Page 30 of Nemesis

His gaze darkens. “Because you didn’t come up.”

Aww, he cares.

I roll my eyes, both at the passing thought and the idea that he wanted to save me. It all comes back to whatever he needs me for. He went to the effort of fighting at Olympus, of winning… and maybe he just made it up on the spot after talking to me before the fights.

I don’t believe that, though.

He has a motive I have yet to uncover.

A wave comes toward us. A big one, already foaming white at the top and beginning to curl.

“Go under,” I order.

I take a breath and dive down, and he follows a second later. I tug at his arm, making him swim lower, and I count to twenty in my head.

We pop back up, and I frown at thecrashof the wave against the rocks.

The ocean is a bit more volatile today than usual—but that makes two of us.

“How do we get out of here?” He treads water carefully, his gaze flicking from the cliffside to the incoming waves.

He shed his jacket and shirt, too. Maybe even his shoes and socks—I can’t see from here. His hair is plastered down. The smooth, curved lines of his shoulder muscles, down to corded biceps, draw my attention. Not that I should be watching him like that, but… you know.

Sex with Saint seems to have awoken that part of my brain. The lust side.

It was easier when that part of me was dormant.

To answer his question, I point to the metal runs drilled into the rock behind him. The ladder hugs the uneven terrain, making it an adventurous climb.

Back in its infancy, Olympus tested the fighters’ desires to compete by asking them to do insane things. Like jumping off this cliff. Although after a few broke their legs in their attempts, the cliff kind of shifted to represent something more ominous.

Now only the seasoned cliff jumpers attempt it. There’s another spot farther up the coast with a lower cliff and an easier route up. That particular spot is also protected by the curve of the land, blocking most of the ocean waves from coming in directly.

This is more fun.

He exhales.

“No one said you got to dictate how today was going to go,” I point out. “Fine print, my friend.”

I ride the back of the next swell, paddling hard to reach one of the rungs. My fingers catch on it, and it seems to take herculean effort to drag myself up. Kade follows right behind me, his breath literally hot on my heels until we get to the top.

I flop onto my back.

Kade drops to his knees beside me, laughing quietly. “You’re something else.”

Goosebumps prickle at my skin, although I can’t tell if it’s because of the salt water still clinging to my body or something else. I glance over, taking in his bruised abdomen—where Saint got a few hits in—and tight, obvious six-pack. Hell, eight-pack. There are no visible tattoos above the waistband of his now-soaked jeans.

His shirt and jacket and boots were discarded a lot hastier than mine, belying his urgency.

Can’t say that doesn’t make me feel alittlebetter.

When the watched sensation doesn’t ease, and I can’t pinpoint it to Kade, I crane my head back. The lawn becomes the sky, and an upside-down figure stands near my bike.

Maybe it should surprise me, but it really,reallydoesn’t. Because I know him from his silhouette alone.

I sit up and crane around, eyeing Saint Hart right-side-up. Who has no right to be glaring at me like he is.

“My sore loser?” Kade guesses.

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