He swept Elysia up in his arms and moved over to the windows, bouncing the infant and talking to her in a singsongy sweet voice that sounded nothing like the smart-ass half witch who loved to antagonize the Council.
“Titus,” Callia said, “Natasa’s looking for you. I passed her in the library.”
Titus’s hazel eyes lit, and he quickly pushed away from Theron’s desk. “That means my job here is done.”
As he rushed out the door in search of his new mate, Skyla dropped onto the couch with a scowl. “Someone take that baby away from the lord of shits and giggles over there.”
Orpheus turned from the window and shot her a wicked hot look. “Scared, Siren?”
Skyla arched a brow his way. “Of a baby? No. Of you and your not-so-bright ideas? Absolutely. You’re not getting one, Daemon, so stop looking at me like that.”
Orpheus grinned and refocused on Elysia in his arms. “Don’t worry, my beautiful Lys. We’ll talk some sense into her.”
Skyla huffed. Elysia grabbed Orpheus’s nose with her little hand. Laughter rang out in the room. From everyone but Isadora and Theron.
Lowering herself into a chair, Isadora ran her fingers over her forehead and tried to ignore the disapproving looks coming from the leader of the Argonauts.
Theron was worried about her. But this was bigger than the monarchy and the Argonauts. It was something she wouldn’t back down from.
“Hey.” Callia leaned against the arm of her chair, her auburn hair swaying with the movement. “You okay? You don’t look so hot.”
“I’m just tired,” Isadora said. And missing Demetrius. And worried about Nick. And, based on that vision she’d had, hoping she wasn’t making a giant mistake by putting herself smack dab in the middle of his people.
Callia smiled. “Everything’s going to work out.”
“Will it?” Isadora looked up at her sister. “How can you be sure?”
“Because the Fates aren’t done with any of us. You just have to have faith.”
Faith wasn’t something Isadora put much stock in these days. Because she knew in the bottom of her heart that faith wasn’t going to save Nick or his people. Action would. She glanced toward her happy daughter smiling up at Orpheus, and wished they could all feel that kind of joy again, Nick especially.
But something told her not even faith was going to be enough to stop this impending doom she sensed was coming in the pit of her stomach.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cynna pushed her way out from under Zagreus and stumbled from his giant platform bed. She didn’t worry about waking him. After one of his “sessions,” he slept like the dead, and tonight he’d been especially rough, which meant he was extremely tired.
Bastard.
She glared down at him, asleep on his stomach, completely naked, the blanket pushed to the floor. A serpent tattoo wrapped around his right shoulder and arm, and she could just see the edges of the scorpion on his left biceps. His body was all muscle, perfect in every way, but then, being a god, she expected nothing less. But never, not once in all the time she’d been here, had she ever felt anything for him besides resignation. Something she was surprised he’d never picked up on.
Her body ached—her back, her knees, her chest, her wrists—and though her stomach turned at the things she’d let him do to her, she knew she had no one to blame but herself. She never told him no. She never stood against him. Part of her rationalized it was because he was immortal, and it would do no good. But another part—a twisted part—knew it was because there was a place inside her that craved the darkness, even if she tried to rationalize she was simply using him as he was using her.
Disgusted with herself, she turned away, grabbed her clothes from the floor, crossed to his dresser and yanked the drawer open. She grasped the first shirt her hand closed around, slammed it shut, then stalked out of the room.
In the living area of his bedchamber, she jerked on his long-sleeved T-shirt, wincing at the ache in her shoulders, hating the smell and the way the cotton felt against her skin, but refusing to bind herself back up in that tight corset he made her parade around in. After tugging on her skirt, she slid on her boots, bent over to zip them closed, then caught sight of her wrists.
Bruises had already formed. Usually, he kept his “marks” where no one else could see them, but tonight he hadn’t cared, as if he’d wanted to brand her as his property. And that meant tomorrow she’d have to work extra hard to cover them so none of his satyrs saw and decided it was time to have a go at her.
Fucking idiot. Her this time, not him. Because she wasn’t strong enough to put a stop to something she knew was wrong.