Wicked Beauty (Dark Olympus 3)

I sit up and rub my eyes. My back feels like it’s got a permanent kink in it, but hopefully that will dispel once I’m up and moving. I stagger to the fridge and eye the schedule that’s been put there. A quick glance at the clock on the microwave says I need to hurry if I want to make breakfast. Since I can’t cook my way out of a paper bag, skipping a catered breakfast isn’t an option. I need my strength, which means I need the calories.

A quick shower later, I pull my hair back into a simple braid and get dressed in running tights and a sports bra. After I eat a light breakfast, I’m going to find the gym and work myself hard enough to earn a nap this afternoon. Hopefully Achilles and Patroclus take tomorrow’s trial as seriously as I do and don’t plan to have another all-nighter. I grimace at the thought of another night on the couch.

Honestly, if they’re going to be fucking like rabbits, maybe I’ll request a room change and take Achilles’s room so I don’t need to share a wall with them. It was a silly power play to take the middle room, but I didn’t think I’d come to regret it so quickly.

It’s not hard to find the breakfast room. The three dorm buildings create a U-shape around the main area, which contains the breakfast room, a living room, and a massive gym. The space is obviously designed with a group in mind. The kitchen is huge and filled with industrial appliances. A dining room holds four tables with seating for all the champions and then some. Even the living room has groupings of couches around a massive television, though I doubt many people will take advantage of it.

I circle the long kitchen island, eyeing my options. I finally decide on some of the scrambled eggs from the buffet-style setup with salsa and avocado. A scoop of mixed fruit and a giant mug of coffee finish things up. The dining room table is empty except for the two non-Olympians. I almost sit near them to prove they don’t unnerve me as much as they truly do, but the threat of indigestion is too strong to risk. Instead, I take a spot at the opposite end of the table.

It allows me a good view of the two men. I study them as I pick through my food. They’re both attractive enough in a rough sort of way, but even I would hesitate to flirt if we met at a party. There’s something dangerous about them, though I can’t say explicitly what gives me that vibe. The short-haired one, Theseus, has a bold, crooked nose that would almost be too big for his face if not for his square jaw. The other, the Minotaur, has long hair that falls in a gentle wave to his shoulders. He obviously takes care of it, because it’s thick and healthy looking, which is a feat in and of itself for some guys. The hair almost distracts from the scars: thin, faded white lines, so many that it looks like someone tried to cut his face right off. I shudder at the thought of what those wounds might have looked like fresh. Still, he’s got nice, strong brows and surprisingly sensually shaped lips.

Both are dressed unassumingly today in shorts and T-shirts; obviously they intend to use the gym, too. The short sleeves give me glimpses of tattoos crawling up their arms, but I’m not close enough to get any details. Maybe they’re organized crime?

They wouldn’t be the first to attempt to infiltrate Olympus. The way the Thirteen are chosen means some outsiders are tempted to make a bid for power. The theory is that anyone could take over enough titles to wrest power away from Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades to run the city. It’s why so many of the upper-city families flock to the Dodona Tower parties and indulge in arranged marriages with each other. Everything boils down to the power and politics and the alliances that hold the majority of the Thirteen who effectively rule Olympus. Or at least the upper city.

Sometimes people outside the city realize the same thing. It’s hard to cross the barrier, but not impossible. My father used to talk about some old enemy making a coup attempt right around the time he inherited the title Zeus, but I never made a habit of listening closely to my father’s old “war” stories since they were roughly 90 percent fiction.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. These two men are opponents, and their motivations for joining the tournament don’t change that. Even if one of them somehow managed to win this and become Ares, that’s hardly the majority. They can’t touch the legacy titles, and they have no chance of getting either Aphrodite or Demeter, albeit for very different reasons. I pity the fool who tries to take Athena’s title. Ditto with Hermes.