Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
It takes me several minutes after arriving back at my desk to realize that something’s wrong and another few seconds to locate the source of that wrongness.
Apollo’s door is closed.
I stare at it. It’s never closed. Ever. Honestly, I wish it were because he has the nasty habit of singing under his breath, but like everything else about him, his baritone voice is delightful. It’s highly distracting. Sometimes I have to go over reports two or three times because I catch myself zoning out, trying to identify what song he’s focused on.
A closed door should mean uninterrupted work. A closed door should make me happy.
I glare at it, arms crossed under my breasts. I can’t very well go knock on it and investigate. Not only would that give him the wrong idea, but it’s frankly none of my business.
Maybe he’s not even in there. Maybe he left and locked up behind him. That makes more sense than him shutting himself up for privacy.
For a spymaster, he’s really shitty at being secretive. If I were a romantic, I’d believe that means he trusts me, but it’s really that he’s strangely absentminded when he’s not focused on something. And when he is focused on something, sometimes he mutters under his breath. At least when he isn’t singing.
Gods, I’m a mess. Why am I obsessing over this man? I have work to do.
I start to turn for my desk—the only other piece of furniture in the small office that Apollo inhabits. He owns the whole building, of course, but he claims not to deal well with people—bullshit, people love him—so he prefers to have me run his communications with those outside the Thirteen. Technically, I guess that makes me some kind of manager, but my official title is executive assistant.
My job is challenging, and there’s nothing quite like the thrill of putting together two seemingly unrelated pieces of information and having the full puzzle snap into place.
The door swings open hard enough to bounce off the wall. I jump and then fight to smooth my expression into cool disinterest. Not a moment too soon.
The man who limps out of Apollo’s office is a beast. He’s got to be six two and built like a tank with broad shoulders, broad chest, just broad body. Medium-brown skin, reddish hair cropped close to his skull, a nicely trimmed beard, and empty dark eyes. He catches sight of me and sweeps a look over my body that shouldn’t feel threatening…but does.
I know who this is. I saw him compete—and fail—in the Ares tournament. Helen herself eliminated him, busting up his knee in the second trial before moving on to win the third and become Ares. The fight between them was brutal and I hadn’t been sure she’d win. He’d looked like he wanted to murder her. If she hadn’t prevailed, I think he might have attempted it.
Theseus.
“What are you doing here?” I don’t mean to speak, but the words fly out all the same, sharp and brittle. Olympus is full of predators—I know that better than anyone—but they usually pretend they’re just like the rest of us. Richer, more glamorous, more beautiful, maybe, but average and to be underestimated all the same.
There’s no underestimating this man.
Theseus doesn’t answer. He dismisses me nearly as quickly as he registers my appearance, brushing past me and out the door, violence in every uneven step.
I don’t stop to think. I just rush into Apollo’s office, half-sure I’m going to find his body instead of him.
Except…he’s fine.
He sits at his desk, staring at something a thousand miles away, and appears entirely unharmed. I stop short, but it’s too late. He focuses on me. “Cassandra. Come in and shut the door.”
Annoyed with myself for having been worried—and worse, betraying that worry to him—I carefully shut the door behind me and move to sink into the chair across from his desk. Apollo’s office is the very essence of rich-man chic with his oversize dark wood desk, a wall filled with floating shelves containing books and other knickknacks that are worth more than six months’ rent on my shitty apartment, and a single large window that overlooks the street below. We’re only on the third floor, which provides lots of people-watching opportunities; in the blocks around Dodona Tower, people purposefully walk the sidewalks looking to see and be seen.
He sits back with a tired sigh. “You’re aware that Minos and his people now have Olympus citizenship.”
“Kind of hard to miss it.” The gossip sites have gone wild with the news. I’m sure it has to do with them covering the same players and same families since the city was founded. New blood is rare enough, let alone an entire new family to gawk and poke at. The last time that happened was when the Dimitriou family moved into the city proper when their matriarch became Demeter, but even then, they were still Olympians, if country ones.