Chapter 11 The Dragon
THE DRAGON
ACHILLES: ONE MINUTE EARLIER
Fyodor Dostoevsky once said, “Above all, don’t lie to yourself.”
Did he know what this moment feels like?
He couldn’t have.
Only Kronos himself could understand the terror ripping through my chest.
In the middle of a decrepit city street, Titans with wings—when did that happen?—stalked past me as the man who owned my soul lay broken and bleeding, his neck bent at an unnatural angle.
For the smallest second, I glanced away from Patro.
Alexis, the girl we were supposed to protect, was staring at me with a resigned heaviness reserved for Sisyphus himself.
There was no hope in her two-colored eyes, just acceptance.
My psyche was disintegrating.
I turned back to Patro, unable to look anywhere but at his ruined body.
Leather chafed against my jaw as I tried to open my mouth and scream.
My jaw cracked as the material refused to budge.
The fucking muzzle had enough give so I could eat or smoke, but not enough that I could unleash my powers.
If I could use my Kronos-given talent, the Titans would be handled. Easily.
But the federation had neutered me.
They’d damned me to this misery.
I’d never regretted anything more than taking the Spartan oath not to take it off. Oaths, like protector bonds, were forever.
A lifetime of imprisonment in the Underworld would have been preferable to this torment.
Seconds were bleeding out around me.
There wasn’t time.
Patro’s chest wasn’t moving.
Spartans could survive extreme physical damage, but we weren’t invincible. If his spinal cord was severed, lungs punctured, blood pooling internally, he could fall into a perpetual coma.
If Patro perished, so would I, as I refused to exist in a world that didn’t have him in it.
He was the reason I woke up, the reason I bothered to breathe, the source of any joy I’d ever found in this miserable wasteland of a civilization. He was my beating heart.
Time seemed to slow.
Both Titans paused mid-step.
Alexis’s curls stilled around her face.
Falling bricks hung suspended in the air above Patro’s body.
Everything funneled down to this moment as my thoughts raced.
Patro was obsessed with claiming Alexis; the girl standing in the middle of the street in imminent danger.
She’d lived with us for months—she fit—she didn’t disrupt the obsession, the devotion we had for each other.
He thought she could become more to us, and he just wanted a chance for us to have the happy ending Sparta didn’t want us to have.
But Augustus and Kharon were unyielding.
And they’d claimed her first.
Now Patro was having nightmares again. He was unraveling, and I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t give him what he wanted—her.
My madness was rising in response.
Dark possessive inclinations pounded through my soul. The urge to lock Patro away and keep him safe from all harm was becoming harder to ignore.
The passion—the possessive rage of the House of Ares—seethed inside of me, day and night. I tried to hide the feelings, but they wouldn’t stay buried.
How Augustus maintained his facade was beyond me. To the world, he was calm, stoic.
I still remembered how Augustus had sobbed, spit falling from his lips, tears dripping from his eyes, as he screamed in agony while Ares slashed his face with a poisoned Vulcan blade, the metal forged to scar immortals.
Growing up, Augustus could never hide his madness.
I was made in his shadow, and I followed his example.
But somewhere along the way, Augustus started hiding his wrath, and I stopped being able to contain mine.
Now I had a decision to make. Patro would want me to help Alexis, he was convinced she was our salvation. I cared for her; I did.
Do not lie to yourself.
What I felt for Patro was unfathomable.
Maybe in the future I could care enough for Alexis, but not now.
There was no choice. Not if I was an honest man.
The Titans screeched, heads turning, as everything snapped back into motion.
I sprinted, kneeling over Patro protectively as I fired at the Titans.
You’re losing time. Stop pretending.
I threw the weapons down with disgust.
As gently as possible, I picked up Patro’s ruined body.
Alexis was running away, glancing back over her shoulder.
I expected tears, a look of betrayal.
Her expression was blank.
The acceptance on her face was worse than anything I could have ever imagined. She understood—she saw my ruined soul better than I did.
She was running for her life, abandoned by the mentors who were supposed to shield her from harm, but she was strong, she’d be fine.
You’re a dishonest man.
It was an unadulterated lie.
Domus.
I was so powerful I didn’t need to say the word aloud to leap away.
Rome disappeared, replaced with sterile white walls and medical equipment covered in the symbol of Spartan healing, a staff with wings—the Rod of Asclepius.
Tenderly, I laid Patro down on a gurney.
Alexis had just learned the harshest truth of all.
Agony had a second name—Chthonic.
Either we were the loneliest beings on earth, or we loved obsessively, with our entire soul.
Complete devotion or nothing.
There was no in-between.
Dostoevsky was wrong; it was not the liar who suffered, but the man who accepted the truth. No one else could know such damnation.
Olympian doctors swarmed around Patro, and I fell to my knees beside his hospital bed.
Head bowed. Hands clasped together. Tears streamed down my muzzle as I prayed to Kronos for the life of the man who owned my soul.
And the woman I’d left behind.