7. Perseus
Perseus
P erseus slid his phone into his pocket and leaned back against the sun-warmed stone railing of the chalet’s terrace outside Geneva.
The Swiss Alps rolled in every direction—snow-dusted peaks gleaming even in early autumn, while the valley below lay lush and green, like something out of a storybook.
“Qhatu said he and the triplets are handling the blood samples,” he said, eyes drifting toward Medusa.
“That’s great.” She stood in the doorway, framed by glass and shadow, barefoot on the wooden floors, arms crossed. The snakelets were lazily flicking their tongues around her.
Their Swiss home base suited her—this luxe little Alpine refuge with its sleek fireplaces and big mountain-facing windows. She looked relaxed, but alert. Beautiful, and somehow even more dangerous when calm.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “By the way, you were totally right about Charlotte.”
She raised an eyebrow. “The flight attendant?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, pushing off the railing and strolling inside. “She was definitely interested…in you.”
“You’re insufferable,” she groaned as she moved into the room.
“Mm-hmm,” he said, pleased with himself.
She threw a throw pillow at him. He caught it, tossed it aside, and they both laughed.
This— this felt right. They’d slipped back into working together like the break in Bolivia had never happened. No weird tension, no walking on eggshells. Just comfort. Like maybe they were figuring it out. Whatever this was.
She didn’t say anything right away, just gave him that look—the one he was starting to recognize as amused affection laced with exasperation.
Even without seeing her eyes, hidden as they were behind those ever-present glasses, he could feel the expression in the subtle tilt of her head and the small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
She turned and padded across the smooth wood floors, her bare feet quiet as sin, and disappeared into the kitchen.
He followed without thinking.
She moved with grace, pulling down two mugs and setting the kettle on.
The snakelets were out in full today, flicking curiously toward the skylight like they knew something he didn’t.
He never commented on them anymore. He didn’t need to.
They were part of her—fierce, sharp, beautiful—and he found himself drawn to them as much as to her.
“Tea?” she asked without looking at him.
“Sure,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Unless you’re secretly poisoning me.”
“Not secretly,” she said, deadpan. Then her lips curled into a smile.
He watched her a moment longer, something catching in his chest. Not quite warm. Not quite ache. Not lust—not only—but something steadier, more dangerous. Affection was one thing. Trust was something else entirely. And yet, here they were. Post-heat, post-Bolivia, post-mess.
“I’m glad it’s not weird,” he said finally.
She looked up.
“After everything,” he added.
“It doesn’t have to be weird unless we make it weird.”
“Good.”
The kettle began to sing.
She turned away to pour the water, and he looked at her—really looked.
The loose scoop-neck tee slid off one shoulder, the snakelets curling like ribbons of dark silk against her bare skin.
Soft joggers hung low on her hips, casual and comfortable, but somehow she still looked effortlessly striking, like every piece of her had been arranged just right without trying.
The quiet confidence. The fact that she never tried to impress him. Didn’t have to.
Gods, she was…
He cleared his throat. “You know, Charlotte gave me her number on the napkin.”
She paused. “Did she?”
He shrugged. “I think she meant to give it to you.”
Medusa turned around, cup in hand. “Drink your tea, Perseus.”
He laughed and did exactly that.
Medusa sat cross-legged at the sleek kitchen table, one elbow propped lazily beside her mug. “Are we really going there tonight?” she asked, not even bothering to hide the suspicion in her voice.
Perseus looked up from his phone as he leaned against the marble counter. “Yep,” he said, stretching the word out with amusement. “Eros says to meet his contact at the club.”
Medusa arched a brow. “Of course, the god of desire’s friend owns a sex club.”
Perseus grinned. “It’s practically on-brand.”
She blew on her tea and took a sip, then set the mug down with a soft clink. “I swear, if this turns into some weird invitation to an orgy?—”
“Come on,” he interrupted, sauntering over to the table. “There must be other things to do there outside of sex. Like…karaoke. Ice sculptures. Maybe a really tasteful fondue bar.”
She snorted. “Right. A family-friendly dungeon experience.”
Perseus pulled out the chair across from her and dropped into it, stretching out his legs. “Who knows, maybe the contact just likes mood lighting and expensive rope for the aesthetic. ”
She tilted her head. “And you’re not even a little curious?”
He shrugged, though the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “I’m mostly curious about what kind of idiot Eros trusts with sensitive information.”
“Probably someone with a choke collar and a safe word.”
Perseus held her gaze for a beat, letting the tension spark, slow and coiled. Then he reached across and tapped the side of her mug. “Well. Better hydrate. You know. In case of fondue.”
He caught the edge of her grin as she sipped again, and for a second, it didn’t matter where they were going, only that they were going together.
“I hear the Wednesday orgy is followed by a bake-off,” he quipped.
She snorted. “Winner gets a gold-plated spatula.”
“Only if you use protection while frosting.”
She shook her head, biting back a smile. “You’re an idiot.”
“You nervous?” he asked lightly, like it didn’t matter either way. But it did. He wasn’t sure why yet—maybe because they’d slipped into this easy rhythm after Bolivia, and part of him didn’t want to ruin it by walking into some velvet-drenched Bacchanalia.
She tapped a fingernail on her mug. “Not nervous. Just…aware.”
“Of?”
She shrugged, but he saw the shift in her shoulders. “Places like that can be chaotic. I don’t like not knowing what we’re walking into.”
He nodded. “We’ll scope it first. Eros said the contact would meet us in the lounge. Not in the middle of an—uh—knife play scene.”
“Knife play,” she muttered. “Gods, I swear if someone offers me a leather paddle…”
He laughed, full-throated. “Didn’t peg you for a prude.”
“Didn’t peg you for someone who needs props,” she shot back, smug.
That one hit low and good, and he leaned back in his chair, smiling.
For a moment, there was quiet, comfortable, weighted only by the knowledge of what came next. Then she said, “You’ll watch my back, right?”
“Always.”
She took another sip from her tea, then stood, her chair scraping gently against the floor. “I guess I should get ready,” she said, grabbing an apple before turning toward the hallway.
Perseus watched her go, the sway of her hips lazy and unhurried. The snakelets coiled and uncoiled with casual interest as if they knew the game, as if they were part of it.
A small part of him wondered if this was a mistake. Of course, it was too late now, spilled milk and all. But he could still rectify it by walking away.
Because what could become of them? He couldn’t possibly promise her anything more than sex.
And wasn’t he committing the same sins as his father? Would he be doomed to be exactly like him? Would he be fulfilling the legacy he’d been trying to avoid?
Do you want to know who you really are, Perseus Gialamas?
The man with the golden curls smiled, his eyes twinkling in delight.
What do you mean who I am?
Your true identity, Perseus. Where you came from. Who you are, and more important, who you are meant to be.
The man’s voice was like honey, smooth and tempting.
Let me tell you…
Who your father truly is.
The name didn’t register at first. It seemed impossible. Surely someone else would have known.
No one knows, not even your mother.
She didn’t know who he was?
The man’s grin widened, revealing a set of perfect white teeth.
Yes, she didn’t know who I really was.
No, you can’t be.
Yes, I am. And you are my son.
No!
Say it. Say my name and everything you ever wanted will be yours.
Say my name and only then will you have the power to fulfill the prophecy.
Perseus slammed his fist down so hard on the counter that a crack appeared on the shiny marble surface.
Better let the owners know.
Bob was going to shit a brick when he saw the bill.
He stayed in the kitchen for a while, eating some food and messaging his family to distract himself.
But even that didn’t hold his attention for long.
Eventually, he rose and headed to his room to change, pulling on dark slacks and a black button-down, and tugging on a slate-colored blazer. He debated a tie. Didn’t bother.
By the time he made it back into the living room, the sky outside had shifted toward a deep violet, the soft shadow of the mountains falling across the large windows.
He sat on the edge of the couch, checking his phone again, when the sound of heels on hardwood pulled his attention toward the hallway.
He looked up and stared.
Medusa stepped into the room in a sleek black dress that hugged her body without showing too much, the hem falling just above her knees. A scarf covered the snakelets, exposing the elegant line of her neck and shoulders, and her mirrored aviators reflected the golden light in the room.
For a moment, it felt like the air left the room.
She wasn’t doing anything special—just walking toward him, but the way she looked at him, like she already knew what they were about to do and was daring him to meet her there, knocked the breath out of his lungs.
Something twisted in his chest. Not sharp enough to be pain. Not warm enough to be comfort. Just tight—like a wire pulled taut between his ribs, humming with something dangerous.
Don’t go there, he warned himself.
But it was too late.