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“Darling, every time I fuck you, it’s a fantasy.”
CHAPTER XXIV
THESEUS
“So,” Theseus said, looking over a plume of yellow flowers at the woman who sat across from him. “You wish to learn about Triad?”
She had introduced herself as Cassandra, but he knew her real name was Helen. She was an aspiring journalist, a student at New Athens University, and she worked for Persephone Rossi.
She was still unaware that he knew everything about her, still pretending to be interested in joining his organization, just as she had last week when she’d arrived at a rally.
Normally, he would not indulge this behavior, but he was an opportunist and he saw her potential.
He knew what she truly wanted.
She was ambitious and constantly on the hunt for the pathway that would propel her to the top. She was no more interested in him than he was in her, beyond what they could do for each other, only at this point, shestill believed she had the upper hand, that she would be solely responsible for breaking a story about the greatest threat to Olympian rule.
He admired her confidence, but he hated her ignorance.
She was holding a knife and fork, cutting into a steak she had ordered. Her movements were careful, graceful even—she was trying to impress him.
She hadn’t yet.
“I think I’m more interested in howyouview it,” she said. Her voice took on a heady note, and as she stared at him, her eyes dropped to his lips.
He found her seduction boring and predictable. Her fatal flaw was thinking that her beauty was enough to sway him. Phaedra was beautiful, and so was her sister. He could fuck beauty all day. It changed nothing, gave him nothing.
It was only pleasurable if he could hurt them, and it made his cock hard just thinking about it.
“I do not wish to sway your opinion,” he said. “Let our actions speak.”
“Your actions seem terroristic.”
“That is a matter of perspective,” he said. “I would argue that Olympus is responsible for terrorism.”
She glanced to her left and right, likely anxious about what he’d said.
He smirked. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“Well, it is blasphemy,” she said.
“I suppose it is,” he replied. “If you worship the gods.”
“Worship or not, they are real,” she argued. “The consequences of heresy are dire.”
“No more dire than a deadly snowstorm,” he replied. “If I die spouting truths about the gods, then so be it.”
She was silent as she reached for her glass and then sat back in her chair. It was an action he had not expected. It exuded comfort.
“Do you want to know what I think?” she asked, sipping her wine.
He didn’t, but he had to admit, he was curious about the sudden change in her posture and her strange and sudden confidence.
He waited. He would not implore her.
“I don’t think you care what happens to the people of New Greece, but I think you need their worship.”
His gaze did not waver from her face.
