Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
It’s weird to still consider it my uncle’s kitchen. I know that. He’s been dead for well over a decade at this point and I’ve been Poseidon for nearly half my life. But this house doesn’t feel like home. It never has. It’s impossible to walk through these halls and not have the small hairs on the back of my neck rise just like they did when I was a child. Trespasser. Freak. He called me that and more when he was still alive. I truly don’t believe in ghosts, but sometimes when I have reason to be in this house late at night, I can almost convince myself that they’re real.
The kitchen is nice, though. And while it is part of the house that still feels like it belongs to my uncle, I highly doubt he spent any amount of time in this particular room. I still maintain the staff—what’s left of them—from when he was Poseidon, but that’s mostly because it feels wrong to let them go.
It also feels wrong to sit down while someone else cooks me a meal, as if my hands aren’t capable of labor. Thankfully, the cook has long since gone home. He usually only comes by in the morning these days to prep a day’s worth of food for me and my people, on the off chance that we come through these doors.
That’s where I go now, to the large industrial-sized fridge tucked into the corner. Sure enough, there are neatly labeled containers with the makings for a ridiculously extravagant meal. It makes Louis happy to cook them, so I don’t ever complain. And they are delicious. Almost enough to draw me here just for a taste when I don’t technically have business within these walls.
Icarus watches with narrowed eyes as I pull the containers out and line them up on the counter. “Leftovers?”
I pause and give him a long look. “These leftovers are probably the best thing you’ll have eaten in recent memory. Don’t be a snob.”
His brows wing up. “If we’re back to throwing stones about being a snob, you’re the one who is a member of the most powerful group in this city. If anyone’s a snob, it’s you.”
I don’t bother responding to that. He’s obviously looking to provoke a reaction, and I know for a fact it’s not true. If anything, the criticisms lobbed my way are that I’m too different to fit in with everyone else. Ironic, that.
My entire life, I’ve been a square peg trying to fit in the round hole of societal expectations. I can fake it, I can shave down my corners, but it fits like a too-tight coat, like I can’t catch my breath.
Since I became Poseidon, I stopped having to try as hard. Because of that power. People criticize me for not being charming or witty or a number of bullshit things related to playing nice with the press, but I fulfill my duties better than the last three Poseidons combined. I don’t cause problems, and I stay out of the petty power plays the rest of the Thirteen indulge in. The rest of the Thirteen mostly leave me alone, just like I prefer.
At least until Hera’s coup. Or attempted coup, as it were. She hasn’t quite pulled it off yet, and it worries me that she’s continuing with her plan despite the enemy literally at our gates.
A few minutes later, I set a warmed plate full of food in front of Icarus. “Eat.”
He makes no move to pick up the fork that I slide across the counter. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You can’t honestly expect me to eat a meal while you stand there staring. Besides, have you even had dinner?”
“I haven’t, in fact.” Stress has a way of annihilating my appetite, and it isn’t particularly intense during the day anyway. It’s late at night when my body usually decides to inform me that I haven’t given it nourishment in far too long. We’re hours away from that point, though.
Maybe he thinks it’s poisoned? I would hardly waste good food on that sort of thing, but it’s not like he knows me. I grab a second fork and take a careful bite of everything on the plate. “Satisfied?”
His smile is slow and a little wicked and makes my stomach flip. “Hardly. But it’s a start.” The words are smooth except for the barest edge. It takes me a few seconds to place the tone. Flirtation. But that doesn’t make any sense, even if he was talking about sex earlier to fluster me. He’s my captive. He rightfully hates me, and people may be all sorts of twisted up and do things against their better interest, but surely he draws the line at actually trying to seduce his captor…right?
“Share a meal with me, Poseidon.” His grin is still there, morphing into something playful. Does he realize it doesn’t meet his eyes?