Wicked Beauty (Dark Olympus Book 3)

The moment we walk through the tunnel and into the arena, it’s like entering a different world. I think it’s the sheer noise the people in the stands make. It reverberates through my body right down to my bones. The maze is gone as if it’d never been here to begin with. Instead, the oval is sand like it was during the opening ceremony. They’re really leaning into the gladiator shit, which is about what I expected since the final trial is combat.

Last person standing becomes the next Ares.

I glance at Patroclus. He’s got his game face on, every expression locked down and nothing slipping through. He’s wearing his normal gym clothes, and he’s limping a bit, but he’s moving better than he was yesterday. That’s fine. He doesn’t have to be in top form for this trial. He’s here to watch my back, which means there’s no reason for him to be sticking his neck out.

I’ll make sure he doesn’t feel like he has to, even if I have to eliminate him myself.

I have on clothes similar to the last two trials, gold and black that give me a dark prince kind of vibe. Or that’s what Athena’s designer informed me when he put together the clothing I was to wear for each event and trial.

Helen is in her warrior queen getup. I watched her put on the golden one-piece earlier, and it had been entertaining and sexy to hear her swear as she wrestled it up her body, but I can’t deny that the overall effect is stunning. It’s a body suit that leaves her arms bare and stops a few inches above her knees. There’s plenty of give so she can move, but the slick surface is similar to the one she wore in the second trial. It will make it damn near impossible to grab her or pin her. She’s pulled her hair back into a braid thing that’s pinned up around her head—another potential handhold gone—and there’s the ever-present gold glitter dusting her skin.

She catches me watching her, and her gaze skates away from me. She’s been like this all morning. Skittish. I can’t blame her, but part of me wants to comfort her when I should be focused on my end goal within sight. Pass this trial, win the next. Ares is so close, I can taste it.

The camaraderie from the second challenge is gone. We don’t have that padding between us any longer. At the end of this trial, one of us will have our dreams crushed, and the others will be left to pick up the pieces.

A shiver of foreboding goes through me. We will pick up the pieces. The three of us together work, and that’s rare enough that I’m not willing to give it up without a fight. I like Helen a whole fucking lot. She’ll forgive me eventually. She has to.

The crowd quiets as the spotlights make their way to Athena. She’s in another suit, a deep amber one this time that is about as fancy as she gets. She looks good, though. She always looks good. She lifts her hands, instantly commanding the attention of everyone in the space. When they’re quiet enough, she speaks. “The final trial is the trial of combat.” A pause while people lose their shit. They quiet down faster this time. “The champions will fight until only one remains. Elimination is by tapping out or first blood.” She waves a graceful hand to encompass the oval of sand we stand on the edge of. “Choose your weapons, champions. The trial begins in three…two…”

Patroclus tenses. “Batons.” He jerks his chin to the right, and I see exactly what he means. There are a trio of expandable batons hanging on a rack halfway around the arena on the right. It means running past several options, but he’s right. We should stick to what we know.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Don’t wait for me. I’ll be right behind you.”

He turns to Helen, but it’s too late. Athena’s voice says, “One. Begin.” The crowd’s screaming drowns out everything else.

I don’t hesitate. I sprint across the sand toward the batons. They might not be flashy, but they can break bone easily enough and have a decent reach on them. More importantly, we use them regularly during our tasks for Athena. The heavy handle is comfortable and familiar against my palm.

The feeling of someone behind me surprises me. Surely Patroclus didn’t keep up with that sprint? I turn, expecting to see him beside me, but Patroclus is nowhere in sight. Instead, it’s Paris bearing down on me, a dagger in his hand. The fucker is aiming it right between my shoulder blades. I dodge back, the sand giving beneath my feet and threatening my balance. Fuck, we should have thought to practice sparring in a sand ring. It’s a complication I hadn’t anticipated.

Paris strikes again, his face a mask of fury. “I know you’re fucking Helen!”

I get my baton up in time, and the knife slides along its edge. The guy isn’t going for first blood. He wants me dead. The feeling is entirely mutual. I stagger back another step, allowing him to think he’s got me on the ropes. “Did you send the assassin?”

He pauses. “What?”

His confusion seems genuine, but what do I know? I didn’t realize Paris was a potential threat until I saw him through Helen’s eyes. He could be lying. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I would have enjoyed eliminating him personally even before I knew that he hurt her, scared her, made her doubt herself. Now, it’s personal.

I step to the side to avoid his next attack. He’s good, but he’s not better than I am. I whip out the baton, so fast it makes a whistling noise. Paris tries to dodge, but I catch the tip of the knife and send it spinning though the air away from us.

He flinches and backs away, his hands outstretched. “Achilles, wait.”

“You hurt her.” I attack again. Again, he barely avoids the strike. “She trusted you, and you hurt her.”

“I never touched her! She’s lying.” He scrambles away, barely staying ahead of me. “It’s all bullshit.”

His ankle rolls and I’m on him, shoving him off his feet and into the sand. “The baton isn’t the best option to draw blood.” I kick him, flipping him onto his back. “Guess I’ll have to hit you a few times to make sure you’re eliminated.”

“Achilles!”

I lift the baton over my head. “Stop talking, Paris. You’re just going to make me angrier.”

“Patroclus!” He points a shaking finger behind me.

I know better. Truly, I do. But I still twist to look behind me.

I find Patroclus instantly. I’m sure I’ll always find him, regardless of how many people stand between us. In an arena of only five, there’s nothing to distract from the scene playing out before me.

The Minotaur stalks him across the sand, light on his feet despite his big body. Patroclus has found a small knife somewhere, but it looks like a toy in his hand. The Minotaur has a fucking sword. It’s one of the big ones, big enough that he has to hold it with two hands. Big enough to cut Patroclus in fucking half. I glance up at Athena, but she hasn’t moved from the spot where she stood when she announced the start of the trial. There’s going to be no last-minute save for any of us.

Patroclus could take the Minotaur in a fair fight. Probably. But right now, when he’s favoring his ankle and has bruised ribs limiting his range of motion? It’s going to be a fucking bloodbath. The way the Minotaur swings that sword, he doesn’t care if he removes limbs to get to Patroclus’s blood.

He’ll kill him.

Even as the thought crosses my mind, Helen appears like an avenging goddess behind the Minotaur. She raises a pair of daggers and holds his death in her gorgeous face. Our woman doesn’t hesitate, striking at his exposed back.

The Minotaur must sense her, because he spins easily out of the way and cuts back at her with a stroke that would take her head if it landed. She ducks easily beneath it, but that doesn’t stop my lungs from turning to stone in my chest. Both of them. Both of them are in fucking danger, and they’re outmatched.

If the Minotaur lands a blow…

Even as the thought crosses my mind, I’m moving, leaving Paris behind and heading for them. I don’t give a fuck if the rules don’t encourage murder. Someone tried to kill Helen in the house, and Patroclus is injured right now. The way the Minotaur swings that sword has every alarm bell in my head blaring. He’s swiping it at them like he wants to hurt them. Helen is fierce and quick on her feet, but she’s too small. She can’t take even one hit from that thing. She’ll lose a limb, and that’s the best-case scenario.

And Patroclus? He’ll sacrifice himself for her, the fool. I already know it.

I pick up my pace, the sand churning beneath my feet as I pelt across the space. If I can just get there, I can stop him. I’m better than this fucker. I know I am.

Helen shifts her grip on the knife like she might throw it but seems to think better of it. Good girl. Never toss a weapon that’s still useful. I should have told her that. Fuck, I should have told her a lot of things.

I’m too fucking far away. I’ll never make it in time.

The Minotaur picks up momentum, spinning the sword with a comfort that seems like he’s done it before. Helen and Patroclus circle him, but they’re too aware of each other, too determined to save each other. It’s a glaring fault line to exploit, and the Minotaur is smart enough to do exactly that.

He seems to focus on Helen, pressing her hard. She scrambles away from the spinning blade, but the sand is too unsteady beneath her feet. Patroclus lunges to shove her out of the way, hand outstretched and chest wide open.

The Minotaur doesn’t miss a beat. He shifts his stance, reversing his cut.

“No!”

It happens so fast. Too fast.

The sword descends. Patroclus’s blood sprays, turning his white shirt red. He sinks to his knees almost in slow motion, shock written over his handsome face, and topples to the sand.

“No!”

Above us, his face flashes with Eliminated written over it. I don’t give a shit. I fly across the sand, moving faster than I ever have before. Too slow. All this training, years of training, and when it counts, I’m too damn slow. I skid to a stop in front of Patroclus, but there’s no time. I can’t go to my knees with the enemy standing over us.

“There you are.” The Minotaur swings the sword again. He doesn’t look happy with the damage he’s caused. He doesn’t look like anything at all, his expression curiously blank. “Took you long enough to get here.” He steps forward, his sword picking up speed again. “Figured you’d both come running when your little boyfriend was threatened.”

How could I do anything else? Patroclus is only in this arena right now because I wanted him here. He never would have chosen it on his own. I lift my baton. It seems a pathetic defense against his sword. “Let’s do this.”

“Gladly.”

He comes at me like a tornado, too quick, the sword seeming to be everywhere at once. I land a strike on his thigh, but it barely slows him down. Holy fuck, the man is a monster.

I…don’t know if I can beat him.

The thought staggers me. I’ve never doubted until now, when it matters the most. If I can’t do this… I dodge a nasty backswing. He should be slowing down by now. Those swords aren’t light, and he hasn’t been conserving energy and movement since this started. Except he’s not slowing down.

I am.

Where the fuck did Helen go?

As if the thought summons her, I catch sight of movement behind him, a flash of gold in the bright stadium lights. It’s the only warning we have before Helen launches herself onto his back. She has her knife in a death grip, and for one endless beat of my heart, I think she means to slit his throat. Instead, she drags the tip down the side of his face, spilling his blood to mix with Patroclus’s at his feet. “You’re done, asshole.”

He shakes her off without the slightest bit of effort. She lands on her feet, but only barely. That hesitation costs her. The Minotaur spins on her and brings the sword over his head. Shock nearly roots my feet to the ground. What the fuck is he doing? Being eliminated means stopping right fucking now. Why the fuck is he still fighting?

Instinct takes over before my brain has a chance to catch up. I throw myself at his back, taking him down in a messy flying tackle. We hit the sand hard, but he’s already swinging those meaty fists, pummeling my sides.

I should disentangle from him, should let the refs take over and handle this because that’s their fucking job. I don’t. All I can see is him swinging on Helen, cutting Patroclus down. He meant to kill them.

I won’t let him have another chance at it.

Each punch I land on his face is one less chance he’ll have to hurt those I love again. One strike closer to removing him as a threat entirely. He won’t touch them again. I’ll make fucking sure of it.

Hands grab my arms and I’m hauled off the Minotaur by two refs. He starts to sit up but a third ref grabs him and shoves him back to the sand. I start to struggle, but the ref on my right gets in my face. “You’re eliminated. Stand down.”

“What?”

“Blood was drawn.” The ref points at my calf.

I follow their motion and go still. There’s an arrow sticking out of my calf. I didn’t even feel it. I look up slowly to see Paris standing a good distance away, a bow in his hands and a smirk on his face. “Fuck.”

My knees hit the sand, and I have no fucking memory of deciding to kneel. I can’t… I can’t think about being eliminated right now. I crawl to Patroclus. He has his hands pressed to his stomach, but there’s so much fucking blood. I glare at the referee. “We need a medic!”

The woman flinches but shakes her head. “No one enters the arena until the trial is over.”

I bend over Patroclus and cover his hands with mine. “I’m so godsdamned sorry.”

“My fault. Too…slow.” He turns his head to me, too slow, too much effort behind the small move. “Achilles…”

“This isn’t how it happens.” I can’t seem to process that I’ve been eliminated. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. We had a plan. Fuck, I had a plan. The Minotaur. Then Paris. “Helen.”

I lost sight of her when I tackled the Minotaur, but surely she isn’t eliminated. If Paris wins… We promised her. We fucking promised her, and I lost sight of everything in the last few minutes.

I twist to look for her. There. Helen stalks Paris, fury written over her perfect face. She’s still only got those fucking daggers, and he’s got an honest-to-gods bow drawn and pointed in her direction.

He could shoot her. He could fucking kill her.

Paris lets loose an arrow and Helen dances to the side, dodging it at the last moment. She narrows her eyes and picks up her pace, sprinting toward him. Paris flinches and scrambles for another arrow. He’s got them embedded in the sand at his feet like he’s some old-time warrior instead of a cowardly little prick who sat back and let everyone fight it out so he could pick off the winner. He strings another arrow and fires, but Helen drops to the sand and it flies over her head.

I chance a glance at Patroclus. He’s still breathing and he wraps his hands around my wrists. The strength of his grip reassures me. “She’ll do it.”

I follow his gaze to Helen again. I want her to win. Of course I do. It’s not even a contest between her and Paris. But I can’t think properly right now. Not with her and Patroclus still in danger. Not with my entire plan upended.

A third arrow flies. She spins out of the way like a dancer, light on her feet and using the turn to pick up momentum until she’s flying over the sand.

She’s so close now. Less than ten feet from him. Paris grabs another arrow, but he’s panicking, his movements clumsy. He nearly drops it. That’s all the opening she needs. The little fool flings one of her knives at him. Fifty percent chance it hits, and even that’s optimistic.

Except it does.

It takes him in the shoulder, spinning Paris away from his fucking arrows and into the wall surrounding the main arena. He slides to the ground, clutching his shoulder and screaming something I can’t hear over the cheers of thousands of people around us.

Helen takes one more step before she seems to remember herself. She straightens and turns to face Athena. From this angle, I can’t see her expression, but there’s a fury in the set of her shoulders that practically dares Athena to do anything but declare her the winner.

Athena stares down at her for a long time, long enough for the cheers to die down and the silence to gain an eerie quality. Finally she lifts her hands. “We have a winner. Congratulations…Ares.”

The arena goes wild.

On the sand, medics rush out from one of the arches, teams splitting up to take each of the injured champions. I wave mine off. I’m barely injured. A fucking scratch. That’s all it took to snatch my dreams from me. I was so close. So fucking close.

It’s…over.

I’ve lost.

My dreams are dead and gone, and it’s my own damn fault.