Electric Idol (Dark Olympus #2)(33)

Or maybe it’s her daughters she’s worried about.

In any other situation, the security people would be an annoyance, but right now they’re actually an asset. My mother won’t strike here, won’t send her people here. It’s too risky, with too little reward. Psyche is safe as long as we’re in this building, and I can relax a little.

She heads past the main elevators and down a short hallway to a different one. She presses her palm to the pad next to it, and a moment later, it flashes green. Interesting. The doors slide open and she steps inside. “I’m going to put together a suitcase, but I need you to haul out some of the other things.”

Curiosity grabs me by the throat. Her social media always looks so effortless. I don’t fuck with that shit for the most part, but even I know the more natural it appears, the more effort it actually takes. I’m about to get a peek behind the curtain.

It shouldn’t matter. Her savviness at presenting a compelling story to the world is an asset I intend to utilize. That’s it. Watching her stage that “spontaneous” photo with us in my bed was a revelation. She went about it with a single-minded focus that I find entirely too sexy, and that was done with a few lamps and her phone. I want to see how she works when she has all her tools at her disposal.

I would wager that Psyche was being entirely genuine the night we were first photographed together, but she’s a different kind of genuine when she’s creating compelling fiction for Olympus to consume. And consume they do. I check my phone. The likes on that picture of us are well over a million at this point, and it’s not even noon. Truly, she’s brilliant at what she does.

The elevator doors open into a surprisingly welcoming foyer. The walls are a deep green that should be overwhelming, but combined with the light-gray tiled floor, they actually create an appealing balance. There are a few pieces of furniture—two tall-backed chairs in an understated floral print and a long, dark wooden table with a variety of drawers—that seem to invite guests to sit down and have a chat. In the fucking foyer.

Next is the living room. It’s more of the same. Bold walls, light floors, and furniture that looks remarkably comfortable. There are books scattered on the coffee table centered between a long couch and another pair of chairs: genre fiction books with their spines creased from reading. It’s all too possible to picture Psyche draped over the couch, a book in her hands, relaxing with her family.

This place feels like a home.

How novel.

My mother uses her living room as a place to entertain guests, which means she always strongly discouraged me from spending leisure time there growing up. That’s what bedrooms are for; personal space that can be hidden away behind a closed door. She keeps her game face on at all times, even in the relative privacy of the shared spaces of my childhood home. I was expected to do the same.

I want to find an excuse to poke around, but Psyche’s leading me up the floating stairs, and the prospect of seeing her room overrides all else. If Demeter’s daughters treat this entire penthouse as personal space, what will Psyche’s actual personal space reveal?

I stop short in the upstairs hallway. It takes Psyche several steps to realize I’m not behind her and stop as well. She turns with an impatient sigh. “I know the temptation to snoop is nearly overwhelming, but please keep up. We don’t have much time.”

She’s right, but it’s like my brain has skipped. I stare at pictures lining the walls. They’re artfully arranged, of course, but they’re personal. Staged photos in large frames with Psyche and her three sisters in coordinating clothing, starting from when they were very small and continuing to what looks like a recent one. They’re interesting, but what really catches my eye are the unstaged photos in smaller frames peppered throughout.

Psyche and Persephone, their arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, their hair in pigtails, and Psyche missing her front teeth.

A preteen Callisto holding up a fish nearly as large as she is, a happy grin on her face that is entirely unfeigned.

All four girls dressed up in costumes. Eurydice a fairy. Callisto a knight. Persephone an angel. Psyche a princess.

My chest hurts. Why the fuck does my chest hurt? They’re just pictures. Obviously Psyche’s always been good at pictures; she’s the most photogenic of all her rather photogenic family. There is no reason for some undefined barbed emotion to lash through me at the photographic evidence of her happy childhood. It certainly shouldn’t be made worse by the fact that Demeter has said photos prominently displayed, if in a part of the penthouse where only family would spend time.

“Eros?”

I give myself a shake. “I’m good.”

“Are you?” Psyche’s brows draw together, worry lingering in her hazel eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” It should be the truth. I dredge up my charming smile, but Psyche only frowns harder in response. Right. She knows I’m lying, and she won’t be fooled by a fake smile. I curse. “Nothing should be wrong. It’s not relevant.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She looks at me for a moment longer but finally nods. “Okay, let’s hurry.” She turns and continues down the hallway, leaving me to follow.

I give the photos one last long look and then leave them behind. Maybe it shouldn’t be so novel that Psyche and her sisters had a good childhood, but this is Olympus. I was raised on power games, and I learned to lie around the time I learned to walk. It’s the same with Helen and Perseus and their siblings. Those of us both fortunate and unfortunate to be born into Olympus politics were in a sink-or-swim situation from a very young age.