Rearranging the group, I flank her left side with Pele and place the Wyvern, and then Vanessa, on the end. I then gather a fortifying breath before stepping up to Taranis. “Would you mind standing here, next to Ms. Lemon?”
He turns his gaze to Ms. Lemon and gives her a sultry wink that makes my own stomach tighten, even though he’s not looking at me. He whispers, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
The mayor’s got dark-brown skin, but damn, I can feel her blushing from here.
A brush of cool air hits my right side, and I jolt at the sight of ice crusting suddenly on Taranis’s cheek. He laughs and the ice cracks and falls away as sparks—actual, electrical sparks—flare across his face.
His brown skin turns to silver under the lightning he generates, and his sharp fade highlights the shape of his head. He has a perfect jawline.Aperfectjawline. Just slightly too brutal to be called pretty but that, regardless, I’m fairly certain any woman in the world would still kill for.
“Boreas ...” he says in a mock threat.
The Champion who can control ice and snow rolls his eyes from his position in the back row. A tall, lanky male, he’s got light-brown skin a shade darker than Taranis’s, freckles, and bright-red hair. The combo makes him seem like he should be controlling spring and summer elements, rather than the wintery ones he does have dominion over.
“Quit your flirting. Let’s get this over with,” Boreas grunts.
“Shamelessflirting.” The Olympian rolls her eyes.
Stunning, this woman. I place her on Taranis’s other side. She elbows him in the ribs, and I bark out a laugh that draws several sets of eyes to me. Just not Taranis’s; he’s too busy smirking back at her. When I guide her to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, he sends electrical shocks into her arm, covered in green-and-yellow spandex. Again, I chuckle.
Satisfied with their placements, I return to my tripod. I take more photos, arranging and rearranging the group another dozen times before finally taking individual portraits of each of the Champions, plus a few cutesy candids of the Wyvern and Vanessa that I know will dominate the interwebs in the coming days.
When all is said and done, I send the group to break while I gather my equipment and review some of the photos.
Huh.
I backtrack to one picture and zoom in on Taranis’s face. It’s hard to see clearly in the little digital viewfinder, but it looks like Taranis’s immaculately arched brows are slanted toward his nose in an angry line and his full lips are pinched. His eyes, which I’ve seen shine blue in photographs, now shine purple—yes, I said that right,purple.They glow brilliantly, hypnotically, and are trained on the Wyvern’s back. The Wyvern pays no attention to him, facing away from Taranis as he gives his fiancée a kiss on the top of her head of tight brown and blond curls. Also ... are Taranis’s fists clenched?
Huh.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Taranis looks pissed. But luckily, I do know better, and I know that in addition to being the most handsome male in the world, he’s also among the nicest. Must be just a weird moment.
I delete the photo and continue through the rest of the collection, stopping at the last picture that I took. It’s one of the Champions all laughing. I sigh. Okay, it may not be taking pics in the heat of battle, but it’s not the worst gig. Not even close.
Chapter One
Taranis
Three months later
I stare down at the front page of theLondon Champions Dailywith my back teeth clenched and lightning skittering along my temples. I know he can see it.
Frederick Yu’s face gets redder and redder. The color creeps up from the collar of his starched shirt to his weak jaw. Never trust a man with a weak jaw. I should have fucking known better. Freddie here’s been nothing but a disappointment from the start.
“Sir, with all due respect, it’s been three weeks ...”
“Three weeks that I haven’t seen one front page with my name on it. You have to scroll for a full minute on any news app to find the first mention of a Champion that isn’t the fucking Wyvern!”
Freddie hesitantly approaches my desk. I work from home, though the areas where I live and work are separated by thick concrete walls and a biometrically coded entrance. Nobody comes into my office without my permission. And nobody goes into the livable areas of my home ever. Not that I use the space to relax. I don’t relax. I amass power, and I can’t do that if people stop taking my calls because I can’t out-fucking-smile the goddamn pink monster and his fucking fiancée!
Freddie shuffles his feet, holding his tablet against his chest in a white-knuckle grip. He looks at me as if he’d like nothing more than to bash me over the skull with it. It’s a look I know well by now, but only one of the thirty or so idiots I’ve fired in the past year has actually had the stones—well, the tits—to swing.
My designer at the time tried to slam her laptop over my head after I asked her if she’d developed spontaneous color blindness when she designed my new uniform. As she lifted the device, I exploded it in her hands, which caused a jagged piece to tear through one of her palms. She needed thirty stitches and a couple bones reset, but that didn’t stop her from trying to sock me good with her other arm. She missed, in any case, then accepted the settlement my COE lawyers shoved down her throat, and moved on.
I watch Freddie, hoping he’ll make the same mistake. My desire to take my aggression out on his stupid face is impossible to think past. I crack my neck.
Instead, the fucker takes half a step back. He shakes his head and cards his fingers through his short black hair, causing it to stick up straight. “We are the best PR firm in the country—”
“Youwerethe best PR firm in the country.” I drag the Business section of yesterday’s paper to the top of the pile.
