Bonds of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #2)(79)

“And then they brand you,” Augustus said quietly.

“What if … you can’t leave the arena?”

Kharon and Augustus stood up straighter and refused to meet my eyes.

This is barbaric.

“Hermos.”

He walked forward calmly. A single snake trailed out of his head like hair, rattling, as he ripped open his shirt, showcasing multiple brands.

“Revelations—he has been dishonored by six of his labors,” Zeus shouted as he rolled the two dice.

The crowd held its breath.

“One round,” Zeus announced. “Three labors.”

The crowd booed with disappointment. “Snake scum!” someone screamed. “Abomination. Your kind isn’t wanted in Sparta!”

Hermos smiled as he walked back to the line and Agatha grinned at him.

There was a one in eighteen chance of rolling a three with two dice.

Lucky.

“Patro,” Fate said.

My mentor sauntered lazily across the sand.

At the altar, he slowly opened his shirt, and everyone stared enraptured. The Olympian leaders leaned forward like they were all trying to get a better look.

He truly was his mother’s son.

Patro casually revealed his impressive, muscled physique—he appeared as if he was carved from bronze, the statue of David in the flesh—and showed off a single circular mark in the middle of his chest, right over his heart.

The dice clattered across marble.

“Revelations—he has been dishonored by one of his labors.” Zeus’s lips twitched into a frown. “One round—two labors!”

The crowd clapped.

Another lucky roll.

Catcalls echoed as people whooped and hollered, begging him to look in their direction.

Achilles relaxed with visible relief.

Patro shot me a smug grin when he was within earshot. “Enjoy your time with your husbands,” he mocked. “I hope you don’t regret your choice.”

I nodded back, too nervous to engage, and Patro looked bewildered.

Achilles glared over at me as he ripped his shirt open, buttons popping and falling to the sand, then he stalked toward the marble altar.

“Revelations—” Zeus announced. “Zero defeats.”

The stadium cheered, and everyone got to their feet. “Achilles … Achilles … Achilles” was chanted all around.

The people’s hero.

As Achilles stood tall, glowering at Zeus and awaiting his fate, Hera openly fanned herself while Apollo admired his exposed chest.

Is everyone in Sparta a pervert?

I was starting to sense a theme.

Zeus threw down the dice, electricity sparking off his fingers onto the table.

An evil smile curled his lips. “EIGHT LABORS!” Zeus shouted and the stands erupted. “TWO rounds in the arena … without his muzzle.” The cheers were thunderous.

Sharp feedback pierced my left ear.

Achilles turned around to walk back to the line, open shirt fluttering to reveal a thin trail of dark hair over the deep grooves of his stomach.

“Yep, that’s my type,” Nyx hissed unhelpfully.

Achilles’s eyes met mine—they narrowed with malice.

From the disdain wafting off him, he wasn’t happy with my choice to stay with my husbands, and he wasn’t going to be getting over it soon.

I leaned into Kharon’s touch.

Fate tapped her clipboard. “Drex!” she called out.

There was a smattering of applause and a buzz of conversation. From the sound of it, Sparta didn’t know what to make of an Olympian mutt competing in the SGC.

With clumsy fingers, Drex unbuttoned his shirt and showed off the unmarked skin of his chest, face flaming red.

Zeus grimaced as he rolled the dice. “One round—two labors!” There was relief in his voice.

Thank God. An extremely lucky roll.

I exhaled and so did Drex.

“Kharon.”

My left side went cold as he disappeared, his hand falling away.

As he prowled toward the altar, the crowd quieted.

Kharon ripped off his shirt—revealing his tattooed, mutilated chest.

He turned in a circle with his hands wide, face apathetic.

The stadium fell dead silent.

Zeus cleared his throat, eyeing Kharon like he was a wild animal that might attack at any moment. “Revelations—he has been dishonored by … eleven of his labors.”

Kharon bared his teeth.

Augustus’s stubble brushed across the side of my face. “In Kharon’s first games,” he whispered, barely audible, “he was just eighteen and hadn’t come into his full powers … He drew eleven labors … the most anyone has ever faced—they were all Minotaurs.”

I jerked with shock.

What?

Kharon smirked—he appeared completely impervious to the Olympians’ judgment—but I could feel the pain radiating up his leg in hot waves.

An image of a younger him, defeated, crawling through the sand away from monsters, flashed inside my mind.

He deserved so much better.

The dice rolled. “One round … three labors,” Zeus said, his frustration evident.

There was a smattering of nervous applause.

Kharon stalked back toward me with piercing pain streaking up his leg and his tattered shirt fluttering.