10. Sin

10

Sin

torn asunder by a sharp and tender wit

It’s commonplace, almost expected, for the children of Gods to study the classics: literature, music, and war. They receive the finest tutors and as affinities arise, narrow their studies. Heracles maiming his lyre tutor launched him into battle study.

When I seduced my war tutor, Hef knew precisely what to do with me.

Cut me off.

No more lessons, no more tutors or games of Gods. He brought me to his workshop and home again, kept me secluded, my ability a secret. Called it trouble. Believed only misery could come of my gift.

He was the most universally disliked male on Olympus.

Imagine having him as your role model.

Imagine how strongly you’d crave to be liked if you did.

“Now she’s digging a hole,” Lev says, continuing his play-by-play, nose touching the window. He turns abruptly, wide palm spreading over the glass to face us. “Is that how you reach the Underworld or am I an idiot?”

Andromeda Porter, the most skilled thief in the three realms, smirks from the couch, not pausing her game of Mario Kart to snark. “Yes. That’s why every basement is haunted.”

“Is she for real?”

“Meda.” Atlas snaps his fingers at her and flips on the electric kettle beside the fridge. “Stop scaring him. Get away from the window, Mikhailov. Let our guest have privacy.”

I glare at my surroundings, wishing open floor plans would go back out of style so I could rage in privacy.

Or at least not within spitting distance of a tacky cowboy themed photo backdrop, complete with painted cactuses, a dusky orange sunset, and old school word-art reading: The Last Ride .

Who besides us has a need for downtown rentals with seven bedrooms, private entrances, and a comprehensive cleaning fee? Bachelorette parties.

I tell Lev, “I gave her three minutes alone, and she found a gun, so I’m not sure we should really take eyes off the homicidal rage machine in our backyard.”

I take a swig from my bottle of Barolo, but before I can truly savor the bittersweet taste, Atlas seizes it. “Cut the shit-talking.” His navy eyes flicker to the backyard where our resident rage-filled Fury is lurking. “Or she’ll cut your throat.”

I scoff, wiping dark red from my lower lip and sucking it into my mouth to cover the mix of emotions swirling between my brothers. “What? We’re supposed to pretend to be perfect, upstanding citizens for her? She crucified a male. She burned him to death, and she laughed while she did it!”

Filling his teacup, Atlas merely shrugs. “She’s of Hades,” he explains, settling at the kitchen island, a shortbread caught between his lips.

“So the fuck what? She shot me.”

“So they have different standards for suffering. For all we know, that’s a custom.”

Smashing her controller to turn a red-eyed Yoshi into a soaring bullet, Meda chimes, “Yeah, because they’re fucking psychos.”

Luke kicks Meda’s studded boots off the coffee table and wipes the sweat gathered at his temple. “No feet on the furniture. I want our deposit back. Who took all the towels? I requested ten, and there’s none in the closet. If the renter gives me a bad rating, we’re stuck with hotels and they have rules, like no pets, and—”

“Who has pets?” Lev asks.

Meda kills King Boo on Rainbow Road. The game’s a Rune modified version that involves massacre and mayhem. “He’s talking about you, Mikhailov.”

“All of you,” Luke corrects, slinging a towel around his neck, barely out of breath despite a grueling workout. “You’re like animals. Or toddlers. Walking into the lobby drenched in blood, bullets falling out of you.” He scrapes a hand over his shaved head, and freezes. Sidesteps to stare past Lev. “Is the Fury ripping up the grass? Fuck , my rating’s gonna plummet.”

Atlas slice me a silent look and I dutifully stalk to Luke, setting a hand on his bulky shoulder and thinking of calm. For mortals it takes only a touch, a few words. “All will be well, Luke. Rune will forge you a perfect five stars. I’ll write reviews. Positive, raving, salacious reviews.”

Tension falls from Luke's face, softening the rugged arches of his cheeks, lightening the shadows under his eyes.

He collapses next to Meda, thigh brushing hers, their elbows near kissing.

If anyone else tried to sit so close, they’d get a Wii remote lodged in their throats, but Meda has a soft spot for the mortal.

Sometimes I taste pity on her tongue when she refuses him, but more often it’s jealousy.

Because Luke has never suffered the sting of ichor in his veins like the rest of us or because he has no curse holding him hostage, I don’t know. But he chooses to chase after his desires. Even if they are a female so out of his reach, she might as well share blood with Hera.

In boxer braids and suede Adidas sweats rolled thrice at the ankles and wrists, Meda tastes of poppy seeds and simmering umber. On edge, hiding it. “I’ll steal grass from the neighbors,” she whispers, carefully patting his knee.

Somehow, her words have more of a calming effect than mine. The slab of hard muscle and tattoo sinks into the cushions like a warm marshmallow.

Shaved mint creeps into my throat.

Arousal .

Nabbing my bottle back from Atlas, I wash my mouth out with thick tannins of red wine, bottle tipped end over top to keep from looking at the backyard, at the glow of the Airbnb’s security lights and the dark, lithe shadow moving in them.

When Atlas invited Natasa home, I’d guessed he’d be eating bullet soup, not on the receiving end of a smile.

Different from the one she gave me as she hitched her dress up her thighs.

This one matched the one when she beat me, when she fought the compulsion of my seduction and stole my blades.

Again .

At the bar, I’d thrown enough arousal in the air to give her an immaculate orgasm, to make her salivate and whimper and instead, she’d bitten me hard enough to draw blood.

Furies are not Olympians. They’re Titans. The original Gods. More powerful. More rigid. There’s a reason the Olympians overthrew they're creators.

“She’s a creature of Hades,” I argue, ready to lock the doors and pretend we’re not home. “That’s enough reason to get the fuck away.”

From his spot on the floor, Zeke nods, twisting an unsolved Rubik’s cube between his fingers. “Are toddlers frequently smeared in blood?”

His stark white hair is mashed under a Rangers ballcap, but the lack of natural pigment on his body isn’t why he’s hiding indoors. It’s the scars on his face, one raised white line over each eye. Only a God can scar an immortal, and only an oracle is supposed to see the future.

But Zeke’s always been an exception to rules.

“ Hades ,” I repeat to keep us on track, turning to Atlas. “Remember him? The motherfucker who forced his wife to ingest pomegranate seeds so she literally could not leave him. He’s the role model down there. Real gentleman.” I blow a breath against the opening of the bottle and listen for the hum of glass, drag my gaze to the window, to Natasa kneeling in the dirt. “Why doesn’t she throw knives at him?”

And how come she hadn’t even swayed with me?

For seconds, I’d thought my power was sinking claws into her skin. The tempting graze of her fingers, those big brown eyes, lips soft and inviting. I’d wanted her.

My Goddess.

My ring had burned, my heart—

Atlas’s cup dings against his saucer. “Many a female have thrown knives at you with better results. Why is she different?”

“Off the top of my head, they didn’t follow me home, trick my brothers into docility, and oh yeah, I’d already slept with all of them.”

“Ahh, you wish to bed her.”

I’m not blind, of course I do.

Still, admitting as much feels pathetic, so I indulge in another pull of the vintage and roll my eyes like Atlas’s missed my point entirely. “She doesn’t need us.”

That’s the crux of it.

She didn’t need me to break her free from Oberlin.

She didn’t need help cutting him apart or blasting his information.

She didn’t need help getting food at the bar, or facing down half of the Blackguard. She didn’t even need me when we got home and I offered to show which of the shower gels smelled best.

As a child, Hef taught me the who’s who of creatures to avoid.

Furies topped the list.

Arbiters of hate, they feast on bad deeds like they’re the sweetest ambrosia.

I didn’t think they’d be so … intoxicating.

Atlas shakes his head. “We need her.”

“For what? Pyrotechnics? Synchronized slaying? She’s—”

“You have been searching for months and gotten nowhere.”

“Nowhere is better than digging our own fucking graves. Which will be the least she’ll do to us.”

“Singing my praises?” Nat’s voice is soft, lighter than I’ve heard it as she pads muddy feet across the carpet. The sliding doors hang open behind her, letting in the humid night air and the hum of crickets. “I dug that hole special for you.” She smirks, hands and wrists caked in mud. “You should fit if I cook you down in acid first.”

I resist the urge to clear a slash of dirt off her cheek. “I’m told I go better with a coconut oil and cream.”

“Whatever covers up the natural foul taste.”

“I recall you sinking your teeth in.”

The barest hint of an almost-smile teases her lips. “I recall spitting.”

Again, the room around us is quiet.

A team of warriors come to heel.

It’s me, I realize, they don’t know what to do with me. Fun, upbeat Sin. Sin who plays hard and plays harder.

With Natasa, I’m angry. Rotten.

Hungry .

They don’t know what happened.

Do I? I take another swig, loathe to find citrus sticking on my tongue. “Next time, I’d advise you to swallow.”

She wipes a silver dagger over her thigh, marking a dark streak of mud. “Males and their egos. As if next time you touch me, I won’t kill you.”

“I’m not easy to kill.”

Her eyes spark, but she places attention on Atlas and his tea, soaking me with so much sourness my skin tightens.

Trembles.

Look at me , I want to say. Not Atlas. Me. I saw you first. I’m who you asked for help.

The curse hisses over my wrists and around my neck, begging me to move toward her. Probably hopes she’ll make good on her promise. One less Blackguard.

Crushing the urge to be near her, I ask, “Did you dress up for me, darling?”

Fitted, pure gold vambraces cover her from wrists to elbows, gleaming. Meda loves to sparkle, but she’s not the sort to share.

Acquiring clothes from the Blackguard’s thief was struggle enough, and now I realize why.

They’ll never fit her again.

Meda is small and slight, built to maneuver tiny, awkward places. To be unseen and float like air.

Nat is a pillar of power and curves. A female who couldn’t hide if the realm opened up and swallowed her. Meda’s Metallica shirt strains against Nat’s chest, leaving the taut contours of her stomach on display. The cargo pants are liquid tight and slung low, the bottoms don’t begin to stretch past her calves.

Every muscle in my body tenses at the smooth carve of her muscle, folded under rich olive skin, but I force myself to send her a look of disdain.

A roar of irritation clogs my throat.

She wanted me when she was high. Gazed up at me with the same expression Lesenia used to. I curl my hands into fists in front of me.

Never feeling that way again.

“You’re not wrong,” Nat says. “I don’t need you.”

I’m taken aback by her honesty. “Careful, sweetheart, that’s another way of saying I’m right.”

“Is it?” She shakes her head. “No. I don’t think I’d ever say that.”

Lev smothers a laugh into his elbow and there’s an audible thump as Zeke wails at him.

She meets my gaze. “Even strategic Athena concedes that it’s better to wield the brutality of Ares than face it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re tired of killing, sweetheart. What will make you smile?”

I could.

Couldn’t I?

Her stomach clenches, two lines in her obliques, as if she’s physically restraining herself from laughing. Or smacking me.

What’d she do with my sweater? Flush it down the toilet?

Why do I find her absolute repulsion of me so fucking hot?

She looks away, eyes finding her reflection in her vambrace. “I must minimize bloodshed of the innocent.”

There’s nothing good about getting closer to her. More lemon, more risk of being stabbed.

I step closer anyway.

“Alright Terminator.” I’m too close. Helpless to dust a strand of dark silky hair from her forehead. “Let’s say you want my help. Why do I want yours?”

She glares as though I’ve offered her a last meal of cockroaches, but her throat bobs slightly.

“There’s a private club,” she explains. Short, to the point. “Hedone. They’re hosting a party in two days’ time. The guest list includes the most influential names in the creature markets.”

“You shopping for a date? I have a fondness for chocolates and flowers.”

She’s not amused. “A male is necessary, as it is most unfortunate that since the beginning of chaos, males have been inaccurately assumed to be the superior gender simply because they proclaim it to be so in bouts of ego and bloodshed.”

From the couch, Yoshi wahoos in time with Meda’s, “Preach!”

“Yes,” Nat agrees. “The invitation makes it offensively clear the club is for males only. “Tomorrow night, it strongly encouraged members to bring their prized Diakonos for exhibition.”

I cock my hand. “Exhibition?”

She stiffens, body hard as rocks. “Yes.”

I’m too aware of her. Too absorbed in her lemon scent. It makes me soft, not having to interpret every little taste of emotion. Makes me want to throw her down and pleasure her until my nose burns with it.

A smirk curls my mouth. “Sex, you mean.” At her glare, I shrug and bend over her to plant a palm on the cabinets beside her head. “Say it or don’t. We all interpreted it the same way.”

Sex on Nat’s lips.

Fucking on Nat’s lips.

Breathless, in my ear.

As if entranced, I clasp the curve where her shoulder meets her neck, and savor the drum of her pulse under my palm.

Even her heartbeat seems angry. Like it’s trying to knock my hand away.

“My friend Theia,” she says through gritted teeth. “Will be a guest. Undoubtedly, since she is the most beautiful, rare and magnificent creature to exist. I will find her and take her home. You will escort me and live because of it.”

It’s my turn to be mean. “Pass. Torturing an entire guest list sounds more like your idea of a first date than mine. You didn’t even mention warmed honey or satin sheets.”

Her jaw clicks. “Someone might mistake you for intelligent if you were to help me retrieve Theia.”

“Buttering me up, darling.”

“Sin,” a cold, flat voice cuts in.

“Atlas, you’re still here,” I charm, wishing I were too drunk to be lucid, wishing Nat's skin wasn’t the softest thing I’ve ever touched. Wishing she’d shove me back, instead of acting like my caress is as dismissible as the wind. “Wonderful. Can you tell delusional Barbie that bringing a Fury to a party of creature traffickers would be fucking insane, even suicidal, and that if her friend is even still alive, she’s trapped in a box with three-foot steel walls?”

Brown eyes narrow at me. Her skin heats with her anger. “How would you know?”

“I’m not just looks, babe. This is what I do.” This, and sneaking peeks at her pushed up, pressed together cleavage like a teenage dirtbag. “They wouldn’t want her.”

“Because she’s Erinyes?”

“Because they want to be able to sleep at night without fearing for their lives. If she’s not already dead, she’s caged.”

A muscle in her cheek pulses, annoyed, furious. “Theia is not Erinyes,” she says sharply and when she glares up at me, my own stomach tenses in anticipation.

“Then what is she?”

She smiles like she’s backed me into a pit filled with bone eating spiders and razor blades. “Oh honey, she’s a Phoenix.”