Page 15 of Crown of Olympus
One side of my lips tugged upward as I claimed the seat at the heart of their feast — dead centre of their abundant table. The decision was met with wide eyes and gasps of disbelief.
Much to Hera’s obvious disdain, Charon slid in next to me and poured us both generous goblets of wine. We exchanged mischievous grins and waited for the chaos to unfold — an inevitability.
There was nothing these snooty Olympians hated more than the feeling of being slighted, and I’d just given them all the divine equivalent of a middle finger. By claiming the central seat, I knew Hera would not deign to sit opposite me, effectively ousting the ex-Queen from her own event. She clambered to find the next best alternative — the head of the table — however, with the seating arrangements fixed, there were no chairs placed at either end. She instead settled for the chair as far to our right as she could manage. Poseidon sat opposite her, with his son beside him.
Arm in arm, Hestia and Athena placed themselves at the other end, murmuring quietly. Apollo, Artemis, and her daughter opted to join them. Aphrodite boldly claimed the seat opposite Charon, a string of infatuated admirers trailing behind her like little ducklings.
I could see the beginnings of small alliances forming, like gravitating to like. Charon and I sat as an island between them all. Eventually, though, the seats surrounding us became the only ones available.
Just in time for Ares to stalk in, his red-headed champion close behind. It was then I noticed the similarities between them — this was undoubtedly a son. Ares wedged himself between Hera and Hermes, ironically jostling the already-disgruntled god of travel further down the table.
Ares’ son, however, broke away as soon as he spotted the empty seat to my left. His playful grin never faltered as he dropped into it, sprawling out comfortably in that infuriating,spread-legged way only men can seem to comfortably execute. His right leg landed dangerously close to my left, heat radiating off him in waves, even through our layers of clothing.
This god was fiery in more ways than one, it seemed.
He’s got more balls than I expected from a child of Ares,I conceded.
“Good evening, darling,” he purred, his voice a deep, rolling rumble, as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of flame and was still simmering from the inside out. “You’re looking positively delicious tonight.”
“Oh, barbecue boy,” I began dryly. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “It was no cheap joke. I’d much rather taste you than anything on this table,” he smirked, eyes dropping suggestively to my upper thighs. “In fact, I’d much rather taste youonthis table.”
Inwardly I flinched, caught somewhere between shock and intrigue. Outwardly, I pursed my lips, determined to portray the contempt I knew I should be feeling. I waited a moment before replying, needing the time to compose myself.
“Hmm. You’re clearly a son of Ares, but which one exactly?” I asked, raising a dark brow.
I guess I should have been worried when his grin deepened, amber eyes flickering with wicked heat.
“Ah, yes. You’re right. Where are my manners?” He leaned, speaking in a tone a few levels above a whisper. “You reallyshouldknow the name you’ll be screaming when I make you come so hard you forget your own.”
Charon choked on his wine, dark red liquid spraying across the white linen tablecloth. One of Aphrodite’s ducklings recoiled in horror. The goddess of desire merely grinned, clearly delighted.
My lips parted for an entire second before I snapped my jaw shut with an audibleclick.
The god leaned back, candlelight dancing within his irises. “I’m Aros,” he said smoothly, hands locking behind his head. “God of war and violence, remarkable flame-wielder, superb spearman, and possessor of very talented fingers.” He wiggled them suggestively from behind his mane of flame-red hair.
“Boy, Daddy had a hard time with letters the day you were born, huh?” I teased, unable to resist the jab — still utterly clueless how to respond to… all of that.
Aros leaned in conspiratorially, his breath caressing my bare skin. He smelled dangerously inviting — like whiskey and something sweeter.
“Between you and me, darling, I think he did it just so he could stake a second claim on Olympus. Better his odds, so to speak. At least his other children are more creatively named.” He shrugged. “Mostly.”
“I guess it could be worse,” I pondered aloud, tapping my lower lip with a solitary finger. “He could’ve written your name down a little too hastily, making that ‘r’ appear just a tiny bit longer. Then you’d be A-N-O-S.”
Aros froze, processing.
“Anos,” he whispered, trying out the word phonetically. Then he erupted with a howl of laughter, clutching his belly, as if to hold himself together. The rest of the table fell silent, conversations abruptly cutting off, sentences left half-spoken.
And if looks could kill gods, we’d have been shades already.
Aside from Aros’ roaring amusement, the hall remained quiet. Hera’s icy gaze latched onto mine, cold and calculating. I met her stare readily; our eyes locked in a battle neither of us would concede.
I let my shadows slip through the skin of my palm, coiling around the chalice in my hand. Her gaze flicked downward, tracking the inky shadow serpent slithering between my fingers. Her own perfectly manicured fingers tightened around her gilded fork — a rare crack in her flawless facade. Slowly, Itook a sip of wine and leaned back in my seat with the calm grace of a patient predator. One who hunts by waiting, biding its time until that one fatal flaw revealed itself.
Hera placed her drink down with a softclink. Tilting her head slightly, her nostrils flared as if she were inhaling something disagreeable. Her eyes flicked to Aros, expression unchanged.
“How charming,” she drawled, her honeyed voice laced with venom. “I suppose even the lowliest of creatures can learn parlour tricks with enough…” She paused, pursing her pink lips. “…motivation.”
