Electric Idol(Dark Olympus #2)(65)

We walk for a few minutes in silence. It’s comfortable enough, and one glance at Psyche’s face makes me think she’s lost in thought and far from here. I don’t mind. I doubt she realizes the significance, but I do.

She trusts me.

I let the knowledge roll over me, buoy me. I’ve done little to earn this woman’s trust. Yes, I didn’t kill her, but that’s the literal bare minimum a person should do—and I can’t even pretend I made that decision out of the goodness of my soul. It was just as selfish as everything else I’ve done. I wanted her, and this shitty situation provided me a way to take her.

All because she showed me the tiniest hint of kindness.

I might laugh if my chest wasn’t so fucking tight. It’s pathetic that I’m so starved for any kind of softer emotion that the second someone comes to me with gentle hands instead of sharp words, I’m willing to walk to the Underworld and back to keep them in my life.

If it was just that first night, maybe I could have resisted my darker impulses to bundle Psyche up and haul her back to my home like a dragon with his hoard, but then she showed up for that meeting intending to help me again. How could I let my mother snuff out such a compelling light?

I don’t deserve Psyche’s trust. With anyone else, it would just be a tool to leverage against them if the situation ever arose. With this woman?

I want to earn it.

Maybe a good way to start would to be to offer up some of my own in return.

The next time the path branches, I turn us back toward my car. “Let’s go warm up and have a drink.”

“I was thinking—”

It’s more challenging than I would have guessed to cut in. “I’d like to take you somewhere.”

She blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

No reason for the flutter of nerves in my stomach. It’s not like my regular spots are secrets, but I’ve never really wanted to share them with someone else before. In Olympus, I will always be recognized as Aphrodite’s sharpest weapon. But in a few rare places, they see me as Eros. Just…Eros.

Even realizing that Psyche will always see the danger in me first, part of me wants her to see the rest. The man, fucked up though he is. She makes me feel…human…in a way I haven’t in a very long time. Maybe ever.

I want her to see me as just Eros, too. Even if the idea terrifies me on a level I’m not prepared to deal with. How could she not turn away if she sees past the untouchable persona to the rough reality beneath? The broken bits I keep tucked away, lest they be used against me?

When we make it back to my car, I open the door for her and round to the driver’s side. There are three photographers approaching, and they’re no longer trying to pretend they’re anything but paparazzi. They rush forward, and I’m a petty asshole, because I nearly take two of them out when I pull away from the curb.

Psyche snorts. “If we could avoid getting arrested, that would be ideal.”

“If I was nice to them, they’d know something was up.”

Her hazel eyes light up with mischief. “Gods forbid.”

“Now you’re getting the idea.” I weave through the streets, heading south to the theater district. It’s a few blocks that contain a trio of theaters that do a handful of productions each season. I can take or leave live performances, but actors in Olympus have a way of not giving a fuck that’s difficult to find on this side of the river. The only thing they care about is their power hierarchy, and as long as Athena and Apollo keep them paid well, they don’t bother with the rest of the Thirteen.

My mother, in particular, isn’t overly fond of this area. She likes the theater well enough and dragged me to countless productions over the years in an effort to instill me with culture, but that began and ended with the shows themselves. She never lingers, and as such, this area has always been something of a refuge for me. I never have to worry about running into her when I’m here. I pull into the tiny parking lot behind the Bacchae and turn off the engine.

Psyche peers out the window. “Interesting choice.”

“Have you ever been here before?”

She shakes her head. “I have season tickets to the theater, but we normally get drinks closer to home afterward.” The Dimitriou women alternate their time out between their mother’s neighborhood and the blocks around Dodona Tower, so it makes sense they would choose places more familiar to drink at.

I climb out of the car, but this time she doesn’t wait for me to open her door before she joins me. There’s still a little line between her dark brows. “I don’t think the press spend much time here.”

“They don’t.” I take her hand. “But the theater people are notorious gossips and so they’ll do the work for us.”

Her eyes light up. “I see. Clever.”

“I live to please.” We walk around the building and I purposefully slow down, watching Psyche as she takes in the outside of the Bacchae. Here in the theater district, they don’t prize a pristine look the same way so much of the upper city do. They prefer character and the Bacchae has it in spades. The weathered exterior looks like it’s stood here for time unknown, but the building is only twenty years old, and it had this faded paint job from the start.

I hold the door open for Psyche and follow her into the heat of the bar. She shrugs off her coat immediately, and after doing the same, I press my hand to the small of her back and guide her through the crowded tables to the small booth in the back corner. I’m glad it’s open, because it’s got the best seat in the house to appreciate everything the Bacchae has to offer.