Wicked Beauty (Dark Olympus 3)

Athena waves an arm in our direction. “Greet your champions, Olympus.”

The cheers and screams are loud enough that I swear I feel the arena vibrate. It’s overwhelming in the extreme. Up until this point, my interactions with the general public have been through a carefully curated filter. I’m a public figure with a public persona and am often featured on MuseWatch, our resident gossip site. But I’ve never done anything like this. Even my gymnastics meets were with closed audiences, a stipulation my father put on me if I wanted to compete. It certainly didn’t earn me friends among my teammates and competitors.

I hope you can see this now, Father. In Tartarus or whatever hole the universe decided to shove you into. I hope it’s dark and horrible and you’re suffering greatly.

Things happen quickly after that. Several people dressed in Athena’s special forces uniform—black shirt, black pants, a swooping owl on the right shoulder—appear and usher us off the podiums and toward the entrance where the other champions came in. This time, Achilles doesn’t attempt to offer me a hand down, which is good because I don’t like my odds at keeping control of my expression.

The champions are led through a series of concrete hallways, through a locker room, and out into a waiting room with a single exit. The tallest of the soldiers guides us to a line of vans with blacked-out windows.

I lift my brows. “Isn’t this a bit much?”

In response, they open the door and give me an unreadable look. “It’s your choice.”

It’s really not a choice at all. Failing to follow protocol now means I’m eliminated before the trials even begin. I sigh and climb into the back of the second van. It doesn’t occur to me until far too late that I should have watched where everyone else was going and chosen accordingly. By that time, Paris is already climbing into my van and sitting next to me, too close. Hector follows, a resigned expression on his handsome face. Atalanta rounds out our foursome, her locs pulled back from her scarred face.

Paris leans close, his features so perfect that I have the sudden desire to break his nose and give him some character. Not that I minded his pretty face when we were dating. It’s what tricked me into going out with him in the first place. He gives a small smile that has goose bumps raising across my skin. “Helen, what are you doing?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Paris.” No matter how hard I try to control my tone, my words are strained by his proximity.

His smile widens, his eyes sympathetic. “I get that you weren’t happy about being the designated prize, but this is one step too far, don’t you think? You’re going to embarrass yourself and, more importantly, your family.”

I can’t help tensing. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t get me wrong. You look sexy as fuck in that little golden dress. Like a princess.” He makes a sympathetic noise. “But you can’t honestly expect to get past even the first trial. Honey, you’re too delicate for that.”

Delicate.

Just another word for weak.

I turn my face from him. “It’s not your business, Paris. Worry about yourself.”

He laughs. “I really look forward to being your husband, Helen. It will give us the fresh start we need.”

I think I hear Hector sigh over the roaring in my ears, but I can’t be sure. That’s the thing about Paris; to anyone who doesn’t know him, his charming, confident tone seems totally reasonable. Even his words aren’t overtly horrible. He used to keep that same patient look on his face when he’d burrow under my skin until I turned into a shrieking monster during our fights. He made me feel crazy, and that sensation is all too quick to rise again whenever I’m forced to interact with him.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Paris.” I keep my tone sweet and light, even though I feel like screaming. “If you win Ares and think that means you get a single marital privilege, you won’t live past the first time you touch me without my permission.”

He smiles, completely undaunted. I can’t believe I used to find his persistence sexy. It took me longer than I want to admit to realize there’s a fine line between a welcome pursuit and straight-up stalking. Paris has a nasty habit of only hearing what he wants. Obviously our time apart has not cured him of that habit. “When we’re married, I’ll have plenty of time to seduce you. You liked what we did together before, Helen. You will again.”

This time, Atalanta snorts. She crosses one long leg over the other and leans back against the wall of the van. “Take a hint, pretty boy. She’s about crawling out of her skin to get away from you right now.”