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I take a breath and open the door.
The first thing I see is Helen, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch. Every time I’ve interacted with her, even when she was obviously out of sorts on the treadmill, even when we were both children, she’s seemed larger than life. That presence is nowhere in evidence now. It’s so easy to forget how small she is. Athletic, yes, but she’s barely five six, if that. Right now, with her huddled on the couch, she seems even smaller. If the attacker was my size, or Achilles’s, she wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The thought leaves me cold.
She looks up and blinks those amber eyes at me. She’s paler than normal, her perfect features drawn and exhausted. Even her hair is a bit of a mess, the dark strands tangled with sleep. She still smiles when she sees me, a little movement that seems almost fragile. “Hey.”
My heart starts racing, which is the most ridiculous response. I should be worried about her safety or her proximity to Achilles or something. Instead, I’m standing here, trying to pretend my palms aren’t sweating because she’s smiling like she’s happy to see me.
I clear my throat. “Hey.”
She pulls the blanket a little more firmly around her. “He roped you into this, too?”
“I offered to help.” I set my suitcase down. Now that I’m here, I’m realizing I didn’t need to repack things. I could have just popped over to the other room to change and get ready each day. That would be the logical thing to do, instead of spending time and energy repacking and unpacking to move across the hall. Another clear indication that I’m not thinking clearly. Damn it.
Achilles comes out of the bedroom. “Two ways in and out. The window in the bathroom opens, but it’s not big enough for an adult to get through. The bedroom’s going to be a problem, though. The window is practically a door, and the lock is bullshit. It’s an access point we can’t secure properly.”
Which means one of us will have to be in there with her.
I hate how my stomach drops. I must have a masochistic streak, because volunteering to put myself in close proximity with these two already stings. I don’t know what prompted Achilles to offer to have her stay with him instead of bringing in a pair of Bellerophon’s people as bodyguards. Sometimes, I have no idea how that man’s mind works. No, that’s a lie. I know exactly what he was thinking. He probably decided we’d do a better job of things than anyone else. This was already complicated, and we just made it even more so.
It’s too late to change our minds, though. “I’ll take first watch.”
For a second, I think he might argue, but he finally nods. “Works for me. The couch is comfortable enough.”
“It’s really not,” Helen mutters.
He shrugs. “I’ve slept in worse places.” Achilles studies her for a long moment. Does he realize how transparent his expression is? He keeps saying he doesn’t like her, but he looks at her like she’s this strange creature he doesn’t understand and yet wants to keep safe. He’s always had a desire to protect those who can’t protect themselves, but this is different. Finally, he says, “You want to talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
Another shrug. His casual body language doesn’t match the intent look in his eyes. “Most people get shaken up after being attacked. Have some shit on their mind.”
“I’m not most people.”
I should say something, but it feels like they’re having a moment I’m barely part of. My feet stay planted, and my mouth feels sealed shut.
“Yeah, you’re right. You’re not most people.” Achilles nods, and his expression goes devastatingly gentle. “Go to bed, princess. You can get back to fighting everyone who looks at you sideways tomorrow.”
Her smile firms up a little, losing the fragile element. “I don’t fight everyone who looks at me sideways, Achilles. I just fight you.”
“Guess I’m special, then.”
“Guess you are.”
I turn away, unable to bear witness to what feels like such an intimate moment. To be reminded of the future I’m destined for, to be perpetually on the outside looking in. Easier to busy myself hauling my suitcase into the bedroom and making quick work of unpacking it again. Staying in motion is usually Achilles’s go-to, but I’ve never appreciated it as much as I do now. The rhythm of unpacking calms me, even if it doesn’t soothe the ache in my chest.
I’m nearly done when Helen walks into the room. She’s obviously just come from the shower, her skin dewy and flushed, her hair wet and slicked back from her face. She’s wrapped up in the blanket again, but I get a hint of a silky pajama strap over one smooth shoulder. I focus on her face, but there’s no reprieve for me there. She’s too fucking beautiful and somehow only seems to get more so every time we interact. It’s not fair.
