No matter what I tell Achilles and Patroclus, my thigh is one massive ache by the time we make it back to the room. I barely feel it. Between Paris’s horrible words circling my head and Patroclus’s obvious injuries, I have plenty beyond the physical to focus on.
That doesn’t stop Achilles from bullying us to the couch and snarling when I try to stand. He points a blunt finger at me. “Sit the fuck down and wait for the doctor.”
I should probably find his attitude aggravating, but… Much like when Patroclus stopped me on the treadmill, this is Achilles taking care of me. It’s novel enough to be nice. Aggravating. But nice. People don’t take care of me. Growing up in my father’s house meant showing too much caring was just asking for Zeus to teach us a harsh lesson. We watched it happen again and again with Hercules, and we learned well. Too well, maybe.
I nudge Achilles’s finger away from my face. “Theseus just got my thigh. It’s a bruise.”
“We’ll see,” he mutters. He eyes my catsuit. “That’s going to be a bitch to get off. We’ll cut you out.”
“Achilles.”
He points at Patroclus. “Don’t you start. You can barely lift your arms to your shoulders. I’m cutting you out of your shirt, too.”
“Kinky,” I murmur.
“You have no idea.”
Patroclus and I share a look, and the exasperation I see mirrored in his dark eyes surprises a laugh out of me. It feels good, so I do it again. “Gods, Achilles, you’re a delight.”
“I know. It’s good you’re finally figuring it out.” A knock on the door has him heading in that direction after one last severe look at us. “Behave, you two.”
The doctor is a short, wizened woman with medium-brown skin, a tight bun of graying hair, and thick square glasses. She sweeps a look over us. “Injuries?”
“My thigh is bruised.”
Patroclus hesitates but finally sighs. “Face. Ankle.” He shoots a guilty look at Achilles. “Ribs.”
“You motherfucker.”
The doctor snaps her fingers at Achilles. “That’s enough out of you. Either help them get out of their clothes without commentary or leave.”
Instantly, he ducks his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Better.”
He grabs a pair of scissors from the kitchen. It feels far more intimate than it should for Achilles to sit so close, his handsome face a study in concentration as he carefully pulls the fabric away from my skin and cuts. The scissors are a cool slide with each snip, and a few minutes later, he peels the catsuit off.
He’s just as careful with Patroclus, though he glares at the other man the entire time. “You should have said something.”
“You would have worried.” A thin thread of pain hints at exactly how hurt Patroclus is. Or maybe—hopefully—it’s just adrenaline letdown. Bruises can hurt like motherfuckers. It doesn’t mean he’s seriously injured.
Worry curdles my stomach. “Look him over first.”
“You have one injury. He has several.” The doctor pokes and prods at my thigh and straightens. “A bruise. Ice it. If you weren’t in the tournament, I would say take it easy for at least a week.”
“That’s not an option,” I say quickly.
“I’m aware.” Her tone is dry and unamused. “It might give out if you put too much stress on it, so keep that in mind during the next trial.”
“Thank you.”
She examines Patroclus next, asking a series of terse questions. I look over her head at Achilles. I’ve never seen him so sick with worry and guilt. He carried Patroclus out of the maze over his shoulders. If Patroclus has broken ribs…if that action made them worse… I can practically see those thoughts going through the big man’s dark gaze.
Neither of us take a full breath until the doctor sits back. “You’re lucky. I don’t think anything’s broken. I would like to get an X-ray of your ribs, though. To be sure.”
“They’re not broken.” Patroclus touches his side gingerly. “I’ve had broken ribs before, and it was different.”
She sighs. “Very well. Be stubborn. I can’t force you to get care.”
Achilles bristles. “Get the X-ray.”
“I’m fine.” Patroclus shakes his head. “I’m exhausted and filthy and want a shower, a meal, and bed. But I’m fine, Achilles. I swear it.”
I don’t know him well enough as an adult to know if he’s lying. It’s strange to realize that. It’s been less than a week of being close to him, but it feels far longer. At least until moments like this when it’s readily apparent that my knowledge is only skin deep.
But even Achilles looks at him like he’s not sure what the truth is. Finally, he shakes his head. “If I find out you’re lying, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“I know.”
Achilles turns to the doctor and gives her a polite smile. “Thank you so much for checking them out, ma’am.”
“Ice and rest.” She turns and walks out the door.
Achilles glares at us. “Can you be trusted to sit still and not fuck yourself up further while I go get some food for us? Or are you going to be vaulting out of windows and fighting the Minotaur?”
I roll my eyes. “It was a trial. I would say I got out pretty clean considering that I was facing down Theseus.”
“Yeah, guess you did.” He suddenly grins. “Saw his knee. Nice job, princess.”
I flush in response to his praise. He offers it so freely, without a single string attached. I don’t quite understand it, but I like it a lot. “Thanks.”
“Go.” Patroclus leverages himself slowly to his feet. It’s painful to watch, but he’s already moving better than he was earlier. He won’t be in the morning, but that’s a fight for tomorrow. “Get plenty of ice, too.”
“Of course.” Achilles gives him one last long look and leaves the room.
Patroclus shakes his head. “Come on. If we’re not sitting docilely and waiting when he gets back, he’s going to take it as evidence that we’re in worse shape that we claim, and he’ll be hollering for a second opinion from another doctor.”
I smile a little despite myself. “Gods forbid.”
“You joke, but Achilles goes into mother-hen mode the same way he goes into a fight. There’s no winning.”
“It’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” I lean carefully against him and prop my head on his shoulder. It’s nice. Really nice.
He snorts. “‘Cute’ is one word for it, I guess.”
Achilles comes back through the door less than ten minutes later. He rakes a gaze over us but seems satisfied. “Well, that’s something.” He sets a giant box on the table, filled with several ice packs and more food than I know what to do with. “Let’s eat.”
It’s so easy to be with them. Even though I’m tired and I hurt and my heart is still aching from Paris’s poisonous words, I’m more at ease here with these two men than I have been in longer than I can remember. I’m not worried about my lack of makeup or my relaxed appearance or about them trying to use my careless words as weapons to launch at me when I least expect it.
It’s nice. More than nice. It’s an indulgence I know better than to allow myself to enjoy. Yes, we all passed the second trial and granted our little trio a reprieve, but the end result is still the same. One of us will be Ares. The others will lose out on a dream they’ve spent far too long chasing.
“Helen.” Achilles’s voice pulls me out of my head. He’s watching me closely. “What Paris said in the van—”
Some of the warm feeling in my chest dissipates. “It’s not important.” I refuse to admit that Paris scares me. He pokes holes in my confidence, in my emotional security, and then stands there with that little smile on his lips when I lose control and rage. There was a time when I reassured myself that at least the damage was confined to the emotional, as if that makes it better. The truth is that he’s done lasting damage to me, both mentally and emotionally. I take a deep breath. “He is not important.”
Patroclus doesn’t look like he believes me. “It’s not right how he talks to you.”
“No. It’s not.” I can see the question on their faces, and maybe that’s why I answer without making them ask. Why were you with a man like him? “He wasn’t like that when I first met him. He was…nice.” Humiliation flames my face. I was raised in Olympus. I should have known better than to believe a nice facade, no matter how complete. But I was so starved for kindness that I’d fallen right into Paris’s arms. “It was the whole frog-in-boiling-water thing. I didn’t even notice he was cutting away at me until it was almost too late.”
Achilles cracks his knuckles. “Want me to kick his ass for you?”
I smile despite everything. “That’s not necessary. I can fight my own battles.”
“Thank you for telling us, Helen.” Patroclus considers me for a moment and finally says, “Paris won’t win. He’s the weakest contender, and with Hector eliminated, he doesn’t stand a chance.”
I wish I believed that. The problem is that Paris shouldn’t have managed to get past the second trial. He works out enough to keep what he’s decided is the ideal body type, but he’s not an athlete or warrior like the other champions. There’s absolutely no way he should have pulled off being the first through the door. When it comes to combat? He might not win in a fair fight, but Paris has never been in a fair fight even once in his life. How he ambushed Atalanta more than proves that.
“Underestimating him is a mistake.” When they both look like they’re going to argue, I wave it away. It’s easier to focus on this—the tournament, the champions—than it is to think about what the rest of the future holds. Not to mention we have no answers about the assassin or why they were removed from Athena’s jurisdiction. The only person who can give those answers is Zeus, but he won’t hand them over without a fight, and I can’t do that until after the tournament is over. I can’t imagine I’m going to be happy with those answers. I rarely am when it comes to things my family would rather keep hidden.
And the rest? The future where this strange, tentative thing between me and Achilles and Patroclus crashes and burns away to ash? I can’t stand the thought of it.
Easier, simpler to focus on the more immediate threats. “Besides, it’s not as if he’s the only one I have to worry about. Even if Paris isn’t a true contender—and he is, or he wouldn’t still be here—no one can argue that the Minotaur is anything less than dangerous.”
“We’ll deal with it.” Patroclus speaks with such confidence, as if he’s already planned for this. As if life doesn’t have a habit of kicking you in the teeth when you least expect it. As if he’s not halfway out of commission from being beaten by Hector. “You have nothing to worry about. Neither Paris nor the Minotaur will win.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone keeps saying.” I shake my head slowly. “Do you know what my brother said to comfort me when he sold me out to cement a potential future alliance? He said if the new Ares hurt me, he’d kill them.”
Achilles narrows his eyes. “Seems forward of Zeus, but what’s wrong with that?”
My laugh comes out ragged. “What’s wrong is that he’s making a whole lot of assumptions that aren’t based in reality. Ares doesn’t need me as their wife in order to hold the title. Somehow the so-called comfort of being avenged doesn’t make me feel better. But then, he didn’t say it to make me feel better. He said it to assuage whatever’s left of his stunted conscience.” Or, worse, to placate me into being a willing victim. I can’t say that aloud, though. It’s too much to share, even with these two.
Achilles lifts his brows. “I don’t know what you’re worried about, princess. I’m going to become the next Ares, and while I enjoy a bit of slap and tickle and fighting turning into fucking, I only enjoy it when everyone involved is having a good time. You’re safe enough with me.”
I stare up at him, temporarily dumbfounded. Does he think that’s comforting? While I can admit that Achilles is the best candidate of the bunch, his winning means I’ve failed. It means I’ll spend the rest of my life regulated to the supportive wife, the one always outside the inner circle, the prize.
I sink into the chair across from him, suddenly exhausted. I can’t afford to forget that these men aren’t my allies. Not really. They might be guarding my body and giving me more pleasure than I could have dreamed and… But it doesn’t matter. We’re at odds.
Gods, that shouldn’t hurt so much. “That’s not nearly as comforting as you’d like it to be.”
“Achilles has his own way of doing things.” Patroclus shrugs. “To be fair, he’s the best option to win.”
I bristle. It doesn’t even occur to me to cover up my reaction. Not with these two. “I am the best option to win.”
Achilles gives that arrogant grin like he’s humoring me. “Really, princess? Have you dealt with a lot of soldiers and security efforts up in that gilded palace of a penthouse you live in?” The question might be barbed, but I can tell he’s not trying to be cruel.
He’s even right, at least in this. I don’t have experience with soldiers. Not even a little bit. I’ve had security all my life, but they tend to either blend into the background or keep enough distance—at my insistence—that I forget they’re there. I came into this tournament prepared to have to learn from the ground up when it comes to Ares’s actual duties, but I’m smart, ambitious, and not afraid to play dirty. I can figure out the rest on my way down.
I lift my chin. “I’m a fast learner.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He grins. “Look, Helen, you’re a certified badass. No one is saying otherwise. You’ve kicked ass in both the challenges, and if I wasn’t here, you’d have a better than decent chance of taking Ares. But the fact remains that you’re not qualified for the title.”
I am so fucking tired of being underestimated. Yes, I know only the basics of security from the client perspective, but that doesn’t mean I’m ill-prepared for the title. These two men are both smart and ambitious and they actually take me seriously, but they still don’t understand. There’s absolutely no reason to feel stung by that. No one else sees the real me, understands what I’m actually capable of. Why would Achilles and Patroclus be the exception?
Honestly, it’s an asset. No matter how it chafes, being underestimated has only benefited me. Right now is where I keep my mouth shut and let them believe they know something I don’t.
I can’t quite manage it, though. “Wrong. I’m not the one in over my head if I become Ares.” I lean forward and tap Achilles on the chest with a single finger. “You are.”
“You think so?” If anything, his grin widens. “Enlighten me.”
You’re showing your hand. I ignore the little voice inside me and answer him in kind. “I might not be out there playing soldier, but one thing I do know is politics. Can you say the same?”
“I’m a fast learner.” He tosses my words back at me and jerks a thumb in Patroclus’s direction. “And he’s a fucking genius. We’re fine.”
“Cute.” Even Patroclus looks convinced, though. How can he underestimate Olympus politics? Yes, he’s never dabbled in them, but from what I understand, his mothers used to be particularly cutthroat in their twenties. Rumor has it that Sthenele was a top contender for the title of Aphrodite, but when Patroclus and I were eight, she and Polymele all but disappeared from Olympus politics, taking him with them. It’s not a huge leap to assume they made that call to protect their family.
What must it be like to be loved that much?
I shove the thought away. “You can’t just learn politics like you can with other skills. That’s not how it works.”
“If you say so.”
Something like worry takes root inside me. I’m going to win. I have to believe I’m going to win. But if I don’t? If Achilles does manage to secure Ares and steps into the viper’s nest I grew up in… He’s going to get hurt. He might get dead. “Because of the barrier, we haven’t had to deal with an outside incursion in our lifetime.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that no one is qualified to defend the city properly, at least if we’re talking about experience. The title of Ares is a glorified babysitter to ensure the petty squabbles between the rest of the Thirteen and their inner circles don’t get out of hand. The responsibilities of the title matter less than the allies and enemies that you have to navigate.”
Achilles shrugs. “I’m still more qualified than you are.”
I raise my brows, trying not to let the strange worry inside me flourish. How can he be so determined not to see the pitfall right in front of him? Or, if not Achilles, how can Patroclus ignore the danger? I have to make them see, in the event that the worst comes to pass. I can’t stand the thought of something happening to them. “Is that so? Then I’m sure you can tell me why the last Aphrodite took a hit out on Demeter’s daughter.”
Patroclus raises his brows. “Everyone knows she tried to kill Psyche. It was televised, Helen.”
“Everyone knows it happened. Do you know why?”
“Because Psyche was fucking Eros, and Aphrodite doesn’t share her toys,” Achilles says lazily. “Next question.”
“Wrong. She did it because Demeter had Psyche lined up to be the next Hera, and she went around Aphrodite to do it.” Psyche would have been a good fit for the title, too, but I know better than to say as much to either my brother or Eros. I plant my hands on my hips. “Do you know who among the Thirteen Poseidon is sleeping with and how that influences where his alliances lie?”
“I didn’t—”
I keep going. “How about what Hermes’s endgame is—or are you naive enough to think she’s merely stirring the pot to entertain herself? Can you trace all of Demeter’s contacts across the rest of the Thirteen? Will you fall in with her or try to stand apart? Both decisions have consequences. Are you prepared to pay them?”
Achilles shrugs, but Patroclus is looking at me like he’s never seen me before. Finally, he begins to understand. “All our strategy has been focused on the martial side of things,” he says slowly.
“Exactly.” A small voice whispers that the three of us as a team would be unstoppable, but I ignore it. Achilles has his sights set on Ares. So do I. That puts us on opposite sides, regardless of how he’s taken care of me in that particular Achilles fashion, or how sweet Patroclus is, or how much I enjoy fucking them both. At the end of this tournament, it doesn’t matter what he feels for me. He won’t hold back in the final trial. The only thing that matters is his end goal. That’s something of a compliment, I suppose. It makes my chest ache to think about facing him down in two days.
All this means I can’t really trust either of these men. No matter how much I want to. “Even a precious princess isn’t exempt from having to learn to swim in shark-infested waters. Information is just as dangerous as a gun, even more so in the right hands. The Thirteen will eat both of you alive.”
