8. Medusa
Medusa
W hat are you doing?
The little voice in her head screamed at her, sharp and shrill like a warning siren. Medusa didn’t have an answer. She truly didn’t know.
It had started slowly. Perseus had held her and rubbed her back when she’d passed out from altitude sickness in Nepal.
That was the first time he touched her without hesitation.
After that, they were friends. Allies. Maybe even something close to comfortable.
He made her laugh. Waking up in his arms that morning in Nepal had changed everything, turned him from a reluctant ally into something far more dangerous: someone she could fall for.
And then came Bolivia. The heat. The intensity between them flared like a match dropped on dry grass. She thought she could blame it on adrenaline. Blame it on mission stress. They’d laugh it off and pretend it didn’t happen.
But now, sitting here in his lap, his arm around her waist like he couldn’t let her go, she couldn’t lie to herself anymore.
This wasn’t just physical.
How could it be when he looked at her like that? Like he saw her—not the monster, not the past—but the woman beneath it all.
The Fates, she thought bitterly. They were laughing at her. Showing her everything she’d tried to deny. That she wanted more too.
And it scared her.
Because what if she let herself have it…and then lost him?
Because she would lose him.
Once Perseus found out just how much she’d lied, how much she’d carefully steered conversations, how many times she tried to worm the truth out of him, he’d walk away.
She knew it. Knew it deep in her gut like a prophecy already written.
From the moment her sisters were taken, her betrayal was inevitable. She would sacrifice herself to keep them safe if it came to that.
Now she wished that was what they had asked.
She’d been distraught, and no matter how her other sisters comforted her, she continued to blame herself. She vowed to do anything to get them back. And when the call came, she didn’t hesitate to pick it up.
“What do you want?”
“Did you do as we told you?” The voice was much too distorted, and she could not tell if it was a man or a woman.
“Yes. I leave for the Upperworld tomorrow.”
“Good. When you reach your destination, you will meet someone special. A demigod.”
Her heart leaped into her throat. Did they want her to turn them into stone?
“And when you do,” the voice continued. “You must make him admit aloud that his father is Zeus, God of Thunder. You must make him say it.”
But all this time, Perseus wouldn’t say he was the son of Zeus.
Her chest tightened with guilt. She gave herself a hard internal shake.
Get it together.
Whatever this was between them—whatever she felt—it wasn’t fake. It would be impossible to fake it, not with how intense it was. Even with Thastos, her ex, someone who had known every twist of her past, she hadn’t felt this. Not even close.
She glanced at Perseus, about to say something—maybe even confess a sliver of truth—but then the man they were tracking passed right in front of them.
Medusa straightened, her gaze sharpening. The man was definitely a three on the magical scale, maybe edging toward a four. He had a low, feral energy to him, shirtless, the cords of his muscles gleaming with sweat and club light. Magical, yes. But not divine.
When he stepped beside them at the bar, she angled slightly to catch a glimpse of his back.
No lines. No hint of wings. Nothing that marked him as a geryon.
“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath.
Perseus glanced at her, and she gave the faintest nod. “We’re going to need to talk to him,” she said softly, her voice cool and even now. The moment was gone. The mission, once again, demanded everything.
The man was close enough that Medusa could feel the ambient heat radiating off his bare skin. He hadn’t looked at them yet, but his presence was deliberate. Intentional. He took a slow sip of water, like he had all the time in the world—and maybe he did.
Then he spoke. “You two play a little too well for first-timers.”
Medusa turned her head slowly, schooling her expression into something between coy amusement and mild confusion. “Do we?”
His lips twitched. “Please. That aura clinging to you both? Not human. Not even close.”
Her stomach dipped, but she kept her tone light. “And what would you know about auras?”
“Let’s just say I’ve had enough experience with your kind to know when I’m in dangerous company,” he said. This time, there was no teasing, just cool confidence.
Beside her, Perseus stiffened. Medusa felt the change immediately—the tension, how his hand slid subtly to the small of her back, protective now, not just playful.
She inclined her head, letting a snakelet peek slightly from her scarf. “Good. We were getting worried this place was too tame.”
The man chuckled, not intimidated, but wary now. “Then I guess we should talk. Somewhere a little less…sticky.”
Medusa arched a brow. “Lead the way.”
The man tilted his head toward a quieter corner of the lounge, a velvet-lined nook with low lighting and two overstuffed lounge chairs.
It was tucked far enough from the bar to give them some semblance of privacy.
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked over, the sway of his steps confident and unhurried.
A predator who knew exactly how to lull others into underestimating him.
As he turned, she glanced at Perseus, heart pounding again—but for entirely different reasons this time. Showtime.
Medusa followed, conscious of Perseus’s hand resting lightly at the small of her back.
When they reached the chairs, he took a seat first and tugged her gently down next to him, tucking her into his side.
To anyone watching, they might have looked like another couple unwinding after a round of play.
But the way his jaw was set, the tension in his arm around her, she knew he was on high alert.
She angled her body to appear relaxed, crossing one leg over the other and letting her hand rest casually on Perseus’s thigh. It wasn’t even a stretch; slipping into this kind of closeness with him felt effortless, like something they’d been doing forever.
The man lounged opposite them, draping his arm along the back of his chair. He looked at them for a long moment, as if deciding how much to reveal.
“Name’s Silas,” he finally said, voice low and smooth, like smoke over honey.
“Perseus,” he replied with a short nod. “And this is Medusa.”
Silas’s eyes flicked to her, and there was something curious—not lecherous, not reverent, but something older and almost…amused. “Well, damn. You wear the name well.”
Medusa offered a faint smile, neither confirming nor denying.
Then Silas leaned forward slightly, and with a sigh, he tugged up the fabric of one pant leg. What it revealed wasn’t human.
His leg shimmered in the dim light, the skin an ashen gray-green, slightly scaled, with jointed angles that bent wrong—digitigrade, like a wolf walking on its toes, only leaner and faster-looking. “I’m a descendant of a Kobalos,” he said simply as if announcing the weather.
Medusa blinked. That…tracked. Trickster spirits from ancient Greek folklore, minor beings of chaos and mischief, known to shapeshift, vanish, and meddle in mortal affairs for sport. Not powerful like gods, but dangerous in the way wild things are—clever, unpredictable, and hard to pin down.
She leaned forward slightly, intrigued despite herself.
It was always fascinating to see how beings from the old world chose to manifest in the Upperworld.
Some clung to their myths like armor, others reimagined themselves entirely.
Kobalos-descended and working the club circuit like a sleek devil in tailored pants, Silas fit the chaos lineage well.
“We’re looking for geryon descendants,” Perseus said, his voice steady but with the cool edge of someone not interested in wasting time.
That caught Silas’s interest. His eyes sparked as he sat back, fingers steepling. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”
“How long have you lived in this area?” Medusa asked.
“Born and raised,” Silas replied easily. “My family’s been here for generations. We’re practically part of the soil.”
Perseus didn’t hesitate. “Are there geryons here?”
“Probably,” Silas shrugged, but there was something sly in the gesture. “Zinal is a crossroads, whether people want to admit it or not. Things hide well in the cold.”
“So,” Medusa said with a calm smile, “can you point us to them?”
Silas smirked, leaning forward with that glint in his eye again. “Sure. For something in exchange.” His gaze slid meaningfully to Medusa.
Perseus’s arm around her tightened. “That’s not possible,” he said flatly.
Medusa felt a hot spark of annoyance—and pride. Gods, what was he doing to her? She should’ve been the one brushing Silas off, smiling like nothing bothered her. But instead, she was…affected. Marked. Claimed.
A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes moved between them. “Can’t blame a trickster for trying,” Silas laughed.
Medusa swore she heard a low growl rise from Perseus’s chest. She didn’t look at him. If she did, she might kiss him again just to remind herself that it was real.
“Well,” Silas said, standing and stretching lazily, “let’s talk tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll think of a more reasonable price.”
“We’ll get your contact info from Minotaur’s team,” Perseus said coolly.
“Looking forward to it,” Silas tossed over his shoulder as he walked away. “Try not to burn the place down with all that tension.”
She gave Perseus the side eye, lifting a brow. “Possessive much?”
Perseus’s arm tightened around her. “Sorry. Total ape-man move,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.
“Aww, you’re cute,” she teased, poking a finger at his ribs.
He laughed, warm and low. “Well, excuse me for not wanting to share a deadly, gorgeous woman with a sleazy fae-descendant in leather pants.”