Bonds of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #2)(90)

Kharon and Augustus sat ramrod straight on either side of me, electricity humming in a dome above the blood-covered sand.

No one spoke.

One thing was now disturbingly clear—Ares was nicknamed the God of War for a reason.

He’d been in the arena for about five hours. Five long, painful, heinous hours.

Bright sunlight illuminated the four dead Cyclopes that were strewn around him. Each of them had been tortured to death by his touch.

There was no reason his round was still happening; he could have ended it in five minutes if he wanted to. The problem was, he didn’t want to.

My fingers tingled as Nyx slithered tightly around my shoulders, her scales warm.

The stale taste of ambrosia was sour in my throat as I watched the heinous show.

A black Spartan helmet with a red spiky middle gleamed atop Ares’s head, and it was the only armor he wore.

An ornate golden broadsword was also strapped across his wide muscular back, but he hadn’t unsheathed it.

Not once.

Ares had used his bare hands to murder four Cyclopes.

Now he was working on the fifth.

The rumor that he could torture people to insanity with a single graze of his fingers was right. He also didn’t appear to have a protector. Are the other rumors about him having an enormous invisible Colchian dragon true?

Blood dripped from his eyes like tears as he used his powers—his hand rested casually on the arm of the last living Cyclops.

The creature jerked in the sand as it screamed in agony.

Augustus rubbed my back soothingly.

I studied his profile.

Ares is his father.

His eyes were deep pools of obsidian.

“Are you … okay, my carus?” he asked softly.

His scar stood out in stark relief across the bridge of his nose and cheek.

How did he get it?

I leaned my head against his shoulder.

“That’s my girl.” He gently kissed my forehead.

My stomach pinched.

Down below, the God of War let out a battle cry.

Augustus was the spitting image of him.

They had the same tan skin, harsh features, and build. They both held themselves ramrod straight, postures perfect, shoulders wide.

Scars slashed across their faces.

But where one reveled in unbound cruelty, the other had a raccoon protector who sat on his shoulder all day playing with his hair.

I’d forgotten what it meant that Augustus was the heir to the infamous House of Ares. The leader of the younger Chthonics.

Augustus wasn’t just the son of the psychopath torturing for fun—he was his prodigy.

Yet he also spoke about ancient myths with a passion, gifted me a graphing calculator, and gently tucked me into bed at night.

Augustus stared down at me, his gaze intense like he could read my thoughts.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

I’m not.

That was the problem.

The death rattle stopped as the Cyclops finally fell silent, and I turned to watch. Its single eye was open wide and unseeing.

Ares sauntered lazily out of the arena.

There was a spattering of applause, but the stadium was still mostly quiet—numb shock hung in the air. The fight had been hideously clinical, yet deeply depraved.

There was a sudden clamor of cheers as the Chthonic leaders all got to their feet.

I couldn’t look away from the dead Cyclopes.

Were they afraid as they died?

Kharon bent down and said something to Augustus, but I couldn’t hear him above the ringing in my ear.

A thick wave of melancholy washed over me.

Did they wonder why so many people were watching, but no one helped?

My eyes blurred.

Time moved at a strange pace.

The guards escorted us to a much more crowded symposium.

Bodies swirled around us as lively harp music played. Hundreds of candles were flickering on the tables, casting the room in a soft light.

Golden celebratory tinsel had been strung along the room’s columns and ceiling. Sirens whirled around brandishing platters overflowing with food.

I pushed through the crush to find a table, fighting through a sea of bodies, drowning in tortured feelings.

Familiar pastel eyes peered into mine. “Alexis?” the siren whispered, lips trembling.

I wiped at my eyes, hiding the tears.

“Lena?” I said, a kernel of warmth lighting inside my chest. The festering sadness receded.

I blinked and we were hugging, holding on to each other as tightly as we could in the middle of the dance floor.

Her breath hitched. “You’re a Chthonic now.”

“I am.”

“Everyone’s talking about your fight in Rome—how you defended the humans. How powerful you are.”

“Really?” I laughed awkwardly. “They have it wrong.”

Her eyes searched mine. “No, they don’t,” she said softly, her voice full of sincerity.

I held on to her, feeling weak.

“How … have you been?” I whispered.

She shook her head, long hair sparkling. “Better than you … Most creatures think this entire operation is a sham. The Olympians are up to something.”

Someone made a commotion to the side.

Zeus was pointing at us.

I smiled back at her sadly. “I think they’re right.”