Electric Idol(Dark Olympus #2)(3)

I can fake it—I’m rather good at faking it—but it will never be instinct the same way it is with people like that.

Without breaking stride, I push open the door and head out into the quieter hallway. It’s after business hours and we’re at the top of the tower, so it’s deserted. Good. I hurry past the evenly spaced doors with their floor-to-ceiling curtains bracketing each one. They creep me out, especially at night. I never can seem to escape the feeling there’s someone hiding there, just waiting for me to pass. I have to keep my gaze straight ahead, even as a low rustle behind me has my instincts screaming to run. I know better; it’s my own footsteps echoing back, giving me the impression of being chased.

I can’t outrun myself.

I can’t outrun any of the danger waiting for me back in the main ballroom.

I take my time in the bathroom, bracing my hands on the sink and breathing deeply. Cold water would feel good on my face, but I won’t be able to properly fix my makeup and going back with even a hair out of place will have the predators circling. If I become Hera, those voices will get louder, will be inescapable. I’m already not enough for them, or, rather, I’m too much. Too quiet, too fat, too plain.

“Stop it.” Saying the words out loud grounds me, just a little.

Those insults aren’t my beliefs. I’ve worked hard for them not to be. It’s only when I’m here, having my face shoved in what Olympus considers perfection, that the toxic voice from my teenage years rears its ugly head.

Five breaths. Slow inhales. Even slower exhales.

By the time I get to five, I feel a little more like myself. I lift my head but avoid looking at my reflection. The mirrors here don’t tell the truth, even if those lies are only in my head. Best to avoid them entirely. One last breath, and I make myself leave the relative safety of the bathroom and move back into the hall.

Hopefully my mother and Aphrodite will have either finished their spat or taken it to some corner of the ballroom so I can return to the party without getting drawn back into the drama. Hiding in the hallway until it’s time to leave isn’t an option. I refuse to give Aphrodite any indication that her words affected me in the slightest.

It takes two steps to realize I’m not alone.

A man staggers down the hallway toward me, coming from the direction of the elevators. For a brief moment, I consider ignoring him and heading back to the party, but that means he’ll be shadowing my steps. Not to mention there are only two of us out here and there’s no way to pretend I’m doing anything but ignoring him. He doesn’t look too good, either, even in the low light. Maybe he’s drunk, a little pregame party that went too far.

With an internal sigh, I slip my public persona back into place and give him a tiny smile and a wave. “Late arrival?”

“Something like that.”

Oh shit. I know that voice. I take great pains to avoid the man it belongs to.

Eros. Aphrodite’s son. Aphrodite’s fixer.

I watch him approach warily, stepping out of shadow as he comes near. He’s as gorgeous as his mother is. Tall and blond, though his hair has a distinctive curl that would be cute framing any other face. His features are too masculine to ever be something as harmless as cute. He’s tall and has a strong body, to a point where even his expensive suit can’t hide how broad his shoulders are, how muscled his arms. The man is built for violence with a face that would make a sculpture weep. Apt, that.

I catch sight of a stain on his white shirt and narrow my eyes. “Is that blood?”

Eros looks down and curses softly. “I thought I got it all.”

No point in examining that statement. I need to get out of here, and fast. Except… “You’re limping.” Staggering, really, but not because he’s drunk. He’s speaking too clearly for that.

“I’m not,” he answers easily. Lies easily. He’s most assuredly limping, and that’s most certainly blood. I know what that means; he must have come straight here from committing some violence on Aphrodite’s behalf. The very last thing I want is to get involved with those two.

Still, I hesitate. “Is it your blood?”

Eros stops next to me, his blue eyes holding no emotion at all. “It’s the blood of the last pretty girl who asked too many questions.”





2


Psyche

Eros Ambrosia thinks I’m pretty.

I shut down that useless, foolhardy thought immediately. “I’m going to pretend that’s a joke.” Even though I know better. There’s nothing more dangerous in Olympus than being a pretty girl who manages to enrage Aphrodite enough that she sends her son calling.

Especially a pretty girl who might stand in the way of her plans to secure her choice for the next Hera.

“It’s really not.”

I can’t tell if Eros is being serious or not, but better to err on the side of caution. He obviously doesn’t want to talk, and spending any more time in his presence than strictly necessary is a terrible idea. I open my mouth to make some excuse to go back into the bathroom to hide until he’s gone, but that’s not what comes out. “If you go in there injured, someone might decide to finish the job. You and your mother have more than your fair share of enemies in that room.” Surely I don’t have to tell him that any perceived weakness will have those enemies descending like wolves to a slaughter?