Page 24 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows
I take another sip of my coffee, its heat scorching my tongue and cutting through the morning haze that clings to me. A charged stillness clings to the room, the far-off hum of the city seeping through the glass.
Down at the end of the couch, Théo’s body is angled so that we’re kind of facing each other. A pang grips my heart, steeped in regret for the space between us.
Clad in nothing but his boxer briefs, he lounges in a posture that feigns nonchalance, yet his penetrating gaze betrays him.
Our simultaneous swallow sparks a burst of laughter and shatters the tight silence. Shared amusement and a sense of relief ripple between us, prompting another mirrored response that softens the lingering tension.
“Aren’t you cold?” I can’t help but tease, glancing at him over the rim of the mug. He looks glorious, and I make a point of not taking in every inch of exposed skin, or the concealed bits for that matter. I take another swig before setting the cup back on the coffee table, realizing too late that my fingers are twitching, aching to touch him. I take a deep breath to pace myself. His face expresses a myriad of emotions.
“I’m good.” His voice is music to my ears. It carries amusement and a trace of uncertainty that contrast with his attire.
He’s good. I’m not sure how to interpret this. I haven’t been on Earth in ages. While their pop culture gives me clues to human moods and emotions, my rustiness at reading them frustrates me. Navigating smartphones and social media added another layer of maddening confusion. Layla’s crash course sliced through the initial fog, lifting a heavy burden. That hard-won clarity fuels my resolve amid the chaos.
I’m not done struggling when it comes to decoding the subtle signs—the real meaning behind the words. And yet, despite it all, my bones burn with the certainty that we could be so good together. A god and a human—how crazy is that? A rapid fire ignites beneath my skin.
Can I dare to try this unforeseen attraction and break my own rules?
His gaze flickers between my quizzical eyes and my parted mouth. In turn, his teeth worry his bottom lip. Scrutinizingme as I do him, he shifts—one leg bent beneath the other, one foot tugged under his toned ass. Of course, I stumbled on this knowledge by chance, after playing Good Samaritan and stripping him down to his boxer briefs upon our return. I wouldn’t have had any excuse to check him out otherwise… obviously.
With a shuddering breath, he straightens up and remains muted. His fingers pick at the edge of a square burgundy cushion.
Were you lying when you said you were good, Théo?
“If you stare at me any harder, I’ll suspect you’re planning an assassination.” A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Which would be pointless, by the way.” The crease forms between his brows. “Dying isn’t part of my… brand…” I heave out a short, bitter chuckle—until the memory of the Titans ripping me apart until I died crashes back.
I don’t intend to kill the mood, so why confess now? He’s just a human. A magnetic one, yes—but still. I bite my lip, reigning in the secrets my big mouth threatens to reveal. Why spill some of my most troubling indiscretions? Especially not regarding my role in a soul’s journey through death and reincarnation. Zeus’s wrath stacked atop Hades’s contempt? No thanks. How could any mortal grasp that I died… and eventually returned? Maybe he’s read stories about me, but I’m nowhere near ready to expose it all. Various ancient sources clash and don’t mesh into one solid version, yet shards of truth gleam in each.
Théo says nothing, blind to the storm inside me masked with an apparent calm that I’ve come to perfect. Goosebumps rise on his arms, redness crawls up his neck—his skin speaks what he won’tvoice. My pride feeds on it. The quiet suits me. I don’t flinch, fixing my gaze on his face and upper body.
At last, his lips curve into a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s… You’re…” He gestures vaguely at me, struggling to find the words. “You’re not at all what I expected.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I cage his eyes, leaning back on the couch, my left arm resting along the side. The movement is casual, deliberate, but I don’t miss how his breath catches. His eyes dart away for a moment as though the weight of me is too much.
Pursing his lips, he admits in a soft, almost shy tone, “You’re larger than life, so I haven’t formed an opinion… yet. Can’t wrap my head around… everything… And your story is… a lot to take in.”
There it is.
He saw my world, and the weight of it presses down on him as he faces me.
Shit!
I purposefully didn’t erase his memory, nor did I inform my people—there’s a business deal to close and he can’t forget that.
I need to sell him on this win-win situation. He must steal that painting—mypainting—and give it back to its rightful owner rather than his criminal clients. If breaking an oath, breaching a contract, or risking his life is what it takes, so be it. I won’t let him wind up dead—I blame Eros for my sudden urge to protect him.
In due course, I’ll steer Théo back onto a righteous path to atone for his sins. Whether it’s Eros’s influence—and I’m certain it is—I won’t allow Théo’s soul to fall into Hell, even if I have no idea how he got tangled with bad guys and became one himself. I’ll guide him towards redemption. One step after another. From what I’ve gathered, he’s a fast learner, so I’m confident he’ll come around. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy my wicked games with him, if he agrees with me.
I laugh, the sound low and warm. “I get that a lot. Usually right before someone decides whether to run for the hills or stick around. You see, my world can even be daunting for other gods and divine creatures.”
His attention snaps back to me, and something defiant sparks in his expression. “I’m not running.” Am I imagining the challenge in his hooded expression?
“No,” I say, my voice dropping a notch. “You’re not.”
After the earlier reprieve, tension crackles between us again. His long fingers dig into the cushion as his lingering expression traces my hands, shoulders, and neck. I catch the hitch in his breath, the quick swallow of his Adam’s apple, and somehow take in the air growing electric—too alive for such an ordinary morning. Or is it?
Threading his fingers through his soft hair, he shifts again, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward slightly, as though pulled closer by something he doesn’t quite understand. “Maybe you’re not even real,” he murmurs, almost to himself, though his eyes don’t leave mine. “Maybe you’re some… imaginary friend I’ve conjured up because I’m losing my mind.”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at the door. Room service.
