Page 16 of Crown of Olympus
Beside me, Aros went rigid, the heat emanating off his skin increasing tenfold. He’d been quietly, pleasantly smouldering at my side, but now — now he was a raging inferno. Before he could respond in a way befitting a god of violence, I bared my teeth, scarcely passing it off as a smile.
Hera would not bait me.
“And yet, you’re enraptured.” I let a sliver of malice slip through the grin. Sharp and dangerous, like a dagger between ribs. Raising my cup in a mocking salute, I turned back to a surprisingly amused Aros.
Hera rose, eyes narrowed.
“You—” she began.
“Now, now, Mother.”
A deep, rich voice cut through her tirade before it could begin, crackling with power and command. The tension was further punctured by thunderous footsteps crossing the marble tiles.
Footsteps belonging to the last remaining storm-wielder.
Caelus — Zeus and Hera’s son — had finally arrived.
“Is this not a banquet?” he asked, gaze sweeping over the room, daring anyone to answer. “Then let us eat. The trials will be battle enough.”
Ares grinned at the mere mention of the word ‘battle.’
Charon and I exchanged a knowing look. Wasn’t the little princeling aware? When gods were involved,everythingwas a battlefield.
Caelus strode determinedly to the last remaining seat, directly opposite me. He sat with the surety of someone who owned every ounce of the space he occupied. His eyes met mine for a flicker, moved on, then immediately came crashing back. They widened almost imperceptibly, white brows lifting a fraction. As if only just realising who he’d chosen to share space with.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” Aros drawled. “Fashionably late tonight, are we?”
“Aros. Weren’t you aware that gods are never late?” Caelus replied. “Everyone else is simply early.”
I snorted quietly.
A pause. Then, both males smiled and clasped hands across the table.
“I wonder who taught you that,” Aros laughed.
“Probably the same god who is usually late to everything.” Caelus huffed a laugh. “Though, not late enough to snag the most… captivating seat tonight, I see.”
“Too bad you were too busy artfully messing that mop of hair and puffing your chest out in the mirror to claim the seat next to the green-eyed beauty over here,” Aros said smugly.
Charon scoffed, and I stifled a giggle.
“I hear you’re a Primal now,” Aros offered, and my brows rose. He was right.
“That happens when your father is murdered,” Caelus replied. His eyes flicked to me, then away again. “And you’re his named heir.”
Yes. I guess it did.
“So that means…”
“Yes,” Caelus answered. “If your father ever dies, you’ll become the Primal of war and violence.”
Aros responded with nothing more than a lethal grin.
I watched their exchange, fascinated. The pair were a mirror image of Charon and myself. It warmed a tiny slice of my frozen heart, seeing them so candidly. Maybe Olympian gods weren’t all cruel, callous, murderous beings. Maybe they could tease and laugh and foster genuine friendships, too.
It helped, somewhat, to know that they weren’tallpsychopaths.
I glanced at Hera, who was grasping Ares’ forearm and smiling coyly at something he’d said. Something feltoffabout the exchange. She wasn’t behaving like a grieving wife at all.
