“Do I?” She waggles her eyebrows. “I’m just saying that you might want to sit the woman down and ask what she wants.” She shrugs and hops off the counter, only weaving a little on her feet. “Or you could just play to expectation and lock her up in a dungeon. I’m sure Zeus would love that.”
“Hermes, you know very well that I don’t have a dungeon.”
“Not a dank and dark one.” More eyebrow waggling. “We’ve all seen the playroom, though.”
I refuse to acknowledge that. The parties I host from time to time are as much part of my role as Hades as anything else. A carefully crafted persona that is designed to inspire the darker emotions and, as a result, ensure the few people who know about my existence in the upper city don’t fuck with me. If I happen to enjoy this particular part of said persona, who can blame me? Persephone would take one look at that room and run screaming for her life. “Time for you to go home.” I nod to the hall. “I can have Charon take you.”
“Don’t bother. We’ll catch our own ride.” She pops up onto her tiptoes and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “Have fun with your captive.”
“She’s not my captive.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Then she’s gone, dancing out of the room in her bare feet as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The woman exhausts me.
Dionysus seems to have no intention of leaving my mug behind, but he stops in the doorway. “You and the sunshine girl might be able to help each other.” He grimaces at my look. “What? It’s a perfectly legitimate thought to have. She’s probably one of the few people in Olympus who hates Zeus as much as you do.” He snaps his fingers. “Oh, and I’ll have that shipment for you by the end of the week. I didn’t forget.”
“You never do.” As soon as he walks out the door, I snag Hermes’s abandoned coffee cup and put it in the sink. The woman leaves mess wherever she goes, but I’m used to it at this point. Last night was relatively tame on the Hermes-Dionysus scale. Last time they broke in, they brought a chicken they’d found gods alone knew where. I was finding feathers for days afterward.
I stare at the coffeepot, pushing away thoughts of those two troublemakers. They aren’t the ones I need to be worried about right now. Zeus is. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t contacted me already. He’s not one to sit back and wait when someone takes away one of his toys.
It’s so fucking tempting to reach out first, to rub his nose in the fact that this little socialite was willing to run to me rather than marry him. Doing so is too impulsive and petty. If I intend to use Persephone to actually get some measure of revenge…
I’ll be just as bad as he is.
I try to push the thought aside. My people have suffered from Zeus’s machinations. I have suffered, have lost just as much as anyone. I should be jumping at this chance to get a measure of revenge. And I do want revenge. But do I want it at the expense of this woman who has already played a pawn to both her mother and Zeus? Am I cold enough to push forward despite her protests?
I suppose I could ask her what she wants. What a novel thought.
I grimace and pour a second cup of coffee. After a moment’s consideration, I find the cream and sugar and dose it. Persephone doesn’t seem the type to drink her coffee black. Then again, what do I know? The only information I have on her is what’s written in the gossip columns that follow the Thirteen and the people in their sphere. Those “journalists” adore the Dimitriou women and follow them around like a pack of dogs. I’m actually kind of impressed Persephone made it out of that party without acquiring an entourage.
How much is real and how much is creatively put together fiction? Impossible to say. I know better than most that reputation often has little to do with reality.
I’m stalling.
The second I realize it, I curse and stalk out of the kitchen and up the stairs. It’s not late, but I’d half expected her to be up and terrorizing someone in the household by now. Both Hermes and Dionysus managed to stir from the drunken coma they call sleep and leave before Persephone woke.
I hate that tendril of concern that worms its way through me. This woman’s mental health is not my business. It just fucking isn’t. Zeus and I already dance on the edge of a sword every time we’re forced to interact. One wrong move and I’ll be sliced in two. More importantly, one wrong move and my people suffer the consequences.
I’m putting myself and my people in danger for this woman who’s probably just as power hungry as her mother and will likely wake up realizing that her best way to that power is with Zeus’s ring on her finger. It doesn’t matter what she said on the phone last night to her sisters. It can’t matter.