows on his angled features. My eyes followed the line of his hard jaw bones, the crooked nose, down to his square chin. He was the epitome of every man who had ever frightened me, yet he was becoming the epitome of a man I very much desired.

When I woke, Vardor was gone. A pang of loss filled me, and a feeling of loneliness and longing for him made me rush through getting dressed, putting my hair up, and going in search of him.

We boarded yesterday morning before the sun came up to leave with the tide, and I spent most of the day in our cabin, organizing it. I did get to see some of the ship. It was huge and held many more passengers besides us, which was different from our first sea voyage.

I exited the cabin, located a floor above the water line. Vardor had spent a fortune securing the largest, most luxurious cabin available. It was at the end of the hall—or was it a galley? I had no idea about ship terms... I passed more closed doors and plugged my nose as I moved by a bowl smelling of vomit, covered with a towel. It seemed the ship's swaying wasn't to everyone's stomach's liking.

The ship moved with the pulse of the waves, a rhythmic rise and fall that had already become second nature to me. Wood creaked with the movement as I made my way up the stairs to the deck. Fresh sea air filled my lungs the higher I ascended.

The deck bustled with activity; men hauled ropes, calling to one another as they adjusted the sails, their voices mingled with the cry of gulls overhead. The ship was massive, far larger than the one that had brought us to Gibraltar, and now, in the light of day, I saw its true enormity—rows of cannons, towering masts, thick ropes coiled like sleeping serpents along the planks. It was a fortress on water.

But there was no sign of Vardor.

I walked the entire deck, up and down, nodding and returning greetings of good morning from the sailors and other passengers. A sinking sensation fluttered through my stomach. He couldn't have vanished, could he? The ship was so large I feared I would never find him if he didn't want to be found. I called myself childish and silly, there was no reason why he would hide from me. Once the notion entered my head though, it was hard letting go of it. Irrational or not.

Before I flew into a full panic, I heard his voice, loud and cursing. Still, I couldn't see him until... until I craned my neck up to the sails. Somewhere among the rigging...

Relief, followed by a new worry, flooded me when I spotted him high above the deck, climbing through the sails as if he had been born to them. The crew gaped at him, startled, muttering among themselves. A landsman did not climb the masts, most certainly not a gentleman. They didn't realize that Vardor was neither.

He scaled the rigging with ease. His powerful form moved like a panther, bare hands gripping the thick ropes, body taut with muscles and control. The salty wind lifted his long dark hair, strands whipping around his face as he reached the highest sail and glanced down.

The wind carried his voice, but I couldn't make out what he said—only that the sailors near him exchanged uneasy looks, unsure whether they should be impressed or alarmed.

The first mate shouted up to him, something about staying off the ropes unless he planned to work for his passage. Vardor merely swung onto another beam and grinned. He was shirtless. And he looked very much like the god he claimed to be.

God help me, the strange sensation of liquid pooling between my legs returned. My heart rate picked up a notch, and heat rushed through me from head to toe. I looked away quickly, fixing my gaze on the horizon. I had no business admiring the man who had stolen me.

"Your husband is a bold one."

I stiffened at the voice and turned to find the captain standing beside me, watching Vardor with an appraising eye. He was a broad man, his naval coat neatly buttoned, brass epaulettes gleaming in the sunlight. His beard was well-kept, and his gaze sharp with curiosity.

"He's... unaccustomed to being confined," I said carefully.

"That much is clear," the captain mused. "I don't believe I caught your names when you boarded. You'll forgive me—I don't often host passengers of such... particular character."

Particular character .

I swallowed, my mind scrambling for the lies I had told myself to prepare.

"Roweena Lancelot," I said smoothly—keeping up with the lie I had told before—offering my hand as if I had spent my whole life aboard ships speaking to captains. "My husband, Vardor Lancelot."

"Lancelot," the captain repeated, rolling the name over his tongue like he was testing it for falsehoods. "And where do you call home, Mistress Lancelot?"

I hesitated. England was out of the question—he might know noble families.

"A small estate near Cádiz," I lied quickly. "Though we have traveled often. My husband... is a man of trade."

The captain's brow lifted slightly, and his eyes flickered with skepticism. "Trade, you say? He moves more like a man of war than a merchant."

"He is both," I countered, keeping my voice light and indifferent. "He has to be."

The captain studied me for a long moment, then smiled slightly, as if he had decided to humor me rather than challenge the lie outright. "A fascinating pair you must be, Mistress Lancelot."

Before I could respond, another voice cut in.

"A fascinating man, certainly."

I turned—and immediately wished I hadn't. The woman approaching was stunning in a way I could never be. She had rich blonde curls, pale skin untouched by the sun, and a smile that hinted at knowledge beyond polite conversation. Her gown, finer than any I had seen since England, hugged her curves with just the right amount of elegance and invitation.

The young widow.

I noticed her when we boarded. She was traveling with servants, and I heard them talk about her dead husband. Now, she looked between me and the captain, but her attention lingered where Vardor was still high above the deck.

"My apologies for intruding," she said in such a sweet voice it made my teeth hurt. "But I couldn't help but notice your husband's... impressive display."

"He is not one for staying idle," I replied, plastering a fake smile on my lips. She never once looked at me, her eyes were fixed on Vardor, and it was beginning to grate on me. She looked as if she wanted to eat him. There was a different kind of hunger in her expression. One I shouldn’t have understood, but yet I did. Fully. She wanted him. Carnally.

"Clearly," she said, her gaze still fixed on him. "He's quite the specimen, isn't he?"

A sharp, unpleasant feeling twisted in my chest.

I had no right to feel it.

But I did.

The woman extended a delicate hand to me. "Cassandra Fenton, widow of the late Mr. Robert Fenton. I find myself in need of good company for the remainder of this voyage—would you be so kind as to introduce me to your husband?"

I hesitated for a fraction too long.

The captain chuckled. "I would say you may have competition, Mistress Lancelot."

"I would say she doesn't," came Vardor's voice.

I startled—he had come up soundlessly on the deck behind us and was now towering over us. His hair was unruly from the wind, and his dark eyes were unreadable.

The widow lit up at the sight of him.

"Ah, the elusive husband," she said, stepping forward. "That was quite the display, Mr. Lancelot. I do hope you intend to dine with the captain tonight. It would be a shame to waste such charming company."

I bristled.

The captain, clearly entertained, clapped a hand on Vardor's shoulder. "Indeed. Mistress Lancelot, Mr. Lancelot—I expect you both at my table tonight."

With that he turned and strode away. Cassandra Fenton gave me one last lingering glance before sauntering off, her skirts swaying just enough to ensure Vardor saw them.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my irritation into a tight, controlled smile.

Vardor watched her go, then turned to me, his expression unreadable. "You look displeased, wife."

Wife.

The word burned as he said it.

I lifted my chin, determined to ignore the uncomfortable heat curling inside me.

"It would seem I must suffer through dinner," I said, forcing down my building anger and willing my voice to sound bored. "Though I suspect you will enjoy it."

Vardor tilted his head, studying me as if he could see right through the pretense. It wasn't jealousy, was it? It couldn't be.

"Perhaps," he murmured.