Page 49 of Patron of Mercy

With Lach gripping his arms, Thanatos could only lift them so far, but he settled his hands on Lach’s hips. His thumbs brushed over the ridges of Lach’s hip bones.

“Bullshit.” Lach’s voice broke, and he took a moment to swallow and clear his hoarse throat. “You just did. You have that... that god-connection thing to her now. Come on. We have to go back.”

“There’s nothing to go backto.”

Lach shook his head. “You don’t understand. Mis is magic. She’s fine.”

Had to be. Mis was created by a god to give her captain what they needed, right? She’d helped him get Thanatos to look at him twice, kept him company for years out at sea, whisked him around the world and back. All Lach needed right then was for her to be fine. So she was.

Thanatos had considerably more strength than he appeared to, and used it to shrug out of Lach’s grip. Rather than pull away once he was free, he wound an arm around Lach’s waist. His other hand—silky soft as ever—cupped Lach’s cheek. Lach didn’t realize his lips were trembling until Thanatos touched them.

“If we go back now, you’ll drown,” Thanatos mumbled.

“So I’ll drown!”

Thanatos blinked.

Lach shouldn’t have shouted, but he could feel the pounding in his chest, the panic that turned his skin pale and sweaty, the shivering dizziness of lost blood, and the searingly bright sun bouncing off every surface.

“I can’t leave her,” he whispered. “She’s my home.”

“I know she is.” The soft movement of Thanatos’s fingers on his cheek was as gentle as his words. “But there’s nothing you can do now.”

Lach tensed, everything in him rejecting the idea that he was powerless. Every time he’d been held down, he’d squirmed his way out of it. Arrogance, brashness, and blundering had never failed him. They’d saved his family, made him immortal, won him the eye of a god. Desperate, he shook his head.

“Calm down,” Thanatos said. It was only a breath, but the words carried that low resonance only gods could achieve. They swept over Lach, curling around the back of his neck, easing into his frantic heart until it beat steadily again and his whole body went lax in Thanatos’s careful arms.

By the time he realized what Thanatos had done, he was too languid to give a damn. Later, he’d only remember flashes of Thanatos helping him down the hill, his own feet dragging, the god’s fingers stroking his side while he murmured assurances. The small inn with its door surrounded by bright red flowers. Offering to pay, and Thanatos waving him off. Gentle hands easing him into a bed on stable ground. No rolling waves beneath him.

Toe to Toe with Gods

Martina disliked flying. There was nothing to do but sit and hope the movies that’d come out that season were good. Driving, she could control the car. Walking, there were sights to see. Horses, camels, motorcycles—all offered advantages. Yet here she was, prepping for another twelve-hour flight, because there wasn’t a better way to get across the ocean. Lach and his boat were ridiculous.

Just before boarding, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was Roger. She picked up.

“I’m about to get on a plane. What’s going on, Roger?” she demanded.

“I need you to check on Lach.” Roger’s voice was tight and strained. She could almost see him standing there, hand on his hip, expression pinched and serious. With a sigh, she leaned back against a column near the check-in counter, hand on her suitcase.

“Why?”

“We sank his boat.”

“You did what?” Marty demanded, voice chilly. Why the blasted fuck Roger had authority to command the Fidelis Filii and she didn’t was completely beyond her. No doubt, it had something to do with cocks. Penises, after all, wereveryimportant to a person’s leadership character.

“We sank the boat.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?Howthe fuck would you do that?” The boat itself was relatively new, but Marty had been on it, had drinks, thrown potato chips off the side for seagulls to snatch. And every time something weird happened, Lach would give her a cheeky wink. That boat was enchanted.

“Stuck a tracker on him in Ibiza. Blew up the boat.”

“Roger, we need him. You can’t go fucking drowning the only immortal in the world who can contain Cronusanddoesn’t have the power to smite you on the spot.”

Marty had spent years of her life forging a bond with Lach—Glaucus. Decades ago, when her and Roger’s father was young, they’d met. They’d been friends, even. Until they’d disagreed. Lach, Marty had learned from personal experience, was pretty damn lonely. And lonely men talked. He might’ve beaten around the bush a little—not spoken explicitly about gods to her—but she knew he’d been born in Greece. And her father had a picture of the two of them from decades earlier. He looked exactly the same.

“Not all gods are that powerful,” Roger said. Marty would like to see him face one down. Even Hebe—Martina followed her on Instagram. Her page was full of flowers, carefully staged selfies, and feminism. The goddess of youth would absolutely wreck him. “Anyway, we didn’t kill him. I think. We weregoingto snatch him out of the water.”

“We have a plan, Roger!” He entirely lacked the patience to see it through. Now, that was her problem. “Why didn’t you get him?”

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