“Something like that.”
Oh shit. I know that voice. I take great pains to avoid the man it belongs to.
Eros. Aphrodite’s son. Aphrodite’s fixer.
I watch him approach warily, stepping out of shadow as he comes near. He’s as gorgeous as his mother is. Tall and blond, though his hair has a distinctive curl that would be cute framing any other face. His features are too masculine to ever be something as harmless as cute. He’s tall and has a strong body, to a point where even his expensive suit can’t hide how broad his shoulders are, how muscled his arms. The man is built for violence with a face that would make a sculpture weep. Apt, that.
I catch sight of a stain on his white shirt and narrow my eyes. “Is that blood?”
Eros looks down and curses softly. “I thought I got it all.”
No point in examining that statement. I need to get out of here, and fast. Except… “You’re limping.” Staggering, really, but not because he’s drunk. He’s speaking too clearly for that.
“I’m not,” he answers easily. Lies easily. He’s most assuredly limping, and that’s most certainly blood. I know what that means; he must have come straight here from committing some violence on Aphrodite’s behalf. The very last thing I want is to get involved with those two.
Still, I hesitate. “Is it your blood?”
Eros stops next to me, his blue eyes holding no emotion at all. “It’s the blood of the last pretty girl who asked too many questions.”
2
Psyche
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.