Electric Idol(Dark Olympus #2)(5)

“You should see the other guy,” he says without opening his eyes. Confirming what I already suspected.

Is the other guy still alive? No need to ask that question. The fact that he’s here at all means he was successful in whatever his task had been. I finish removing the bandages and sit back, examining his chest. There are at least a dozen cuts. “I’m going to need to clean this or the new bandages won’t hold.”

He waves a hand. Permission.

I don’t allow myself to think as I rise and dig around beneath the sink until I find a basket of clean washcloths. I wet two of them and bring the dry ones over to try to mop up the worst of the mess. It takes several long minutes to clean it away.

Which is right around the time I realize I’m essentially giving Eros Ambrosia a sponge bath.

I sit back abruptly. “Eros, some of these might need stitches.” They don’t look nearly as bad as they did before I cleaned him up, but I’m not a doctor. Surely he has one on staff like every other household of the Thirteen. I don’t understand why he didn’t call that person instead of trying to show up for this blasted party.

“It’s fine. It’ll hold until the end of the night.”

I frown down at him. “You can’t be serious. You’re prioritizing attending a party, rather than finding a doctor and getting the medical attention you might require.”

“You know better than anyone why I need to.” At that, he finally opens his eyes. They seem even bluer than before, and a strange look passes through them. It must be pain, because there’s no way that Eros Ambrosia, son of Aphrodite, is looking at me with desire.

Despite myself, my gaze flicks to his mouth. He’s got a very nice mouth, lips curved and sensual. It’s really a shame he’s a dangerous murderer.

To distract myself from such foolhardy thoughts, I stand and move to the sink. It feels remarkably like running away, but I’m just washing the man’s blood from my hands. I glance at the mirror and stop short. He’s staring at me with the strangest expression on his face. It’s not the desire I’ve already convinced myself I imagined. No, Eros is looking at me like he’s never seen me before, like maybe I’ve acted against his expectations.

That can’t be right, though. It doesn’t matter if I’ve occupied the same parties and ballrooms and events as this man for the last ten years; there is absolutely no reason for Eros to think of me at all. I certainly don’t spend much time thinking about him. He might be gorgeous, even for Olympus, flawless enough to have his likeness plastered across every billboard if he wanted the work, but Eros is dangerous.

I dry my hands and move back to the seat across from him. Somehow, without all the blood in play, this feels even more intimate. I push the thought away and get to work bandaging him. Though I half expect him to push my hands away and do it himself, he stays perfectly still, barely seeming to breathe as I carefully apply bandage after bandage. There are about a dozen cuts, all said and done, and despite my assertion that he needs to see a doctor, most of them are small enough that they’ve nearly stopped bleeding.

“You’re rather good at that.” His low voice is filled with edges. I can’t tell if he’s accusing me or merely making a comment.

I choose to take it at face value. “I grew up on a farm.” Sort of. It was technically a farm, but it wasn’t what people picture when they think of so-called farm life. There was no quaint little house with a faded red barn. My mother might have expanded her fortune with her three marriages, but she was hardly starting from scratch. We were an industrial farm and the setup reflected that.

His lips curl, something light flickering in his eyes. “Are there a lot of stab wounds on farms?”

“You admit it, then—that you were stabbed.”

Now he’s actually smiling, though there’s still pain evident on his face. “I admit nothing.”

“Of course not.” I realize I’m still too close to him and back up quickly, moving to the sink to wash my hands again. “But to answer your question, when there are a variety of large machines, not to mention various animals that take exception to foolish humans, injuries happen.” Especially when one possesses adventurous sisters like I did. Not that I’m going to tell Eros that. This interaction has already been too intimate, too strange. “I need to get back.”

“Psyche.” He waits until I turn to face him. For a moment, he looks nothing like the confident predator I’ve worked so hard to avoid. He’s simply a man, tired and in pain. Eros touches one of the bandages on his chest. “Why help Aphrodite’s pet monster?”

“Even monsters need help sometimes, Eros.” I should leave it at that, but his question felt so unexpectedly vulnerable that I can’t help the impulse to soothe him. Just a little. “Besides, you’re not really a monster. I don’t see a single scale or fang to speak of.”

“Monsters come in all shapes and sizes, Psyche. You should know that by now, living in Olympus.” He starts to button up his shirt, but his hands are shaking so badly, he fumbles it.

I move before I have a chance to remember why this is such a terrible idea. “Let me.” I lean over and button him up carefully. My fingers brush his bare chest a few times, and I’m certain I imagine the way he hisses out an exhale in response. Pain. That’s all it is. Eros is certainly not responding to my touch. I hold my breath as I finish the last button and move back. “There you go.”