He’s crazy. Just ... crazy. He sounds so reasonable. So ... sad. Resigned. Like he’s a victim just as much as the one he made me. I scoot further back, shuddering so hard water is sloshing everywhere.

  “I’m more sorry than you could ever know about what Athena did to you.”

  He raped me, brutally tore away my innocence, and he’s apologizing for Athena’s curse?

  “Had I known ...” He swallows hard, his fingers travelling toward my upper thigh and it’s close, too close and too familiar and too awful to even imagine them going any further so I jerk hard and slap them away.

  Poseidon has the audacity to play wounded angel. “Medusa, you must believe—”

  “Don’t touch me,” I gasp again.

  He holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, pretty girl,” he says, voice deceptively soothing. I hate him for this, because I’m reminded of all the conversations we used to have with one another, the ones he just referenced, where he hid his true nature behind that of a kinder, gentler man with just such a voice. One that I might have fancied myself falling in love with at some point. And that thought there revolts me. “There’s all the time in the world to talk about the mistakes we’ve made once we leave Olympus.”

  Once we—what?

  No, no, no, no, NO.

  Not caring that his eyes are on me, that I’m naked, or that my ankle feels like it’s been through a grinder, I launch myself out of the tub, toward the door. Talos’ name is on the tip of my tongue, but strong arms wrap around me, pinning me to a hard chest. One hand comes up to cover my mouth, the other wraps around my waist. “Shh,” he soothes into my ear. “It’ll be okay, sweet girl. All you have to do is hear me out. Give this time. You’ll see. It’ll all work out. You’ll remember in no time.” And then does something that sends me over the edge.

  He kisses the skin right next to my ear, turning my stomach over.

  I kick against him, arms swinging. I’d give anything to be as adept as Aphrodite three days ago, to possess such a kick that sends gods sprawling or a punch that could fell a tree. But I don’t. I’m weak compared to the Lord of the Seas. All of my kicking and attempts at hitting does nothing but make him sigh.

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m springing all this on you suddenly, but my brother has refused me access to you. I just ... Stars, pretty girl. I’ve missed you so much. To have you here in my arms again?” His deceptively soft words precede his tongue tracing the length of my ear. Bile surges once more in my throat, gagging me. How is it when Hermes does such a thing, my insides melt and when Poseidon does it, my skin crawls in agony? “I’ve never been able to resist you. Not since the first moment I saw you. And now, you’re in my arms once more? You feel so good, so very, very good.” His tongue dips behind my ear and it’s then I can feel his excitement press hard against my bare bottom.

  Revulsion slams into me harder than his waves ever could. I bite his hand until I taste blood and kick as strongly as I can into one of his shins. Under normal circumstances, I think this would’ve at least made him stumble, but no—Poseidon merely grunts and somehow manages to readjust his hold on me.

  And then he says something that steals all the fight out of me. “It’s exactly as I feared. They’ve turned you against me, haven’t they?” He’s all sadness. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but ... if you choose to keep fighting me in this moment, know I’ll stop at nothing to destroy my nephew until he’s nothing more than a memory to mortals and gods alike.”

  The bastard stabs me where it hurts the most. Tears flood my eyes, but I do as he asks.

  “It’s time to go, Medusa. My Automatons are waiting for us.” He leans in closer, his breath hot against my neck. I shudder hard, but he doesn’t seem to notice or, worse yet, care. Because his hand, the one that’s been holding firm around my waist, drifts upward until it reaches just underneath my breasts.

  I flat-out drown in terror. Athena’s threats are nothing compared to this. Nothing.

  Somehow, a miracle happens, because he doesn’t grope me further. Instead, he whispers another bitterly sincere apology and then instructs me to dress quickly. To my horror, he’s already laid out something for me to put on, something that he must have brought himself—matching all black, so we can blend into the night. My hands shake and I drop the clothes repeatedly as I try to get them on, especially as I can physically feel his eyes caressing me; but in the end, none of this matters. I’m dressed as he wants me to.

  The French doors leading out to my balcony are open; the soft white curtains flutter in the breeze. So that’s how he got in. And apparently that’s how he’ll leave with me in tow. I can’t believe this is happening. Just an hour ago, I had hope. A future. And now—now this sick bastard is going to take me back to the deep end of the sea so he can continue to drown me.

  He takes hold of my arm, a deceptively gentle action, as he steers me toward the open doors, whispering reassurances the entire way. Each step brings a stronger sob. This is happening. This is real.

  I’d rather die than go with him. I think about his threat but realize he only restricted me in that moment. Hermes could still be safe.

  So I do what I have to do. I break out of his grasp, adrenaline spiking my bloodstream. And then I run as fast as I can until I reach the metal railing circling the balcony. “Medusa!” he shouts at me, stumbling in the wake of my break. “What do you think you’re doing? Medusa!”

  I scramble up and then, without a backward look, I fling myself into the air. He screams behind me, my name, agony lacing every syllable, but I’m free as I hurtle toward the darkness below.

  Away from him.

  And that’s what counts.

  When I crash into the villa’s surprisingly deep lagoon, my breath is smacked straight out of me. I sink straight to the bottom, supernova-filled blackness threatening to overwhelm me. But adrenaline is a powerful thing, because as much as I want to allow that blackness to take me, I also register another body crashing into the water, one much more adept at swimming than I. One that controls water like it’s part of his own body. So I kick back up to the surface, gasping as I break free. And then I scream.

  Hands grab at my ankles, but I manage to twist free long enough to drag myself to the side. I cry for help again, desperately trying to haul myself up onto the pavement, but this time, Poseidon manages to grab hold of my sprained ankle. He jerks me hard; my pleas are lost in the dark water. I kick desperately, making contact with what feels like his face. Oh, thank you, Zeus! My ankle is freed so I can barrel toward the surface.

  Except, I go under once more the moment I surface as a strong wave rolls over me. One, then two more bodies crash into the lagoon with us. I claw at the surface, gasping for air, my feet thrashing in an effort to stay away from the fingers that keep grazing them. It’s no good, though. No matter how hard I kick, no matter how much I try to push myself upwards, he manages to make repeated contact just long enough to keep me under. My air supply is rapidly dwindling.

  I’m going to drown.

  As terrified as I am, I’m somewhat comforted, too. Drowning is acceptable to a life with Poseidon. It’s bitterly ironic that I’d be dying in his element, but if the alternative is to give in to him, I’ll gladly take the irony. I won’t go down without a fight, though; chances are that if I let myself sink, he’ll manage to haul me back up. So I continue to struggle, letting more and more of my air bubble out of me.

  Within seconds, it’s all gone. The thrill of vicious victory suffuses me as I breathe in water. It floods my lungs, weighing me down.

  And just as I think death has come to meet me at last, strong arms reach down into the pool and pull me up into fresh air.

  I’m choking. More precisely, I’m vomiting up water and, well, vomit, too. I think Talos might be breaking some ribs as he hammers his sturdy hands down upon my chest. He’s also yelling something—the longest sentences I’ve ever heard him utter—in that language that seems prevalent in Olympus but foreign to my ears.

  In my waterlogged haze, I think: I ought to rectify that.

  Out of the corners of my bleary, stinging eyes I watch several Automatons hauling Poseidon out of the pool. He’s shouting my name, begging me to reassure him I’m okay, but they’ve got him firmly by the arms. I jerk backwards at the sight of him, at the sight of desperation and heartbreak in his eyes, but Talos quits his yelling and chest pumping long enough to say, “Have no fear.”

  Easy for him to say.

  He helps me up so I can bend over, expelling the rest of the water in my chest as he beats again my back. Poseidon fights against the Automatons, pleading over and over for me to answer him, and I dry heave into the grass. And then I hear Hades’ voice, and then Hermes’, thank the sweet stars above. As much as I want to stand up and throw myself into his arms, my legs totally give out on me until I’m lying in vomit-soaked grass. No matter. He comes to me, anyway, his arms pulling me into his body as I shiver uncontrollably.

  “Don’t you touch her, Hermes!” Poseidon’s words roar through the air, crashing over me until I feel like I’m in the lagoon, drowning again. “I will break every bone in your body if you do! You have no right!” Then, looking at me, “Medusa! Do not go with him, I’m begging you—please, sweet girl, just ... just let me explain!”

  As if he hasn’t heard a single threat Poseidon just issued, Hermes lifts me up in his arms as he stands up; I throw my arms around his neck, grateful he’s clutching me so closely. He doesn’t say anything, just strides away from the scene as two of the three most powerful gods in all of Olympus shout at and threaten one another. He doesn’t take us in, though; we skirt around the side, down a paved brick path buttressed with juniper trees until we reach the kitchen entrance to the villa. A large driveway opens up to it; several cars, including Talos’ limo sit out in front. Caterers dart in and out, resplendent in their white chef’s coats and hats, only to stop and stare when they catch sight of us. Hermes deftly sidesteps the gawkers until we come to a small, black sports car parked behind a catering van near the back. Still not saying anything, he gingerly sets me into the passenger seat, buckling my seatbelt for me and shutting the door before coming round to the driver’s side. He flips the shade down; keys fall into his waiting hand. The car roars to life, and before I can blink, he’s barreling down a driveway I’ve never been down before, and turning onto a street I’ve never seen.

  As we head around a corner, he adjusts the heat and then grabs my hand and squeezes. I’m alternating between shaking hard and shivering, my teeth clattering in the quiet car. But his touch is calming, and gives me enough strength to squeeze back.

  He does not let me go.

  We drive in silence for over an hour before new city lights spread out before us. Are we still in Olympus? Over the weeks, I’ve never thought to ask how Olympus works, or where it is even located on a map, if it is indeed located on such a thing. From what I saw, it looked like any other modern city—well, except the population, of course, and the hints of Greek culture in the architectural styles of certain buildings. But here we are, moving into what appears to be another city, a very different looking one than Olympus, and I have no idea where we are. I don’t bother asking Hermes, though. Every glance over at him shows me that he’s trying desperately to keep himself in control.

  It hurts to see him like this. It hurts more to know his pain and fury stem from what I’ve just gone through. He’s hurting because I’m hurting.

  After another half an hour of driving, Hermes turns into a residential area that reminds me in a small way of villages in fairy tales. Single story homes with moss covered, sharply steeped roofs covered are stacked next to each other with only small slivers of grass and riotous roses to separate them. He weaves in and out of the cobblestone streets in a maze until we finally come to a nondescript-whitewashed brick house with lilies of the valley growing like wild in front of large windows. The door to the garage opens the moment he turns into the driveway and closes the second he turns off the car.

  Where are we?

  And yet, he still doesn’t say anything. He gets out of the car and comes around to my side. I’m gently unbuckled and lifted out. A door located up a staircase over to the left of us opens, and there standing in the bright light is a short, stocky man. He steps to the side when Hermes and I pass, shutting and locking the door behind us.

  “Is everything taken care of?” Hermes asks as he carries me through a small kitchen and into a hallway.

  The middle-aged man trots around him and then jogs down the hallway until he gets to a closed door. “Yes, minn hirra.”

  I try to pinpoint his heavy accent—possibly Scandinavian in origin? I root through my catalogue of languages collected over the ages. Minn hirra ... hmm ... that’s Old Norse for my lord, I think? I glance around us, but nothing on the walls indicates a particular culture one way or another.

  He opens the door for us and stands to the side. Hermes sweeps past him and carefully sets me down on a bed covered with a patchwork bedspread and pushed up against one wall. He turns back towards the man and says, “Thank you, Amund. Please bring us some tea.” He glances at me. “And soup?”

  I swiftly shake my head. No food. Amund ... Amund. Yes. Definitely Norse.

  He turns back to the man. “Never mind. I’ll let you know if there’s anything we need.”

  “Yes, minn hirra.” Amund shuts the door; Hermes goes over and clicks the lock shut. Then he turns back toward me, the misery and fear in his bright blue eyes vividly piercing as they take me in. I don’t need to ask him what he’s thinking; it’s plain as day on his dear face.

  I don’t need his apologies. He has nothing to apologize for. What I need, though, is him. I open up my arms and he comes to me immediately, folding me up into him until I feel safe and the shudders lessen. Until I can breathe again.

  “Medusa ... love ...” His words are gentle, tremulous and yet are only masks for the rage I feel in his muscles. “Did he hurt you?”

  “He ...” I swallow hard, my throat and lungs still sore from all the water they suffered from tonight. “Nothing like before. I swear.”

  Every muscle in his body tenses as he struggles to pull in calming breaths.

  My skin still crawls with the lingering traces of Poseidon’s influence, and I hate it. I lick my dry lips and glance around the room; another door sits to the side. “I need ...” A shaky hand pushes still damp hair out of my eyes. “I need to get him off me. I want him off me.” Hysteria clamors back up my throat, sending me into another round of shaking. I wipe frantically at my arms, at my belly. “I—I need—”

  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He carries me over to the door, shoving it open with a foot. A quick flip of the switch reveals a small shower, toilet, and pedestal sink. I am relieved there is no tub.

  “Do you want me to wait in the other room?” His question is soft as he turns the water on.

  I shake my head. No. I don’t want to be left alone right now. I’m too afraid that I’ll let Poseidon isolate me once more. He did that before, and I’ll be damned if I let him do it again.

  Hermes is gentle as he helps me out of my damp clothes. I want to burn them; they are nothing more than reminders of Poseidon’s insane claims of ownership. He really believes he loves me. I’m sick to my stomach once more. So when I step into the shower, I tug at my love until he undresses and follows. It’s cramped, but I don’t care.

  I can’t let Poseidon’s touch stay on me a minute longer.

  This is love. This man here? This is real love, not that sick, warped whatever kind Poseidon thinks he has.

  My legs quiver, my stomach twists in ugly knots, but I tell Hermes, “Kiss me.”

  Hermes’ hand pauses midway in his reach for the soap; he stares down at me in concern. Am I acting crazy? Maybe. I don’t know how others survive moments like this. I wish I did. I wish I knew what was appropriate. Maybe some of them withdraw into themselves. Maybe some need to be around people right away. Most probably don’t jump right into sex after their attacker comes after them. But all I know is that I need the memory of that bastard’s hands to be obliterated. He cannot be allowed any control or influence over my body. His love cannot be the one I hold onto.

  My plea falls out of me, just as broken as I feel inside. “Hermes, please.”

  His hands cup my face as his mouth captures mine. His kiss is tender, like he’s trying to heal me. I love him for that, but right now, it’s not what I need. I need him to do more than help me heal. I need him to help me erase what’s just happened. I reach up and lock a hand around his neck, my tongue diving deep into his mouth; the other hand goes down to stroke him until he’s hard. It doesn’t take long, since my kiss and touch ignite him just as fast as his does me. “Dusa,” he whispers into my mouth, but no—no talk. Not now. Now has to be about new memories.

  I’m using him; I know I am. But I can’t help myself; I’ll die if I don’t wash this away.

  I let go of him long enough to snake his hand down my body, in between my legs. He needs no further encouragement. I collapse back against the cool tile behind us, letting the hot water burn away at the horror of the evening. Soon, I’m gasping into his mouth, writhing against his hand, and letting the passion his lips and touch bring incinerate the lingering vestiges on water-wrinkled fingers against my skin. I dissolve in his arms, crying out his name—so glad it’s his name that comes, and that it’s born from true love, not hate. But before I come completely down, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and lift myself so I can twist my legs around his waist. “Dusa ...” he tries again, voice hoarse in the steam around us, but right now, I need him in me. He’s hard—so hard it must be painful, so it doesn’t take much convincing for him to adjust me until I slide right over his need.

  My back hits the tile again; one leg slides down while he lifts the other up. I match him stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss, moan for moan until an orgasm swells once more inside me. And now it’s my name falling from his mouth as he breaks apart in my arms, and I hold that close.

 

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