Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Poseidon is nowhere to be seen, but the room isn’t empty. There’s a small, wizened white woman with a cloud of colorless hair standing next to the bed. Her face is a map of a life well lived, showing the years in every line and wrinkle. It’s the kind of aging I’ve been trained to avoid at all costs. All I have is my beauty. The moment time whisks that away, I’ll truly be as worthless as my father always said.
I guess he’ll never say that to me again, being as how he’s dead.
The dark thought makes me laugh, but I immediately regret it when the motion sends fresh pain surging through me. “Ow.”
“Stop that. You’re going to undo all my hard work.” The doctor—because who else could she be?—taps my shoulder in a no-nonsense way. “You’ll live, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve stitched you up. Your bandages will need to be changed regularly, but I’ll discuss all that with Poseidon. Your job is to lie there and rest your pretty head. It’s the best way to heal.”
I want nothing more than to touch the bandages I can now feel wrapped around my torso, but I have a feeling she won’t let me do it while she’s in the room. I paste my best angelic expression on my face and smile at her. “I’ll be a model patient.”
She purses her lips. “You’re going to be as big a pain in the ass as the rest of them. I can already tell. Oh well. You’re Poseidon’s pain in the ass now. See that I’m not called back here because of your ridiculousness.” Without another word, she whisks from the room. I like her. Her brusqueness is refreshing. It’s truth. Rare enough in both Olympus and Aeaea to be worth more than gold.
But no matter what I told the doctor, I have no intention of lying here on my back and waiting for my body to heal. I have plenty of experience in negotiating my way through ongoing pain. Of ensuring no one will notice the hitch in my step or the way I tense when I pull bruised muscles in the wrong way.
I’m in the process of trying to sit up when Poseidon steps back into the room and closes the door softly behind him. “What are you doing?” His deep voice stops me short. He really is too good-looking. It’s the kind of attractiveness that grows on you the more time you spend in his presence. He was handsome enough in a generic sort of way when I’d seen him previously, but now there’s something that draws me to him even though he’s the worst possible choice of a bed partner.
Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to him—because he is the worst choice I could possibly make. My captor. One of the Thirteen. A leader of this doomed city and, by all accounts, one of the few honorable ones. I’m sure that means his skeletons are buried deeper than most. No one in Olympus has hands free of blood.
He wasn’t even supposed to be Poseidon. His uncle held the position and had three children who should have inherited it after his retirement or death. And yet this man now stands before me, possessing one of the legendary legacy titles. I wonder if he’s responsible for their deaths?
“I asked you a question.”
He did, didn’t he? “I’m sitting up. I would think that’s obvious.”
“I heard your orders. Be still, heal.”
“Ironic that you’re telling me I should heal when it’s your man responsible for this.” I finally manage to struggle my way up into a sitting position, propped against the headboard with pillows under my elbows. It’s not entirely comfortable, but admitting as much feels like conceding defeat. “Or do you just want me in tip-top shape so that you can torture me yourself next time?”
“No one is going to torture you,” he snaps. His face flushes with color until the redness blends in with his freckles. “Not again.”
I shouldn’t find his blush charming. We’re talking about torture, after all. But it is charming and I’m only human. “So you killed your man?”
He blinks slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“Eye patch. The one with the big knife. He blames me for his sister’s death. Once you’re that wrapped up in grief, logic holds no sway. If he’s still alive, he’ll come for me again.”
“His name is Polyphemus. And yes, he’s grieving currently. A lot of my people are. We’re a tight-knit group and so the loss of even a single person, let alone several, hits deep. Not that you would understand. Your own father’s dead and you’re making jokes.”
Minos is dead, isn’t he? Every time that thought rolls through my brain, I wait for the emotional backlash sure to follow in its wake. My father is the specter that overshadows everything in my life. The one person I couldn’t convince to love me. There was no manipulation that worked on him. There was no living up to his impossible standards. Even suffering silently through his abuse wasn’t enough for him. I was never good enough. Never strong enough. Never smart enough. Never enough.