Hermes’ eyes on her didn’t make Iliana as uncomfortable as she’d expected.
He always watched her, cataloging every shift in mood and asking after each expression, as if solving a problem. Somehow, it wasn’t unsettling. His teasing chipped away at her barriers with surprising ease.
She was getting too comfortable with him. Iliana wasn’t naïve. Hermes was dangerous in ways the others weren’t. Thanatos was steady. Anubis, blunt. Hypnos, unreadable.But Hermes was temptation wrapped in smiles and soft touches—the kind of mistake you didn’t regret until it was too late.
She recognized the red flags. She walked away from those relationships before feelings took hold. Yet, here she was, not pulling away as he drew closer.
She sank her teeth into her chocolate croissant. Crisp, flaky layers gave way to buttery softness and silky, bittersweet chocolate. If he kept feeding her like this, she might actually let herself like him.
She’d left three gods behind in various states of tension and anger, yet here she was, letting a fourth one charm her with pastries and Parisian nights as if none of that mattered.
Her parents would’ve loved this place.Her mother would’ve hovered at every stall, collecting stories from the vendors, scribbling them into her leather journal eachevening. Her father would’ve been at her side, sampling every dish, charming stall owners into sharing their secret recipes.
They’d talked about Paris, circling dates on their calendar, but they pushed it off to the future. Next year. When things settled. When they had more time.
“Someday,” her mother had said, but someday had run out for them.
Now, here Iliana stood, eating chocolate croissants in a Paris market with a god, and they’d never know. She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. The pastry turned to dust in her mouth.
What was she doing?
Her teary gaze wandered toward the remains of the old orphanage that once stood near the market. The only visible trace left was the apse of the church, its rounded back wall—where the altar once stood—jutting from the surrounding buildings.
Hermes had translated the sign for her when they’d first entered the market: Marché des Enfants Rouges, the Market of the Red Children. The name came from the orphans who were once dressed in red to symbolize charity.
I’m just another orphan wandering the streets of Paris.
Closing her eyes, she pushed away the grief threatening to have her gasping for air.
Her parents wouldn’t want her to dwell on their deaths when she was finally living. Not when she was finally experiencing the world they’d dreamed of showing her. There was still so much for her to experience. Something she’d promised herself and their memory to do.
Once she was sure she wouldn’t cry, she forced her eyes open and came back to her surroundings. She took another bite, this time tasting the butter and chocolate instead of the grief, and let herself absorb the atmosphere.
Wafting scents of warm baked bread, exotic spices, and smoking meats from every corner of the world made her mouth water. The chatter in dozens of languages and the sharp clink of glass at nearby tables. The vendors’ melodic shouts as they competed for attention. It was all so much. Almost too much.
Or maybe it was exactly what she needed.
After hiding away from the world while grieving, then with the intense gods, being back in the human world was jarring. The people surrounding them weren’t watching for signs of the curse to reappear. They were just living. Arguing over the prices of produce, laughing at nothing, or sharing bites of food. Being ordinary.
Even after such a short time away from the world, the sensory overload of being back in it hit hard. But instead of overwhelming her, it centered her. It reminded her that she was still alive, capable of joy even when everything else was falling apart.
She noticed the glances—the way attention followed Hermes. Eyes lingered on his face, his build, on the way he moved effortlessly through the crowd. They all looked envious or interested. The only reason she’d ignored the constant attention was that, for once, she was doing something she’d always dreamed of.
“Does it ever bother you?” she asked.
“Hm?” Hermes blinked, having been staring at her. He brushed a crumb from her lip, his touch lingering.
She tried not to over-analyze the shiver it caused. “Everyone is staring at you. Does it ever get old?”
He shrugged, his smile lazy and familiar. “I’m not worried about them. I’m too distracted by the woman trying to bankrupt me with baked goods.” He winked, but his deflection was obvious.
She grabbed his warm hand and tugged him toward the market entrance. When she felt resistance, she turned back, catching the way his eyes moved up and around. Scanning. Searching for something. His smile was gone.
“What is it?” he asked.
She pointed to the glowing city beyond the market. “I figured I might never see Paris again. You’re a god, so take advantage of that. Show me something mortals can’t see. Be a better tour guide.”
His eyes narrowed in mock offense, placing his palm over his heart. “Are you saying I’m a subpar guide?”
