Chapter Fifteen
As promised, Dominic appears outside my dorm’s building on the Wednesday immediately following our trip to Themis. I’m not sure how long he waited here just to accost me after class, but his gravelly voice once again drifts out from a corner of the shadowed portico the moment I step past its threshold.
“Librarian.”
My spine snaps straight.
“Dominic,” I reply saccharinely. “Please call me Sabine while I’m on school grounds.”
When he moves into the low light, he throws me a pointed look that tells me exactly where I can politely store my request. That has me sighing through my nose because who am I to argue the finer points of endangering my closely protected identity with the Gray Man’s Second-in-command?
“How can I help you?”
And why couldn’t this have been a phone call?
Or better yet, an email.
“Haven’t received the Symposium report yet,” he grits, sucking on his teeth in consternation. His expression— as always —is hard and cold like a sheet of granite. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find him moonlighting as one of the gargoyles that line the buttresses of some of the Academy’s older buildings.
My eyebrows jump before I can catch them. “Because it’s only been three days , Dominic. There were over 2800 people to sort through.”
As soon as the words pass my lips, I purse them, knowing I should probably retry that. He may not hold a candle to Sebastian’s cruelty, but he is the only person with a direct line to our boss. Even his fellow Councillors must go through him first. If I piss him off, there’s every chance he’ll shoot me straight to the top of the shitpile for punishment.
Wouldn’t be the first time, either.
“Sorry,” I amend, attempting to at least sound contrite. “He’s always given me as much time as I needed. I usually need at least a couple of months to collate and crosscheck, and this year, I have to juggle schoolwork, recruiting, and now training up the Rox Boys on top of that.”
Casually slipping his hands into his pockets, he tilts his head, staring me down for a long minute. Dominic Licata could hold a master class on carving expressions into stone, and the look he shoots me this time is also just as plain to read. Because you were still in his good books then , the look says.
“You were told I was coming today. The Labors are about to begin. We need those names and details.”
“I understand,” I reply, so sweetly my teeth hurt. “But I thought you were coming to discuss the Labors themselves. I need more time for the report. He needs me free for the trials, doesn’t he? Give me two months, please.”
“One month.”
“Six weeks for the full report. And as soon as they announce the Crown contenders, I’ll prepare a preliminary workup of their attendance on the night.”
It’s an edge the other participants won’t have. If a Southern member managed to score an invitation to the exclusive party, chances are they’ll be involved with the Labors in some capacity. It might give us clues about possible trades and alliances based on who they each spent time with over the course of the evening.
My mind flashes with images of Smiley making nice with his rival Irishmen, and Trick chatting with one of the Four Horsemen.
It’s a tangled fucking web, with hundreds of possible connections. A mess I could rightfully be sifting through for years. But I don’t have years. Not even months. Weeks , if I’m lucky.
He clucks his tongue, but then reluctantly, he nods. Once. “Six weeks. Jackson has our skeleton plan for the Labors.”
I do my best to keep my expression nonchalant. “He’s staying in Roxborough?”
“He’ll be staying with the rest of the Juniors for the duration of the Labors. Easier to have you all in one place for Herald broadcasts.”
Translation: Easier to keep an eye on you all .
Not that I doubted for a second that the Suits would be throwing their name in the hat, but I guess that’s my actual confirmation. It almost seems a little unreal, though. After so much time spent scheming behind the scenes, hoping to clear the Southern chessboard for himself, Sebastian now has to execute his bid for the Crown through official channels instead.
I’d say it’s kismet , but we all know that none of us are that lucky.
“Okay, I’ll get myself caught up.”
“Herald said the First Labor goes out after the roster, so anticipate starting Sunday evening.”
I nod.
“Six weeks, and get the Southern challengers to me as soon as possible. I’ll go through Jackson for handling each of the trials as they come in.”
“Yep, of course,” I agree evenly. You won’t ever catch me arguing against having Zeus as another Gray Man buffer.
“ And remember, Librarian, you do still need to sort out the Academy before the end of the school year.” His voice grates against my eardrums.
“Yep.” Like I could fucking forget. They’ll be needing fresh meat more than ever now. I ignore the deliberate use of my designation this time.
And then, without another word, he slips back under the shadowed cover of the building and is gone. I stand frozen in place for at least another five minutes, listening for returning footsteps. When I’m satisfied he’s not coming back, I yank out my phone.
“Are you alright?” Zeus’s soothing baritone floats through the receiver and wraps around my tense shoulders like a warm blanket. I haven’t seen him since Monday morning, since we were unceremoniously shipped back to Roxborough via private jet escort. But just the knowledge that he’s still here cleanses some of the horrid taste that Dominic’s visit left in my mouth.
No, I thought your father was going to change his mind and have Dominic dump you back in Lexington, after all.
Or at the bottom of the Tethys River.
“Dominic just left,” I say instead.
“I told him I was running point, that I would handle the trials,” he grinds out.
“I know, but he wanted my report from Sunday. Like, yesterday.”
“ Jesus ,” he mutters under his breath. “Those lists take months to put together.”
“I know! I told him I would try and at least get the bigger players done once we knew more about the contenders,” I continue, my gaze following a rather large crack that’s spidering through one of the bricks at my eye level.
“Sabe—” Zeus starts, almost hesitantly.
My skin prickles in warning. “What?”
He sighs. “There won’t be an official roster until Sunday when the seven days are up...but Dominic has informed me Sinclair was nominated to enter on behalf of the Gray Men. As one of two formally sanctioned heirs.”
“ What?” I suck in a breath. Foreign wisps of protectiveness lick around my ribs. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Wait, Dominic informed you?”
“Dominic,” he confirms, a bitterness creeping into the fringes of his voice. “I’ve not heard a single word from Sebastian since Sunday’s dinner. Apparently, informing your only known heir that you fathered a secret child eighteen years ago was a task so beneath the Gray Man that it was best left to his Second.”
I rub a knuckle across my sternum, feeling a sudden kinship with the fissured wall in front of me.
Because what do you even say to that?
“I’m…sorry, Jax. He didn’t mention anything just now.”
“Probably figured you’d just hear it from me,” he grouses. “Didn’t offer any proof either, just informed me that we’d be expected to work together and that my Crew had to cover him like we would the Codex .”
Wow. I love that’s what we’ve both been reduced to: the disposable son and a useful tool. Whose worth only extends as far as their submission.
“Always such an ego boost,” I mutter, some of the same bitterness threatening to ruin the sharp lines of my sarcasm. “Does Apollo know yet?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Did Miller say anything to you?”
“Miller?” I choke out.
Fuck, did D ? —
“He tells me everything. You should really know that by now,” comes Zeus’s terse reply. I can’t read that particular tone of his, though.
Is he disappointed?
“Go and find him. We need to prepare for Sunday.”
Room assignments for the upcoming academic year aren’t locked in until the very night before the September semester begins. That meant starting my first day at Rox Academy with a few small holes in my student data, and so when I passed Apollo in the hallway that first morning, I’d mistakenly assumed it was because he was one of my new neighbors.
When we did get a hold of the finalized dorm numbers, and I was able to update each of the student dossiers with their assigned rooms, I discovered that Tristan Sinclair did, in fact, not live on that floor.
He didn’t even live in the building .
Turns out the Rox Boys all share a communal apartment only available in the cluster of carefully restored buildings across campus. One of the larger buildings that Foster had unfortunately been unable to work his magic on and have me assigned to.
But I’m totally, completely not green-eyed over the gorgeous Gothic mansion in which they get to lay their heads at night— or the fact the doorframe I’d seen him leaning against had actually belonged to one Sloane Walker.
Jealousy?
Nope.
Never met her.
Hypocrisy, on the other hand—that’s a witch I know well, as any Imperium woman does. Like Apollo calling me out for my ‘overnight guest’ while in the middle of his own walk of shame ?
Men.
They’re just as good at getting on my nerves as these motherfucking pins in this motherfucking lock.
Christ, do I hate the new mechanisms on these fancy modern doors. Why would anyone upgrade a heritage building’s perfectly beautiful, perfectly pickable, vintage hardware?
Knowing every single one of the Boys had a free period right now, I’d expected at least one of them to be in. But after my knocking went unanswered, I’d decided I wasn’t going to pass up a perfectly good opportunity to snoop on my new teammates.
Unfortunately, it looks as though they’ve had a custom lock put in because my duped master key hadn’t worked at all. Hence the heavy make-out session that’s been happening between my toolkit and the Boy’s front door.
“Haven’t already spent enough time on your knees for the Rox Boys, Winters?” a masculine voice sneers from somewhere directly behind me.
Leo.
My picks dig into my palms as I spin in place. Fuck him for sneaking up on me, but also fuck him if he thinks I’m going to sit here and let him slut shame me. “Jesus, Baker, put a bell on that pretty little Aces collar of yours, would you?”
The thundercloud covering the handsome footballer’s face darkens even further. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You don’t think I clocked you with those two Clubs back at the Guardhouse?” I smirk up at him, watching as his lip curls. He looks freshly showered, wet hair combed back and his gym bag still slung over his shoulder. The Titans would have just finished practice.
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”
Leo shifts so he can cross his arms. He could really take some notes from Ares, though; the move isn’t as intimidating as he thinks it is. But where in the hell did this new backbone come from? Surely not from being what equates to a Strange Aces errand boy.
Maybe I just added a little too much chocolate syrup to that vanilla milkshake of his.
“Huh, nope ,” I drawl, turning back around to my task. “I just don’t double dip.”
“You know Sinclair’s not as perfect as he likes everybody to think. There’s going to be hell to pay for breaking into their room,” he grits out.
My eyebrows rise, as I pretend to study the lock. “Oh, I’m counting on it. Are you going to be the one to tell him, Leon?”
“You should have taken my help,” he spits, the frustration when all he gets is more of my back so evident that it has a small grin tugging up the side of my lips.
“Still think I’m going to have to pass on that,” I say. My tools stay poised against the strike plate, making no moves to go further. I don’t want to risk the linebacker trying to follow me inside if I somehow manage to conquer these pins while he’s standing in my blind spot.
There’s a beat of silence. “ Fine , guess I’ll just thank you for popping my slum cherry, then,” he snickers cruelly.
Oh, because what’s more important to the student elite than their reputation? And how devastating to be not only labeled a whore, but a low-class whore.
Lucifer should really save on an eternity of whips and chains and just send everybody back to high school.
“Nice. So your game’s weak both on and off the field,” I observe, blithely.
“ Fucking bitch, ” he hisses under his breath, prompting me to turn back to him with lips slightly parted. Before I can respond, he spins around and shoves a key into the door behind him. The second it gives way, he shoulders angrily through the doorframe, taking great pains to slam it shut so loudly it rattles.
I then spend several more frustrating minutes—both trying to brute force my way inside and to reconcile the sinister promise in Leo’s flashing brown eyes with the shy golden retriever I seduced last week. When I’m finally able to stagger to my feet and push open the door, it’s with bruised kneecaps and a throbbing headache at the base of my skull.
From the floor plan, I know that each bedroom occupies one corner of a long, rectangular space, opening directly into a large communal living area. The kitchen and lounge themselves are similar in design to my own; both clean and rigid in their industrial minimalism.
Running a finger along the top of the massive TV screen, I snort when it comes away clean. It’s completely spotless in here, and I can’t help but wonder who exactly’s to thank for that. What it must be like for the pristinely pressed Head Prefect of Rox Academy to share a space with Hermes, who moves through life like his only mode is Mayhem .
Standing in the middle of the living area, I study each of the closed doors. What the floor plan couldn’t tell me, of course, was who slept where .
Behind Door Number One is a basic Rox Academy dorm setup of double bed, standing closet, and desk. One wall is taken up entirely by a large window seat that overlooks the Academy grounds. The opposite wall houses another closed door, which—from its positioning—should lead to one of the Jack-and-Jill style bathrooms that bridge each pair of rooms.
This particular bedroom is utilitarian in its decor; sparse, with only a few soft blues and dove grays among the charcoals for color. The bed’s been made with painful, military precision, and the desk is almost completely bare of objects.
My eyes snag on the stack of pre-med textbooks.
Apollo.
“ Yahtzee ,” I crow, striding quickly across to the desk. Even before this paternity bombshell, he was their self-appointed leader. If they kept any records pertaining to their alliance in the Underworld—his room would be the perfect place to start.
I slide open the top drawer as carefully as I can, so as not to shift the contents inside. I doubt the Boys would go so far as to dust for prints, but they’d certainly noticed their shit being moved around. Inside are the usual homework suspects. Notebooks, stationary. A printed copy of this semester’s timetable.
But at the very back of the drawer, tucked behind a leather pencil case, sits a nondescript ring box.
My neck prickles as I reach for it.
A ring? For who?
Sloane?
Just as my fingers brush its velvet sides, however, I’m frozen by the distinct sound of a key turning in the front door lock. My eyes dart toward the bedroom door that’s now sitting ajar.
Fuck. Maybe I should have sent a text after they didn’t answer the door.
“Does this look like it’s been tampered with to you?” Apollo’s voice filters through the open floor apartment, a frown evident in his tone.
My fingers fly back to the sides of the open drawer, trying to lift it just slightly off its tracks, the goal being to slide it home as silently as possible. I curse inwardly when it doesn’t budge.
It’s Hermes’s voice that answers back, but it sounds forced with false humor. “Hmm, maybe? I was pretty wasted getting back on Saturday, I could have scratched it up then. You had to come let me in, remember?”
I pause, hearing that. I’d already come face-to-face with the aftereffects of my dumping him—when he’d turned up at my door at the Delphi. But the knowledge that he went out and got wasted because of it drops down like a jagged stone in the pit of my stomach.
“Don’t remind me,” Apollo replies darkly. “I was the one who had to clean the bathroom.”
My eyes slide over to the ensuite, wondering briefly if that means the two of them share. Swallowing, they slide back to the open drawer in front of me. He sounds pissed , and that’s someone he practically considers a brother. Something tells me he’s not about to roll out the red carpet for the veritable stranger who’s broken into his room with the express purpose of touching all his things.
“Yeah, because you’re always so good to me ,” Hermes’s voice teases again, only this time in much more honeyed tones. “Always cleaning up after us, and solving all our problems.”
My lips part. Woah.
There’s a pause, and my ears strain desperately.
“How about you let me solve at least this problem for you?”
A muffled grunt, and then, “ Mmm .”
Holy shit.
Slipping off my heels, I tiptoe as quickly as I can on socked feet toward the entrance to Apollo’s bedroom. I ease my phone out, opening up the selfie camera. And when I crouch down and angle it carefully around the bottom of the door, it gives me an inverted but unobstructed view of the source of those heated sounds.
A shirtless Hermes in profile—as he kneels between Apollo’s splayed thighs, his hand stroking lovingly over the sizable bulge in his best friend’s sweatpants.
Oh, good. God. Damn .
Voyeurism kink activated.
The two look as though they’ve come straight home from an intense workout, deliciously rumpled with their matching Academy track clothes and sweat-slicked hair.
Apollo lounges back against a single armchair like a dark king upon his throne, and I watch with fascination as a distinct tug-o-war of emotions takes place across his Romanesque features.
Lust wars with anger, wars with frustration, wars with desire.
Battling between an obvious preference to stay in control—and a need to let go.
Please let go.
Hermes’s tongue peeks from between rosy lips as he meets Apollo’s glower head on; both waiting for permission and challenging his resolve. Apollo’s fingers curl into the padded armrests of the chair and his nostrils flare. And like the quintessential brat that he is, Miller’s hand never stops stroking.
Please.
Minutes tick by.
Guys, I’m literally begging you here.
Please just take his fucking dick out of his pants.
Just as I swear I’m about to expire from the anticipation alone, Apollo looks down his aquiline nose at Hermes.
“Take it out,” he commands.
YES.
Hermes leans straight in, long fingers tugging down Apollo’s waistband in an eager bid to free his erection. When it springs forth, the head kisses Hermes’s cheek and leaves behind a thick trail of pre-cum.
Without another word, Apollo spears his hand through the golden locks that hover over his lap, guiding their owner roughly down. The entire length of him then disappears down Hermes’s throat in a move so hot it has me clenching down on absolutely nothing—like my pussy’s trying to telegraph an emergency message back to Dionysus:
L A K E M I L L E R S T O P
N O G A G R E F L E X S T O P
“So good for me,” Apollo grinds out.
I nod in enthusiastic agreement. So good.
“I’m sorry,” he suddenly laments in a ragged voice, and I suck in a breath.
But it’s not an apology.
It’s a warning .
Because Apollo’s now holding Hermes’s head hostage and fucking up into his mouth with absolutely zero mercy.
I realize then, that this is him: raw and uncut.
Without the crisp uniform and equally crisp sneer.
This is Tristan Sinclair finally giving in .
And he’s unleashing more and more tension with each violent thrust.
Hermes takes every bit of the abuse; happily, if the consenting groans and the tent in his own sweatpants are anything to judge by. It makes me wonder just how often he lets him use him like this—like his throat’s nothing more than a therapeutic speed bag.
“So good ,” Apollo pants a second time.
Christ. Just the sounds coming from the pair of them, let alone the picture they make. These two are going to be la petite mort of me.
When I can no longer ignore the SOS call my clit’s transmitting, I slowly ease my weight forward and onto my knees, the hardwood floor now blessedly cool against my heated skin. My fingers snake beneath my skirt, seeking to grant any kind of relief they can. Thankfully, I’m already right there , thanks to their unintentional edging.
The wet slaps of Apollo’s hips slowly start to bleed into the sights and sounds of another night.
Of the cold press of tiles lining a blue-lit nightclub restroom floor.
Of the distant thump of industrial bass.
Of nails clawing into powerfully corded thighs while the same thickly veined cock bruises my eager throat in much the same way.
Just try and forget us twice, I fucking dare you.
Our orgasms crest at the exact same moment.
Eyes wide, I clamp a palm across my mouth, catching the desperate, straining wheeze before it can betray me. Right as Apollo’s hips stutter and he shoves Hermes’s nose flush against his pelvis with a grunted, “ Swallow.”
The entire tableau vivant is now so deeply burned into my retinas that it’s earned its rightful place as one of the single hottest things I’ve ever witnessed. It’ll be damn near impossible to top this moment.
I’m still kneeling, my fingers still buried two knuckles deep, when the next low, raspy words I hear are—“Find what you were looking for?”