Page 33 of Carry Your Debt

“Originally, we didn’t think he’d risk a public confrontation by approaching you this weekend, but the Herald’s decree has just thrown a spanner in the works. Now, there’s every chance he’ll corner you before you leave tonight. Most likely at dinner.”

“Is she fucking kidding with this shit?” Ares spits.

Apollo ignores him, raising his hand in a silent bid for me to continue.

“He probably won’t go so far as to make the big reveal at the dinner table, but he may still invite you to eat with him under the guise of wining and dining you as prospective recruits.”

“You don’t think so? Why not?” Apollo asks, tensely. He looks about ready to crawl out of his skin.

“He doesn’t know that we know, and I don’t know if he’s ready to reveal his hand just yet.”

“And how longhaveyou known?”

“That you were his son? I only found out yesterday. Someone sent your paternity report to Zeus anonymously.”

“Zeus?” His tone sounds oddly strained when he repeats Jax’s callsign.

He’s probably annoyed I didn’t give him the head moniker.

Just more proof of his bloodline.

“Your older brother,” I clarify with a rueful twist of my lips. “The disgraced heir.”

And for the first time, the Head Prefect allows some of the surprise to color his expression rather than defensiveness. “Okay, fuck. So I have a brother.” He blows out a breath. “But none of that explains why acity mayorwould be invited to the Symposium—or why he’d be recruiting.”

“Or howyouknow him.”

The quietly delivered question comes out of nowhere, and my chin jerks up in surprise.

It’s the first time I’ve heard Hermes speak tonight—only his voice is devoid of all the usual roguishness I’ve come to expect from him.

Now that I think about it, there were no playful quips upon our arrival either. No flirty banter. Of course, I’d been too caught up in the theatre of his outfit to notice whether he had a closed posture or a mournful set to his plush mouth. But when I dig into my visual memory banks for a snapshot, it’s all there in high-definition.

A corona of wild curls. A stubborn jawline and the rigid press of bronzed shoulders against red bricks. The new, feverish shine in an already too-bright gaze.

Maybe it’s a lucky thing I can’t see him around Ares’s protective bulk, after all.

I pull in a deep breath through my nose.

Best just to be direct.

“Sebastian Grayson is the Gray Man. And I’m his Librarian.”

Ares growls,inked fingers dragging down chiseled features in frustration. The way his gigantic arms curl has me a little concerned for his jacket seams; the poor things look just about ready to surrender.

“The Gray Man? So Tristan is just swapping out country club-brand evil for mob boss-brand evil?” he grouses the moment he’s calmed down long enough to speak.

“I guess? I don’t know his father personally, though Iamwell acquainted with his sire,” I hesitate, wondering if I should elaborate. I’m pushing my luck the longer I stay, but I can’t just let them jump straight into the snake pit without at least a warning, right?

There’s no anti-venom for this type of fuckery.

“So, I need you to believe me when I tell you that there are only three men in this world who can stilltrulyevoke my fear response—and he’s one of them.”

“What the fuck doesthatmean?” Apollo snaps. His arms are now folded tightly across his chest. He’s not as obscenely muscled as Dionysus or Ares, but the guarded pose still does a stellar job of showcasing just how broad his athletic frame is.

Without a mask to hide behind, I have to work overtime to keep my expression as serene as possible. “Not important.”

“And who’re the other two?” Hermes demands, stepping into view. His fingers are laced behind his head as he prowls back and forth. With his arms raised, the busk of his corset rises, blessing me with an even clearer view of the lines of his Adonis belt as they dip below his waistline.

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