Electric Idol (Dark Olympus 2)

It’s bold and untraditional, and even though it’s not the right color of red, it still makes me feel like it’s been dipped in blood.

In short, it’s perfect.

“Juliette.”

She steps into the changing area and raises her brows. “It wasn’t my first choice when I put these options together, but it’s a showstopper.”

I stare at myself in the mirror. My coloring allows me to pull off a wide variety of palettes, but I usually keep to a subtler neutral with pops of brightness. A look that doesn’t scream for attention but also isn’t hiding. No one can look at me in this dress and see anything other than a statement.

Choke on that, Aphrodite.

“I’ll take it.”

Juliette nods. “Give me a few moments.” She circles me, tugging the dress in a few places and pinning the hem a little higher. “I can have this done in an hour or so. Do you want to wait?”

It’s not a good idea to linger in the lower city. Persephone might be willing to let us be here, but Hades doesn’t like Eros, and there’s always the risk he’ll override my sister and revoke his invitation. “I’ll ask my sister to bring it when she comes tonight.”

“Works for me.” Juliette pins one last piece and nods. “Okay, I’m finished. I don’t need you anymore.”

I smile. “Thanks for the rush order on this.”

“Don’t thank me. As I told Eros, I plan on charging for my disrupted plans. Triple my going rate sounds fair.”

The amount is more than a little staggering. I can’t believe Eros agreed to that. I don’t even really require a wedding gown for this marriage, except for the fact that we need it to look real. But he didn’t have to pay out for one of the best designers in Olympus to make it happen. “Definitely fair.”

“Also, before I forget.” She pulls something out of her pocket. It’s a swatch of fabric the same color as the gown. “In case you need to find a matching palette.”

“Thank you.” Such a small detail, but one I hadn’t really thought of in the midst of this whirlwind. “I really appreciate it.”

I dress quickly and then head through the aisle of clothing to the waiting area situated near the entrance. Eros lounges in one of the chairs, glaring at his phone. He glances up as I approach, his blue eyes hard. “You should really limit who’s allowed to comment on your shit. These people are toxic as fuck and have too much time on their hands.”

I almost miss a step. I’m not foolish enough to assume that he’s expressing actual concern. More likely, guessing by the comments I normally see on my posts, he’s pissed by proxy. We’re a unit, at least for now, so an insult against me is an insult against him. I fight for a smile. “I told you not to read the comments.”

He rises and falls into step at my side, moving just ahead to open the door for me. I send a quick text to Persephone, confirming that she’s good with ferrying the dress to me, which she is. That done, we head back across the river. I don’t mean to breathe a sigh of relief as we cross the River Styx, but Eros shoots me a strange look when I do.

Embarrassment flares. “I know it’s just part of living in Olympus, but the River Styx has always creeped me out.”

“You’re not alone. It’s a kind of barrier, a reminder of how isolated we are from the rest of the world. That would unsettle anyone who brushes against it.” He reaches across the middle console and sets his hand on my thigh. I stare at it, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Eros just keeps driving, his gaze on the road.

Oh. Right. The whole getting-comfortable-touching-each-other thing. I can’t deny that I’m failing terribly at this goal. It’s not even that I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me. I know he’s capable of it, of course, but that’s not the problem.

The real issue is that every time he touches me, it feels like he’s hooked me up to a live wire. I can be a great actress when the situation calls for it, but I haven’t managed to act natural a single time we’ve made contact. It’s something the gossip sites will glom onto without hesitation—some out of spite, some out of curiosity. Neither is good for us.

Or maybe I’m looking for an excuse to take something I most certainly shouldn’t want.

I slowly, hesitantly, place my hand on Eros’s. It feels like his palm scorches me through my jeans, like his fingers are making imprints against my skin even though he’s not gripping me at all. I’m achingly aware that he’s a few short inches from the apex of my thighs, and it’s everything I can do not to clench my legs together. I’ve never been affected by someone like this. I don’t know if it’s the danger heightening my desire or the simple fact that I shouldn’t want this man, almost husband or no.