Page 141 of Crown of Olympus
“I’ve become well acquainted with that reality,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t change the fact that Iwantto protect you anyway. That I’d happily give my life for yours without hesitation.”
“It won’t come to that,” I vowed.
“Good. I truly hope it doesn’t, because I need a million more years of being able to dothis.”
Before I could blink, he dragged me towards him. His large, lightning-scarred hands framed my face, fingers tangled in the hair at the base of my skull, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
His lips crashed into mine. His kiss devoured. It was neither gentle, nor sweet. It was a claiming. A consuming. Like a storm long held at bay, finally breaking and burning through him.
He kissed me like a tether inside him had snapped, like holding back had cost him something, and now, he was through with pretending it didn’t hurt.
I fell into it willingly; I fell into him like my life depended on it — like his lips were all I needed to survive.
I could taste his gift on my tongue — electric and humming.
I could taste all the words he’d left unsaid, all the fear he’d felt when Poseidon dragged me over that dune, all the rage when he saw my broken body.
But beneath it all there was a deep and all-encompassinglonging. The kind that erodes you piece by piece until you’re left with nothing but desperate need. The kind that builds day by day, moment by moment, until you either break… or act.
I found that there was a tether within me too, tearing at my chest, yearning to get closer. My fingers wrenched the front of his cuirass, dragging him closer — like I could sink beneath his skin if I just pressed a little harder.
I kissed him desperately, my face tilting up to meet him fully — to tell him without words that I was breaking too. That I had been splintering every time he looked away, fracturing every time he pulled back and shoved those walls back up.
When we finally pulled apart, breathless and burning, our foreheads met, and we laughed.
I smiled, lopsided and full of joy. His matched mine in intensity and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. My smile turned into a smirk as I playfully whispered, “You never did tell me why you call me Nightshade.”
He blinked, a surprised huff escaping him.
“You’re right,” he replied. “I call you Nightshade because, like the flower, you are both devastatingly beautiful and hauntingly lethal. I knew you would be my undoing… and yet, I never cared to survive you. I only knew I would die if you never kissed me again.”
CHAPTER 42
Nyssa
The sky was eerily dark,the sun hours from rising.
It was poignantly reminiscent of my nightmare, but this was no dream. I fought the shiver crawling down my spine. I was firmly in possession of my body, and Hera had summoned us to her trial.
The twelfth and final trial.
The training arena had once again been transformed in our absence. Gone were the riotous crowds and racks of weaponry. Gone was the stain of Leander’s blood on the earthen floor. No targets lined the centre of the running track. No sunlight yet kissed our skin.
The absence of raucous cheering was almost as jarring as the single, glaring spotlight aimed at our faces. I stood with the last remaining champions — my newfound friends, and if Caelus was to be believed, secret allies. Apollo and Archimedes stood to my left; Aros and Caelus to my right. Each waited in varying degrees of impatience. Hera had summoned us an hour ago and was now pushing ‘fashionably late’ to its limits.
Moments ago, she’d sent a servant to lead us out onto the arena floor. The girl was a lower Olympian, maybe of dryaddescent — small and timid, her skin tinted green, and eyes that refused to rise above our knees. It was not an act of respect, but rather visceral fear. My fists clenched. Rage burned through my veins at the thought of someone instilling that fear in her —for it was assuredly a learned response.
Caelus’ warm hand grazed my own, calming my already fraying emotions.
“Reign it in, Nightshade, or she’s already won before you even set foot in her trial,” he whispered.
He was right, of course.
Suddenly, the spotlight swivelled south, illuminating the centre of the arena. There, a perfect circle of mirrors had been erected — polished silver and gleaming glass. Through the single opening, Hera stood in a fine golden gown, not a hair out of place.
“Welcome, champions.” She raised her arms like she was unveiling a great masterpiece.
“Come, come!”
