Chapter 4
Sebastian
This was fucking torture.
Actual, mind-numbing, agonizing torture.
I’d have preferred Adrian put his kingly fucking foot down and demand that I rot in a cell for the rest of my life. Or say fuck it and put a knife through my chest and deal with the issue of my heirs after the fact.
Actually, I could come up with a whole list of things that would be less painful than this. In the hours that I was left alone, dragging through the last days of this solitary confinement, I’d crafted scenario after scenario that I’d rather suffer through.
Starvation, which I’d attempted. The world could burn in my absence for all I cared.
An arrow to the dick.
Flaying my skin from my body.
Shoving my head underwater until I was close to drowning.
Letting a hawk or an eagle or some other pecky bird go at my liver until I was bleeding out and dying—Prometheus’ original brand of torture.
Anything besides being trapped in a cage and forced to listen to Persy try to talk to me.
Her resilience was fucking irritating.
Most—sane—people would have let me rot by now, would have taken my obvious disdain at face value and run for the hills.
But not Persy. No, no, that little ball of sunshine just kept appearing at my cell, as constant as the rise of the morning sun.
And now she’d escalated to visiting twice a day.
This morning she’d been the person to hand-deliver my breakfast. If having to eat something that she had her elegant, sculpted hands all over wasn’t bad enough, she’d arrived balancing two trays on her forearms and demanded I help her again.
When I’d tried to throw her words back at her and mention that the iron bars were capable of holding a coffee mug, so a tray would be just fine, she just blinked at me and responded, “The tray is bigger. I would really appreciate it if you helped.”
If she had just demanded that I help her, I would have dragged my ass off the bed and taken the trays out of her arms, especially since they looked heavy. But then she just had to go and state that she’d appreciate if I helped her.
I clamped down on my jaw, telling myself not to get off the bed and help her. The bed was comfortable, as she’d promised. I was sure she expected me to thank her for that small kindness.
That wasn’t happening.
Persy just stared at me, waiting for me to come help her. I stared back, content to watch the clouds in her gray eyes shift. I doubted anyone had ever truly appreciated how spectacular her eyes were.
Not because I cared, but because most people couldn’t form an appropriate description if their fucking life was on the line.
I, however, was innately good at descriptions. And her eyes were like large, ominous gray clouds collecting over a pale blue, late afternoon sky. They held the promise of a night-time storm that would shower down rain and hide the moon. And if that wasn’t enough, there was a hint of light gray, almost white, in her left eye. It was like the sun reflecting off the clouds, breaking through the storm in a beacon of white brilliance, reminding you that there was still light behind all that darkness.
That was how you described her eyes. Not a basic fucking answer like gray.
And those storm clouds rumbled when she realized I wasn’t moving. “Please, Sebastian.”
I was standing a second later.
And I was in front of her before my mind could stop me and remind myself that I would have been happier flattening myself to the back wall of the cell than willingly put myself within two feet of her.
Yet, here I was, standing mere inches away from her. Enough to smell the sweet, but rich perfume wafting off her body. Enough to make her tip her head back.
I was used to people shying away from me. Whether it was my height or my power, whenever people came close and realized that both of those eclipsed them beyond measure, they’d normally shrink away. Or preen, trying to prove they were strong. Plenty of men went that route.
Persy did neither. There was a disturbing lack of emotion on her face, apart from the expectant look she was giving me.
She needed to be careful with that look. If she turned that on anyone else, they’d probably mistake that for an invitation to kiss her.
I didn’t. She was simply waiting for me to show a shred of human decency. She’d be waiting forever for that one.
I glanced down at her arms, finding her biceps pushing lightly up against her skin. She wasn’t straining, or maybe she was and was just good at hiding it, but the trays were weighing on her arms nonetheless.
I might not be a nice person, but I still had some fucking decorum. Grabbing the trays from her hands and carefully avoiding a brush with her fingers, I turned away from her, keeping my focus away until I heard the click of the lock close.
That lock was some type of ancient torture device, courtesy of the earliest guardians of Prometheus who focused on punishment. Because every damn time Persy insisted on bothering me, she willingly let that lock draw blood from her finger just to step inside this cage with me.
Persy clearly had lightning fast reflexes because before I could blink, she’d dragged that stool she normally sat on to the foot of the bed and took a seat, motioning for me to hand her the food.
The only reason I didn’t insist on standing at the far corner of the cell was because my legs were—though I would never admit it to Persy, lest she look too happy—rather stiff from lack of use.
Maybe along with whatever other torture she had planned for me after this little stint, she’d be graceful enough to allow me time to workout. Actually, that was a stupid fucking thought. She’d probably let me as long as I said thank you.
“I have a question for you,” Persy said when I took a seat at the far end of the bed, knocking the pillow out of the way.
I lifted one eyebrow, letting that speak for me. Most would have turned away from that look. Persy took it as invitation. “What part of your power do you like the most?”
“If I was content with my power, I wouldn’t have tried to steal your brother’s, now, would I?” It felt imperative to remind her what I did to land myself here. To communicate how little remorse I had for trying to cement Apollo as the rightful connector between the Roman and Greek lines.
I had … some people might call it regrets about the way everything played out. I chose to call them inadequacies. Harming people physically felt unnecessary when threats and manipulation worked just fine.
Especially when there was no use for the physical harm. No need for an arrow to pierce anyone’s stomach.
“That’s not what I meant,” Persy said, completely unapologetic. She picked up a fork and knife and started cutting into the omelet on her plate. Did she not know it wasn’t wise to put a weapon near me or did she just not care?
Regardless, I grabbed my fork and used it to cut my own eggs, trying to ignore how good they smelled. The “chef” she had defended, asking me in that sweet voice of hers to eat the food, was unfortunately an excellent cook.
“I am curious which craft under your power you prefer the most,” Persy clarified, her head tilted in interest. “You have so much. All of the arts, medicine, music, archery, and light—though I guess light isn’t really a craft, but that’s fine if that’s your answer.”
There was an answer to her question, but I wasn’t going to say it. I hadn’t even picked up a—
“I’d assume it’s painting. Or physical forms of art in general. You used to have paint on your hands quite often, but I haven’t noticed that in a while. Did you stop painting or did you find another medium you prefer?”
What. The. Fuck.
“Paid close attention to me, did you, love?” I said, my voice hoarse and barely on the right side of sarcastic. Dangerously close to earnest.
Persy blinked at me once. “Yes.” Then something happened to her face. There was a flash of panic, so quick that anyone who wasn’t staring directly would have missed it. Then her mouth opened, the way it does when you speak before thinking. “Well, not you specifically, it’s just that I notice that stuff with—”
“Yes, it’s painting.” I wasn’t sure whether I cut her off because I wanted to preserve the idea that she only noticed it because it was me or because her voice had wavered. Both were fucking inappropriate.
Let alone the fact that I answered her ridiculous, invasive question. It was of no consequence that it was objectively a perfectly normal thing to ask.
Persy smiled and it carried a note of relief that made me want to throw the tray against the wall. “Oil? Watercolor?”
“Oil.” I was losing my fucking mind.
Persy nodded, resolute. “Great. Thank you. Do you have a favorite painting?”
“It would be rude of me to choose. I’m supposed to stay neutral.” And since when did I give a fuck about whether or not I was rude?
Persy hummed, a rumbling sound in the back of her throat that I sure as shit never wanted to have to hear again. “That conviction is probably why you are so well-liked.”
It was barely a compliment, more of a fact than anything, but I still felt her words straight in my chest.
So this was how she fixed people, huh? Buttered them up until they were forced to bend to her will and repent for their sins.
“But do you?” Persy pressed. Her resilience was astounding. “Have a favorite painting?”
I wasn’t ever going to answer that, because she’d read far too much into it, chattering on about the Fates or some shit like that. “Anything painted by a former Apollo.”
Persy rested her chin in her hand, her elbow braced on the foot of my bed. I would be grateful to be rid of this fucking thing. “I don’t believe you.” Before I could even begin to respond to that, she was already barreling ahead to the next topic. “I don’t think I have a favorite painting, but that’s the truth. I just think they are all unique in their own right. Now, I do have a favorite sculpture. It’s…”
Persy continued to talk about her favorite art pieces scattered about the Mediterranean until her food was finished and I’d picked through all that my stomach could handle. I’d lost track of how many responses she’d pried from my throat, but she seemed content to talk, so long as I listened, without much from me.
It was torture, but torture I could endure.
By the time she excused herself to go about the rest of her day, I was fucking exhausted. I just prayed that was enough for the week.
She was back at my cell by dinner.