Shattered Gods (Dark Olympus, #10)(60)

I don’t drink often, and it’s been hours since I ate last. The soldier in me is demanding I stop now before I lose my regimented constraint. Instead, I take another pull from the bottle. There’s no possible way to taste Circe’s mouth over the burn of the bourbon, but I’m half-convinced I can. “By that logic, it doesn’t matter if we—you—kill them or not. The obstacles are ruinous already. A few extra molehills won’t make a difference.”

“That’s certainly one angle to take.” Her smile widens, and holy fuck, she has a dimple. “I choose another.”

I stare at the divot in her cheek for a beat too long. “You only want them dead for revenge.”

She steps a little too close to take the bottle, and this time, she doesn’t retreat. She drinks deeply and sets it on the counter. “I prefer to call it justice. They’ve more than earned their fates.”

I shake my head, making the room swim. Damn it, I’m drunk. This was foolish in the extreme; it’s like I fucking want to die. “No wonder you and Hecate get along so well. You both talk in circles for your own amusement.”

“Atalanta.” She says my name on a sigh. She slowly reaches up to cup my jaw. Her calluses brush against my skin, and fuck if the reminder that she works despite her socialite appearance isn’t unbelievably sexy. She brushes her thumb over my cheekbone, trailing it down the scar that runs vertically under my right eye. “You said her name. Her real name.”

I guess I did. “Yeah.”

She leans in. She’s a good six inches shorter than me, and she has to tip her head back to maintain her hold on my gaze. “What if we table the discussion on working together for the time being?”

“We were never talking about working together.” A trap. It’s not even a good one, but I’m too tired and buzzed and turned on to care. “But sure. I’ll play. What do you want to talk about instead?”

“I don’t want to talk at all.”

Understanding dawns. I laugh in her face. “So you’ll use sex to manipulate me into seeing things your way? Nice try. It won’t work. Not for me and not for Hecate.”

“I know. I don’t expect you to believe me, but this is just desire. No ulterior motives.” She exerts the tiniest bit of pressure, drawing me down, down, down to my doom.

“You’re right. I don’t believe you.” There’s a laughable amount of opportunity to step away, to put a stop to this, to remember all the reasons why this woman is the enemy. I don’t do any of it. Instead, I grab her hips and pull her flush against my body. “But I don’t want to talk, either.”

I kiss Circe.





23

Atalanta




I am so tired of thinking. Of trying to be seven steps ahead of anyone around me. Years and years of existing as part of the world and separate at the same time I try to save it. Kissing Circe is damn near suicidal, but she tastes like bourbon and warmth and I can’t make myself be logical and noble right now. I just want to feel.

I lift her, not remotely surprised to find her light enough that the move barely pulls on my injured shoulder. There’s a brief moment where the bed calls, but that feels unbearably intimate for what this is. I don’t like this woman. I want her, but I don’t like her. Instead of moving us somewhere more comfortable, I set her on the counter.

Circe breaks the kiss with a low laugh. “Pointed. Very pointed.”

“We don’t have to do this.” I want to. Gods, I want to. Just a little window of time where I’m not thinking about Olympus or Hecate or the nebulous future that seems to get further and further away with every hour slipping past.

She drags a single finger down my sternum, to where the towel is starting to come loose. Just when I think she might free it completely, she shifts to trace around the bandage. To draw attention to the wound she caused. “I could say I’m sorry if it will make you feel better about wanting me.”

That startles a laugh out of me. “Are you sorry?”

“I don’t make a habit of being sorry for anything. What’s done is done.” The words are right, delivered in that perfect cadence she uses to speak to the public. But the image falters and fractures when she nibbles at her bottom lip. “I’m happy not to have killed you, though. It would be a tragic waste of a beautiful woman.”

“I’m already willing to have sex with you, Circe. You don’t have to pour on the compliments to make it happen.”

Circe smiles slowly, a little crooked, her dimple once again making an appearance. “I don’t lie to my lovers, Atalanta. I certainly don’t attempt to manipulate them. There has to be some avenue in life that is free from duplicity.”

I have the strangest tightness in my chest as I stare down at her. I won’t pretend my bullshit meter is always perfect, but I’m not getting even the slightest hint that she might be lying right now. “I want you, but that doesn’t mean I like you, and I sure as fuck don’t trust you.”

“And maybe you want a little revenge for the hurt caused by…” She trails off, intentionally not putting Hecate’s name between us, but it’s there all the same. It will always be there.

She’s not entirely correct, though. The betrayal hurt, and deeply, but this is more a cumulation of being overwhelmed and needing a release, toxic though it may be. “Don’t tell me you’re a romantic.”