Electric Idol (Dark Olympus Book 2)

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?

Eros raises his brows. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” I really don’t. I’m just a fool who doesn’t know when to quit. No matter what else is true of Eros, he didn’t choose to be a child of one of the Thirteen any more than I did. “I’m also not someone who wishes you harm. Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” He turns and heads back the way he came, in the direction of the elevator.

“I’m offering it all the same.” My body makes the decision to follow him before my brain can catch up, my legs moving on their own and carrying me further from the relative safety of the party. Stepping into the elevator feels like stepping past the point of no return. I wish I could say I’m overreacting, but Eros’s reputation precedes him and it’s…very, very violent and very, very dangerous. I clasp my hands in front of me and fight the urge to babble.

We only descend a few floors, and then he leads me through glass and stainless-steel offices to a door that opens easily beneath his hand. It’s only when we’re closed in together that I see it’s a fancy bathroom. Like the rest of Dodona Tower, it’s minimalist with black tile floors, a few stalls, a tiled-in shower, and a trio of stainless-steel sinks. There’s even a small area near the door with a pair of comfortable-looking chairs and a small round table between them.

“You seem to know your way around here rather well.”

“My mother often has business with Zeus.”

I swallow hard. “There were bathrooms upstairs.” Closer to the relative safety of the party.

“This one has first-aid stuff.” He starts to lean down to open one of the cabinets beneath the sink and winces.

That prompts me into motion. This is why I’m here: to help, not to watch him struggle. “Sit down before you fall down.”

I’m surprised when he doesn’t argue, just limps to the chairs and sinks onto one of them. Thinking about this whole situation too hard is a mistake, so I focus on the task of figuring out how badly he’s hurt, patching him up, and getting back to the ballroom before my mother sends out a search party.

Considering last time one of her daughters went missing at a Dodona Tower event, said daughter ended up crossing the River Styx and throwing herself into Hades’s arms…

Yes, better not to be gone too long.

As promised, there’s a first-aid kit in the cabinet below the sink. I grab it, turn around, and freeze. “What are you doing?” My voice comes out squeaky, but I can’t help it.

Eros stops in the middle of taking off his shirt. “What’s wrong?”

Everything’s wrong. I’ve been moving in similar circles to this man for a decade, but I’ve never seen him anything less than perfectly pressed and polished and downright gleaming at these parties. His beauty is breathtaking and almost too perfect to be real.

He doesn’t look too perfect right now.

No, he’s all too real. Impossible to keep the mental fence I have around Eros as dangerous playboy when he’s peeling off his shirt and revealing a body carved by the gods. The exhaustion on his face only makes him more attractive, which I might find horribly unfair later, but right now I can’t find enough oxygen in this room to breathe.

Panic. That’s what I’m feeling. Pure panic. It’s not attraction. It can’t be. Not to him. “You’re stripping.”

Beneath the white fabric, I can see that someone—likely Eros himself—has slapped a scattering of bandages across his chest. He gives me a charming smile that’s only slightly strained around the edges. “I was under the impression you wanted me out of my clothes.”

“Pass.” I blurt the word out, my hard-won public persona nowhere in evidence.

“Everyone else does.”

Weirdly enough, his arrogance calms me. I take a breath, and then another, and give him the look that comment deserves. Banter. I can do banter. I’ve been trading artful insults with people like Eros for my entire adult life. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Or are you bragging? Please be clear so I can adjust my reaction accordingly.”

He bursts out laughing. “Clever.”

“I try.” I frown. “I thought your leg is injured.”

“It’s just a bruise.” If anything, his charming smile ramps up a few notches. “Trying to get me out of my pants, too?”

If him being shirtless is enough to cause this uncomfortable reaction, I most certainly don’t want him to lose any more items of clothing. I might combust, and if the embarrassment doesn’t kill me on the spot, it will hand Eros a weapon to use against me. “Absolutely not.”

He finishes shrugging out of his shirt and gives a rough exhale. “That’s a shame.”

“I’m sure you’ll live.” I set the kit on the table and eye his chest. Some of the bandages have already come loose, and there are red smears where the blood made contact with his shirt. What happened to him? Did he get into a fight with a rosebush? “These need to be redone.”

“Go for it.” He leans back and closes his eyes.

I’m about to make a sharp comment about him having me do all the work, but the words die in my throat when I peel back the bandage to find… “Eros, this is a lot of blood.” I can’t tell how serious the wounds are with the mess between the blood and bandages, but some of them are still bleeding.

“You should see the other guy,” he says without opening his eyes. Confirming what I already suspected.

Is the other guy still alive? No need to ask that question. The fact that he’s here at all means he was successful in whatever his task had been. I finish removing the bandages and sit back, examining his chest. There are at least a dozen cuts. “I’m going to need to clean this or the new bandages won’t hold.”

He waves a hand. Permission.

I don’t allow myself to think as I rise and dig around beneath the sink until I find a basket of clean washcloths. I wet two of them and bring the dry ones over to try to mop up the worst of the mess. It takes several long minutes to clean it away.

Which is right around the time I realize I’m essentially giving Eros Ambrosia a sponge bath.

I sit back abruptly. “Eros, some of these might need stitches.” They don’t look nearly as bad as they did before I cleaned him up, but I’m not a doctor. Surely he has one on staff like every other household of the Thirteen. I don’t understand why he didn’t call that person instead of trying to show up for this blasted party.

“It’s fine. It’ll hold until the end of the night.”

I frown down at him. “You can’t be serious. You’re prioritizing attending a party, rather than finding a doctor and getting the medical attention you might require.”

“You know better than anyone why I need to.” At that, he finally opens his eyes. They seem even bluer than before, and a strange look passes through them. It must be pain, because there’s no way that Eros Ambrosia, son of Aphrodite, is looking at me with desire.

Despite myself, my gaze flicks to his mouth. He’s got a very nice mouth, lips curved and sensual. It’s really a shame he’s a dangerous murderer.

To distract myself from such foolhardy thoughts, I stand and move to the sink. It feels remarkably like running away, but I’m just washing the man’s blood from my hands. I glance at the mirror and stop short. He’s staring at me with the strangest expression on his face. It’s not the desire I’ve already convinced myself I imagined. No, Eros is looking at me like he’s never seen me before, like maybe I’ve acted against his expectations.

That can’t be right, though. It doesn’t matter if I’ve occupied the same parties and ballrooms and events as this man for the last ten years; there is absolutely no reason for Eros to think of me at all. I certainly don’t spend much time thinking about him. He might be gorgeous, even for Olympus, flawless enough to have his likeness plastered across every billboard if he wanted the work, but Eros is dangerous.

I dry my hands and move back to the seat across from him. Somehow, without all the blood in play, this feels even more intimate. I push the thought away and get to work bandaging him. Though I half expect him to push my hands away and do it himself, he stays perfectly still, barely seeming to breathe as I carefully apply bandage after bandage. There are about a dozen cuts, all said and done, and despite my assertion that he needs to see a doctor, most of them are small enough that they’ve nearly stopped bleeding.

“You’re rather good at that.” His low voice is filled with edges. I can’t tell if he’s accusing me or merely making a comment.

I choose to take it at face value. “I grew up on a farm.” Sort of. It was technically a farm, but it wasn’t what people picture when they think of so-called farm life. There was no quaint little house with a faded red barn. My mother might have expanded her fortune with her three marriages, but she was hardly starting from scratch. We were an industrial farm and the setup reflected that.

His lips curl, something light flickering in his eyes. “Are there a lot of stab wounds on farms?”

“You admit it, then—that you were stabbed.”

Now he’s actually smiling, though there’s still pain evident on his face. “I admit nothing.”

“Of course not.” I realize I’m still too close to him and back up quickly, moving to the sink to wash my hands again. “But to answer your question, when there are a variety of large machines, not to mention various animals that take exception to foolish humans, injuries happen.” Especially when one possesses adventurous sisters like I did. Not that I’m going to tell Eros that. This interaction has already been too intimate, too strange. “I need to get back.”

“Psyche.” He waits until I turn to face him. For a moment, he looks nothing like the confident predator I’ve worked so hard to avoid. He’s simply a man, tired and in pain. Eros touches one of the bandages on his chest. “Why help Aphrodite’s pet monster?”

“Even monsters need help sometimes, Eros.” I should leave it at that, but his question felt so unexpectedly vulnerable that I can’t help the impulse to soothe him. Just a little. “Besides, you’re not really a monster. I don’t see a single scale or fang to speak of.”

“Monsters come in all shapes and sizes, Psyche. You should know that by now, living in Olympus.” He starts to button up his shirt, but his hands are shaking so badly, he fumbles it.

I move before I have a chance to remember why this is such a terrible idea. “Let me.” I lean over and button him up carefully. My fingers brush his bare chest a few times, and I’m certain I imagine the way he hisses out an exhale in response. Pain. That’s all it is. Eros is certainly not responding to my touch. I hold my breath as I finish the last button and move back. “There you go.”

He climbs to his feet. I watch closely, but he seems a little steadier than he was earlier. Eros pulls his jacket on and buttons it up, hiding the worst of the bloodstains. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Anyone would do it.”

“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “They really wouldn’t.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond to that. Just motions to the door. “Let’s go. Head up without me; I need to find a replacement shirt.” He hesitates. “It wouldn’t be good for us to be seen returning to the party together.”

It really wouldn’t. It would get Olympus’s gossipmongers chatting, and Aphrodite and Demeter might stroke out in pure rage in response. The very last thing I want is to be linked to Eros in any way, shape, or form. “Of course.”

As we step into the hall, Eros presses his hand to the small of my back. The contact jolts through me with the violence of lightning in a bottle. I miss a step and he moves quickly, catching my elbow and keeping me from ending up on the floor. “You good?”

“Yes,” I manage. I don’t look at him. Can’t look at him. It was difficult enough to ignore this unfortunate spark between us while I patched him up. I don’t like my chances with him standing so close, one hand on my lower back and the other cupping my elbow. I should most definitely not…

I lift my face and Eros looks down and, gods, we’re so close. This is a mistake. At any moment, I’ll pull away and put a respectable amount of distance between us and it will be like this strange little interlude never happened. At…any…moment…

A bright flash sears my eyes. I jerk away from Eros and blink rapidly. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.

Except it is happening. My vision clears slowly, and any hope I have of pretending some light bulb shattered at random goes up in smoke. A short white man with bright ginger hair and a camera in his hands stands a few feet away. He grins at us. “I knew I saw you get in the elevator together. Psyche, care to comment about what you’re doing sneaking away from Zeus’s party to get alone time with Eros Ambrosia?”

Eros takes a menacing step toward the photographer, but I grab his arm and fight for a smile. “Just a friendly little chat.”

The man doesn’t miss a beat. “Is that why Eros’s shirt is buttoned up incorrectly? And you looked like you were about to kiss in this picture?” He’s gone before I can come up with a lie that might make sense.

“We’re fucked,” I breathe.

Eros curses far more creatively than I have. “That about sums it up.”

I know how this goes. Before the end of the night, pictures of me and Eros will be plastered across the gossip sites, and people will start theorizing about our forbidden romance. I can see the headlines now.

Star-crossed lovers! What will Demeter and Aphrodite think of their children’s secret relationship?

Forget stroking out in rage. My mother is going to kill me.