Achilles is probably my strongest competitor, though the rest of the champions are no slouches. But he wants Ares nearly as bad as I do, and that gives him an edge I can’t afford to ignore. Having sex with him… Continuing to have sex with him… It’s a mistake.
Sleeping with Patroclus, his boyfriend, lover, partner? Whatever they call each other, it’s like poking a bear with a sharpened stick. I’m making things complicated, and if somehow I fail and Achilles becomes Ares, that means he’ll be my husband and both of them will be in close proximity with me for the rest of my life. Messy does not even begin to cover it.
I’m not sure I care. Not enough to stop.
I find the men sitting at the table by the kitchenette. Achilles is still wearing his gray sweatpants, and I can’t help my physical response to seeing them and his bare chest. His body is unreal, and knowing how effectively he uses it for his partners’ pleasure? I shiver a little. Patroclus has pulled on a pair of shorts, but he’s left off his shirt, too. This must be how they always are in the mornings: half-dressed and relaxed, easing into their day with a comfort I barely comprehend.
After I graduated from high school, the first thing I did was move out of my father’s penthouse and into one of my own. Living with Zeus was hardly a comfortable, soothing environment, and my siblings and I all dealt with that in different ways. Usually by starting shit. Living alone was a huge adjustment, and I quickly became territorial enough that I rarely let people stay the night. Even—especially—romantic partners. I’m not a morning person, and that means I have a difficult time getting my public persona into place before noon.
The only time I let that practice slip was when I dated Paris, and he gave me cause to regret it. It only took a few days of waking up together for the comments to start. Initially they were innocent enough. You look tired, Helen. It didn’t take long to graduate to full-on criticism. Maybe you shouldn’t leave the bedroom without makeup. What if you get photographed through the window? They’re going to think you’re sick. It got to the point where I’d wake up an hour before him to put my face on and do my hair so he wouldn’t have ammunition against me.
Paris, of course, just found other ways to pick me apart at the seams.
Best not to think too hard about the fact that I haven’t even thought to keep that mask secure around these two men. Achilles is the first person outside of family who’s experienced my bite, and Patroclus brings out something unforgivably soft in me that I’d completely forgotten existed. More, I haven’t worn makeup except when we’re going to be in front of a camera, and neither one of them has made a single comment. I’m not certain they even noticed.
The scent of coffee makes my mouth water, so I make a beeline for the counter. “I didn’t realize we had a coffee maker in our rooms.” I’m sure I would have seen it in mine if I had one, but I’ve been understandably distracted since arriving here.
“We don’t. We requested one after we got here because Achilles is a bear without his morning caffeine.” Patroclus holds up a mug, and I realize he’s already got one in front of him. “Cream and sugar, right?”
I change course, heading toward the table and accepting the mug from him. How could he possibly have memorized my preferred way of drinking coffee? He wasn’t even in the room when I made it yesterday morning. I consider him but decide it’s a question for another day. I sip the coffee and offer a reluctant smile. “Perfect.”
“Helen…”
The small pleasure of a perfect cup of coffee fades. “I know. Time to talk.”
Patroclus glances at Achilles. Again, I’m struck by the intimacy of the moment. They’ve obviously known each other a long time because they’re doing that couple thing where they have an entire conversation without speaking. I ignore the stab of jealousy. It’s not that I want that with either of them, but I do want that level of comfort in a relationship.
Unfortunately, that means letting my guard down, and the last time that happened, I ended up with Paris.
I take another sip of my coffee. This is where they either let me down gently or try to hard-sell me on quitting. The former, I’ll accept. The latter? Good luck with that. I take the third chair at the table. There were only two last night, so one of them must have brought this one in this morning. A tiny thoughtful gesture that I have no business feeling emotional over. Gods, I’m a mess.
“We should keep fucking.”
Patroclus makes a choked noise and starts coughing, but I’m too busy blinking at Achilles. Surely he didn’t say what I think he just said. “What?”
“It was fun. I want to do it again.” He stares at me as if daring me to contradict him. “You want to do it again, too.”
I’d be smart to argue. The sex was mind-blowing, to say the least. I was telling the truth when I said I compartmentalize well—thanks, Father—but even I can’t be sure my heart won’t revolt and get involved if I keep sleeping with both of them. Maybe I could hold out against Achilles, but…
I glance at Patroclus. He’s a mottled red, but he seems to be breathing okay now. “He didn’t discuss this with you first.”
“No,” he bites out. “He didn’t.”
Achilles shrugs and drinks his coffee. He puts on a good act like he doesn’t give a shit, but there’s a thread of tension in his shoulders that tells me he cares about the destination of this conversation more than he wants to admit. “I don’t have to talk about it with him first. Patroclus will let guilt get in the way of doing what he wants, but what he wants is to bend you over the table and—”
“That’s enough, Achilles.” Patroclus sets his mug down hard enough to splash coffee onto the back of his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice, though. He’s too busy glaring at his lover. “It’s like you never fucking think before you speak. We took advantage, and—”
That’s about enough of that.
I know he doesn’t mean it to sound like he thinks I’m weak, like I can’t stand up for myself or make my own decisions, but I’ve had too many people ignore my own words because they wanted to control me. I don’t think there’s a drop of malice or manipulation behind this, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s overriding me about my own thoughts and feelings. “Why don’t you ask me?”
He stops short. “What?”
“Ask me,” I repeat. He’s being stubborn right now, and maybe another time I’ll enjoy provoking him to get a reaction, but right now I have to draw my own line in the sand. Either he’ll respect it and we can keep negotiating, or he won’t and this ends now. When he doesn’t immediately speak, I prod. “It’s very easy. You say ‘Helen, now that the afterglow has worn off, are you feeling any different about fucking us?’ Now, you try.”