A few other women hurry from the kitchens, one of them carrying a small glass that she forces onto the waitress's throat. But while they're desperately trying to save that witch, I turn my angry gaze to the rest of the customers.

"It's the God Killer," the whispers abound.

"He ate so much of it and he's still alive," one man marvels.

"We should do something. I heard he can't strike back unless he gets permission from the Supremes."

"I heard that too. He's only allowed to kill demons and execute traitors."

"He shouldn't be called the God Killer." One laughs. "He should be called the Lap Dog instead."

The more I hear their vile insults, the more I feel incensed on Ze's behalf. One glance at him, though, and he doesn't seem in the least bothered. That tells me everything I need to know.

Seven thousand years of being treated like this. He's...used to it. He finds it normal.

"How the hell can you stand by and watch these people try to kill him?"

A gaggle of laughter erupts in the crowd.

"Good riddance," one scoffs from the back.

"You..."

"Do not get angry on my behalf. It is not worth it, Luce. We should leave," Ze whispers as he places his hands on my shoulders.

I clench my hands into fists. The laughter intensifies, as do the mocking words.

How can he not be affected by this? How...

"They should have poisoned her too," someone whispers, indignation bleeding from her voice. "Any female willing to share a table with the God Killer is just as bad."

I purse my lips, my breathing intensifying as the urge to do something—anything—overwhelms me.

"I wouldn't be surprised if she's his whore." A woman steps forward, pointing her finger at me.

"She's too ugly to be anything but his whore," a man echoes.

My eyes widen.

"What did you just say?" Ze bellows, pulling me back and placing himself in front of me.

The crowd takes a step back.

Yet despite the overwhelming fear I sense from them, there's also the hate—so much hate.

Ze's expression changes, the air around him crackling as shimmery purple particles surround us. The ground quakes, the tables rattling furiously with each step he takes. His muscles are coiled, the purple of his aura becoming a deeper shade—the physical manifestation of his anger.

"Run! Run!" one man yells, but not before he takes his bowl of ice and throws it at Ze.

The others follow his example, flinging their ices at Ze before dashing out of the shop.

Ze could do more. I am sure of that. He could kill them with one finger if he wished. But he doesn't. Instead, he turns his back to them, letting them hit him with the bowls of sweet ice as he places his massive body in front of me, shielding me.

"Ze..." I whisper.