Page 41 of Art of the Hunt
“Hey,” Nike said. “I’m the only person you’ve been able to tolerate spending that much time with in, like, two thousand years. Ever since…oh.” She canted her head again, studying him with renewed interest. This time it wasn’t sexual in nature. More like…considering.
“I can see it,” Nike said.
“See what?” Hunter asked.
“Don’t say it,” Artemis warned.
Nike’s eyes widened as she stared at him. “Do you think…?”
“Think what?” he asked.
“No,” Artemis said.
“Oh yes,” Nike said, nodding. “I can totally see it.”
“No, you can’t,” Artemis insisted.
“Yes, I can.”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” Hunter demanded, practically shouting to get their attention.
“You,” Nike said.
“No, not you,” Artemis said.
“Okay, fine,” Nike said. “Not you. We’re talking about Orion. And how you very well could be him, reincarnated.”
“Nike,” Artemis practically hissed. Hunter forced out a laugh.
“That’s not why you slept with me, is it? Because I remind you of someone else?”
He was well aware of the relationship between Orion and Artemis, from the classes he took in college. Orion had been her one true love, her brother had killed him, and she’d vowed never to love again after sending Orion to the stars to be a constellation that would watch over her for all of eternity.
He was also all too aware of the fact that Artemis—this one, standing before him, with her warm palm still pressed against his chest—believed she was a three-thousand-year-old goddess. Which meant she also believed she had once loved a man named Orion.
And Hunter, apparently, reminded her of that lost love.
Shit.
“Thatiswhy you slept with me.” Well, hell. He’d never felt so used in his life. And here he thought they’d had some sort of connection. That it had been something beyond physical. They’d been so perfect; they’d fit like…like they were meant to be.
He was so fucking stupid. The first time he got laid in who knew how long, and he picked a woman who slept with him because he reminded her of someone else.
What a goddamn idiot he was.
Releasing her hand and making an abrupt about-face, he methodically returned to the kitchen, flipped off the coffeemaker. Then he strode to the living room and swiped his wallet off the coffee table, stuffing it into his back pocket. His phone was already in his front pocket.
Gun. Holster.
Check.
Keys, he needed keys. He snagged them and stuffed them into the other front pocket.
Without a word—Artemis and Nike could make their way out the exact same way they got into his apartment, however the hell that was—he pulled the door closed behind him and stormed down the hall to the stairs.
He needed to get the fuck away from Artemis.
Chapter Fourteen
