6. Artemis
6 ARTEMIS
The three hosts of Olympus—Hades, Ares, Apollo—have not removed their masks.
I keep mine on, too, lingering in the shadows.
This back room, separate from the fighters’ area, is for the winners.
And one at a time, those winners are called forward to receive their prizes.
As is tradition, they offer favors.
All the fighters get paid, but the winners…
What was Saint planning to ask for?
Freedom from you , a little voice whispers.
I accept the blow and straighten.
Saint will just have to keep trying if that’s his aim.
There were four fights, and they’ve been receiving the winning fighters in reverse order.
Atlas and Hypnos are left, waiting in the hallway with a raven-masked man.
Another employee opens the door and ushers out the previous, who asked for help with his sick mother.
Getting her in to see a specialist.
Done , Apollo stated.
Atlas strides in and stops before them.
He’s changed his clothes.
His black dress shirt and pants
“Congratulations, visitor,” Ares says.
Wolfe . It’s sardonic, a tone I don’t quite expect from him.
Perhaps he’s feeling Saint’s loss as much as I am?
“For your win, you receive a favor,” Hades explains.
“If it’s in our power to grant it, it’s yours.”
Atlas inclines his chin.
“I want to know more about the woman behind us.”
There’s a breath of silence, no one moving or breathing, and then they all turn to me.
Me?
I glance around.
Of course he’s talking about me—I’m the only one here.
There was a time when the winners’ favors were heard aloud right after a fight.
When their wants and desires were laid out for the spectators to judge, as well.
Thank goodness that’s a thing of the past.
“You want to know more about her? You could just ask her out,” Hades murmurs.
“Why waste a favor?”
Atlas’s inky-black mask is still freaking me out, in the way that I want to touch it.
It hides so much of his face, it’s impossible to decipher who he is.
All I know is who he’s not.
“You better not mean in a sexual manner,” Apollo says stiffly.
“She is?—”
“Your twin,” Atlas finishes.
“Some things do translate. And I want for nothing else. I’m a mere spectator to the workings of Sterling Falls. You graciously allowed me to indulge here tonight. The only thing I wish to ask is that she stay with me for a full day.”
Shock.
Shock?
Yes, shock .
“It’s not our favor to grant,” Ares finally decides.
“Artemis?”
I catch his pointed look.
He wears red contacts at Olympus, and it seems to lend to his violent character.
And he’s translating that if it isn’t okay with me, they’ll go to pains to give him something else.
Or toss him over the cliffs.
But either way, the choice is mine.
Atlas faces me.
“Why?” I question.
“You intrigue me.”
I don’t like that answer.
“If it helps, I will stipulate that you won’t be harmed. I will not touch you. Not unless you ask me,” he adds with a wicked grin.
“And we will stay within the bounds of Sterling Falls.”
“In two days,” I find myself saying, although I don’t know why the hell I’d agree.
“Come back here at dawn.”
He nods.
“It’s a date.”
“It ends at sunset,” I add.
“A full day , as you said.”
“That is acceptable.” Atlas’s gaze lingers on me.
My brother’s jaw is clenched so tight, he might crack a tooth.
But it’s Hades who inclines his chin.
Atlas strides away without a word, and I lean back against the wall with a rushing exhale.
But there’s no true time to contemplate it, because Hypnos is the final winner to be received.
My muscles ache so deeply, even my bones protest. I want to slip away, but then he’s in front of them.
I stay close to the shadows.
“Hypnos,” Ares says.
“What favor do you seek? If it’s in our power, we will grant it.”
The fighter changed into an unassuming black sweatshirt and jeans, his hands in his pockets.
Like this, he looks…
almost normal. Like he didn’t take down one of Olympus’s best regular fighters.
It’s losses like this that bring Minos back .
But besides the somewhat normal clothes, he wears a full-face mask.
It’s black, although not as deep as Atlas’s.
It covers everything except his eyes and holes to breathe from his nose.
There’s a garish slash across the mouth area, too, and metal stitches seem to hold it closed.
Decoration.
Symbolic?
“I’ve been contemplating what favor to ask the mighty gods of Olympus,” Hypnos says.
I slowly stand straighter.
His voice… his voice scratches something in my brain, even muffled behind the mask.
“And what have you decided?” Apollo asks.
My gaze bounces between Hypnos and Hades.
The latter seems to be sharpening, his attention like the tip of a blade.
He senses something, too.
Hypnos lifts his chin.
“It’s in your power to grant it, but I fear you will turn me down anyway.”
Why does his voice sound so familiar?
And distant at the same time.
I forget Hades and stare at the side of Hypnos’s head, the black mask hiding his distinguishing features.
Even his lips and jaw are hidden.
“Ask,” Hades demands.
Hypnos points at them.
“I want ruin.”
Silence.
My breath is trapped in my lungs.
“War is coming to Sterling Falls,” Hypnos whispers.
“And I want everyone to fall .”
Hades makes some movement with his fingers, or maybe his foot.
I’ve never seen this version of an alarm.
But suddenly Hypnos is surrounded by raven-masked men who catch his arms and drag him away.
Not out the main door, but past them to the side.
Closer to me.
Hypnos’s bright gaze lands on me, and he laughs.
“There you are, Artemis. Sticking to the shadows like always.”
He’s not even struggling against the men, seemingly resigned to the fact that he’s being escorted none too gently to the exit.
His feet drag on the marble floor, and his eyes burn into me.
“Your demise will be the sweetest,” he promises.
“Always the hunter. But now, you will be the hunted.”
“Get him out ,” Apollo orders.
Hypnos laughs. It’s a laugh that seems to echo in my ears even after the doors slam behind him.
I rip my mask off and let out a shaky exhale.
I turn away from my brother and his friends, touching my cheeks.
They’re hot. My whole body is engulfed in flames.
“What the fuck was that?” Ares asks.
I glance over my shoulder.
They’ve removed their masks, too, exchanging dark looks.
I need to get out of here.
Haphazardly tying my mask back on, I shove out into the hallway and through the main corridor that leads along the fighting room to the front atrium.
The right side of the hall is open arches, revealing the now-empty platform.
Wonder where Saint slunk off to.
If he’s smart, he’ll be holed up here until my anger runs out.
Although I think it’ll stay fresh as a freaking daisy until my date with Atlas has passed.
I should’ve refused and had him thrown over the cliffs.
I’m not sure where Hypnos went either.
If they escorted him all the way to the edge of the property or threw him off the cliffs or simply let him walk away.
That alone gives me an extra boost of adrenaline slipping out of Olympus and hurrying to my car.
Nothing bad happens.
The wind tugs at my dress and mask, the ocean is a shush-shush noise far below the rocky cliffside, and I am alone.
Which is perfectly fine by me.
I glance back toward the door and spot Apollo.
He lifts one hand in a wave.
I grimace and wave back.
I guess I’m not truly alone.
My brother would never let anything bad happen to me, not if he could help it.
Which makes me think this date with Atlas will not be alone.
What makes it worse is that I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this.
In another lifetime, I’d call Nyx.
Or, better, she would’ve been beside me to witness it.
Instead, she’s six feet fucking under.
The drive home is routine.
I park in the garage, in my usual spot, and take the elevator to my floor.
My unit is locked, same as always, and the scrape of my key against the pins is better than any cheesy welcome mat.
And yet.
The moment I open the door, I register that Saint was not smart.
He came back to the condo, and he’s seated on his regular stool at the breakfast bar.
His dress shirt is unbuttoned.
His mask is on the counter, and he has a pack of peas—the same that hid the liquor just yesterday—pressed to his face.
That bottle is also present, along with a single glass.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s in poor taste to drink alone?”
Saint glances at me.
Jesus. His face is really fucked up.
I creep in closer for a better look, but he just turns away.
His cheekbone might be broken.
It’s definitely bruised and swelling—as well as the rest of him.
His skin is a patchwork of bruises and cuts and drying blood.
I circle around him, shaking my head.
Idiot , I want to say.
“You can’t judge me.” He squints.
“You know what’s coming up.”
I drag the bottle across the counter and take a sip.
“A lot of things are coming up, Saint.”
My birthday being one of them.
My past is another.
With a start, I realize I scheduled my “date” with Atlas—henceforth only referred to in quotes, the sham that it is—on my twenty-fifth birthday.
Stupid . And here I was, planning on hiding at Bow & Arrow or spending the day in bed.
At least I’ll be able to avoid the celebration that’s undoubtedly coming…
The chocolate cake that Antonio will be baking.
Apollo’s family will no doubt loop me into their celebrations, too.
Overall, not feeling great about this year.
Ten-year anniversary of being sold into a sex trafficking ring will do that to a girl.
“Elora’s death,” Saint spits.
I stop and stare at him.
Elora is Nyx’s real name.
He doesn’t call her Nyx anymore, not in private.
As painful as it is, I go right back to that day.
I wasn’t there—another thing he blames me for, I’m sure—but I remember it.
I can’t scrub it out of my head.
He’s watching me just as intently, and I hate it.
That his gaze catches everything, and the knowing sneer creeps across his face.
He’s realizing that I either forgot or blacked out the date, and now it’s another thing he can lord over me.
It’s not my fault I’ve been focused on other things.
I inch closer. “Speaking of Nyx.”
Saint’s brows lower.
“How do you think she’d feel about you living on the brink of death for a year ?”
I’m close enough to touch him, so I fucking do.
I press my finger into one of the bruises at his temple, pulling from him a long-overdue wince.
He catches my wrist. His hand, like his gaze, is a furnace.
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what, Saint? Don’t hold a mirror up so you can see how ridiculous you look?”
He rises.
He’s still got hold of my wrist, and he turns us so I’m between the counter and him.
“Ridiculous? How about you, Artemis? When you fight and come back covered in bruises, you don’t find me touching all your sore spots.”
“Well, Saint, maybe I want you to.”
My throat closes.
I didn’t mean to say that.
I didn’t mean to admit that I’ve been sorely deprived of touch in the last year—through his fault or mine, I’m not sure.
It’s not like I was dating anyone.
Flirting with men isn’t the same as being cared for by them.
“Maybe I want someone to fucking care,” I admit softer, twisting my wrist until his grip loosens.
“ Maybe I’ve just been languishing in this fucking town. I’ve had to watch you spiral like a sad little balloon, and I’m the sucker trying to keep you afloat. It’s consuming my life.”
“Shut up.”
“She’s not coming back.” Going all in on the hate today, Tem .
“Nyx is dead and buried, and you’re acting like she gives a shit about anything that happens here.”
“Artemis,” he warns.
I scoot to the side, and his hand on my hip stops me.
“She’s dead,” I repeat.
“She’s not coming back. She’s not going to storm in through the door?—”
“God, shut up .” He covers my mouth with his other hand.
Another point of contact.
His palm is warm and dry against my lips.
Calloused in spots. His focus, though, is on my hip.
The hand there that slowly bunches up the fabric of my dress.
Until it’s all the way up, and his fingers dig into my bare skin.
“Do you like walking around in these dresses?” He hums. “They show off so much of your goddamned legs, it drives me insane. You drive me insane. You’re so different from her, a glowing beacon in the dark, and I just want to smother you.”
My heart hammers, but I’m caught in a moment of trying to figure out what he means.
And what I want.
His touch is drawing out a fire in me, and I can’t tell if it’s a good or bad thing.
Maybe that’s why, when he turns me around, I move willingly.
I catch the edge of the counter, although he pushes my head down anyway.
My cheek touches the cool surface.
I’ve been in this position before, a thousand times in different places, with different men groping at me and taking without asking, but this is unusual.
My body is practically vibrating with the way I need someone to touch me.
The bottle of scotch is inches from my nose.
And when Saint shoves my dress up and my panties down, I don’t tell him no.
If this is how he wants to cope, fine.
The battle of my own will is raging in my head.
That this is wrong and inevitable at the same time.
That this moment has been coming for months.
Didn’t I say I was the only one he couldn’t hate-fuck his emotions out on?
I’m a big, fat liar .
The zip of his pants opening is loud in my ears.
And then something touches me—a finger between my legs?
—drawing through the heat that’s been pooled there since we first started arguing.
Sue me. My relationship with sex is fucked up and twisted, and for once I’m not running away from it.
“You disgust me,” Saint whispers.
I make a noise. I don’t mean to, but one minute my throat is locked and the next a low whine comes out.
I jerk, embarrassment flaming my cheeks, but there’s nowhere to go.
So instead, I lean into the uncomfortable bits.
The way the counter digs into my hips, my toes stretching down to remain in contact with the floor.
His finger slides into me.
Just one exploratory digit, and then it’s gone.
He kicks my legs wider, and then something bigger is pressed to my slit.
It hurts when he pushes in.
I close my eyes and breathe through the pain, but it just keeps washing over me with every millimeter.
Until he’s fully seated inside me, and I don’t really know if I can breathe.
All I know is that I deserve this kind of pain.
I relish it, welcome it.
But I hope it hurts him, too.
That this is the kind of agony he needs instead of fighting at Olympus—that this satisfies something more.
He barely waits for me to adjust. His hips jack, and his dick slides almost all the way out.
Then he shoves back in.
I grip the counter and let him punish me for this latest transgression.
The fight at Olympus wasn’t enough.
Bending me over the kitchen counter might not be enough.
“Harder,” I snap.
“Slut,” he replies.
“You’re a fucking whore for my cock.”
“Yeah.” My voice wobbles as he hits my G-spot.
“What else?”
Rough memories grasp at me, dirty-fingered things that threaten to throw me back into Terror, but I force myself to remember who put me in this position.
It’s his voice, his cold voice, that drags me back to the present.
“I hate you,” he mutters.
“You’re sure acting like it.”
He growls and pulls out.
There’s an immediate ache of emptiness between my legs, but he spins me around and lifts me onto the counter.
My bare ass barely makes contact before he’s right back in position, thrusting into me.
This time looking me in the face.
I keep my gaze on his parted lips.
Eye contact seems forbidden and dangerous.
The tattoos on his neck, the dragon tail curling over his shoulder, move with every flex of his muscle.
My attention wanders down his throat, to his chest. The seared brand dead center, the scar disfiguring the tattoos underneath.
The galaxy over his heart that represents his lost love.
Lower.
He grips my hair and tugs my head back suddenly, so I can’t even see if his cock is tattooed.
I look down my nose and stare at his face.
The pain in my scalp and between my legs is wicked.
I wrap my legs around his hips, digging my heels into his ass.
“You’re the absolute worst,” I say to him.
Or the ceiling. The pressure on my scalp is, surprisingly, keeping me grounded.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had sex since…
before . When sex was a negative connotation.
In the decade since, I’ve learned a lot about myself.
Shed the view that it’s all bad, that I’m a dirty creature…
although here Saint is, telling me everything bad about myself.
And I don’t mind it.
He’s not gentle, he’s not tiptoeing around my trauma.
I think I like it…
He grunts.
“You’re a parasite,” I breathe, although it’s more of a moan.
“You come into my home and keep terrorizing me.”
He runs a finger over my clit, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I focus on the stupid recessed light above me and try not to actively groan.
He’s working wonders on me, eliciting pleasure when I’m pretty sure all I deserve is pain.
Especially from him.
The dichotomy is going to ruin me.
“Am I terrorizing you now?”
He’s more of a mess than I am, darkened skin around his eyes, his face swelling.
And he never stops moving, like fucking me is just something his body needs.
“Ask me in five minutes,” I manage.
He presses on my clit again, rubbing the little bud until my mouth gapes open and pleasure zings through me like a lightning bolt.
“You think this is going to take that long?”
There’s a flush making its way up his neck.
He plays me with expertise.
I blame my lack of sexual activity lately, but I come on his fingers and cock too fast, and every moment of it feels like watching a train wreck.
I imagine if someone were to shove me off a cliff, instead of just jumping, that’s what this would be like.
It’s the surprise of it more than anything.
My back arches, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the feeling.
He grunts again, although it’s very pointedly fucking snobby.
Just when I think he’s going to come inside me, he pulls out and fists his length.
It is tattooed. I catch a glimpse of it through his fingers, the head red and wet with my arousal.
Fuck me, that’s hot.
Three jerks later, and his cock erupts.
It hits my still-throbbing core, the insides of my thighs.
We’re both breathing hard.
In the silence, my mind comes back to me.
I didn’t just have sex—which is not the problem.
It’s that I finally broke and fucked Saint Hart .
My skin crawls.
When he comes back to the present, he meets my gaze.
He’s equally horrified.