Page 77 of A Veil of Gods and Kings

“Good morning”—I smirked—“golden boy.”

He scoffed. “And here I thought we’d decided to get along.”

I opened the door and gestured for him to enter. “Yes, me calling you a complimentary nickname is practically an insult.”

He laughed, dropping into the chair that had become his, snagging a pile of papers and kicking an ankle over his knee. His tunic shifted up, revealing the firm muscles of his thigh.

Damn it, Cyn.

I sat in Father’s seat, lifting a reed and dipping it into an inkpot, allowing the ebony liquid to drip for a moment. Getting to know Apollo better was almost worse than hating him. Because the more I knew of him, the more I wanted to discover.

When he’d said maybe I wasn’t the only one who desired to live a poetic life, it left me wondering what verses he wished he could paint his life with, what ambitions and desires and worries lay under that sharp smile of his.

And, as much as that, or possibly even more, I longed to trace the planes of his body, to discover what he looked like unwound and empty, to know the taste of his skin.

Which was a very un-fucking-helpful thought when I still had months of working together with him and when he certainly didn’t feel the same for me. And even more important, he was Zeus’ son. I had to keep reminding myself of that because it seemed to slip away the better I got to know him. But our kingdom’s well-being rested on his father’s pleasure of him being here. No, we should not get involved even if he was interested.

Apollo scribbled something down and lifted his gold-tinted eyes up to me. “I’m not the one who’s distracted today.”

I cleared my throat. “True.”

“Want to share?” He grinned. “I mean, yesterday we dove into all our hopes and dreams and fears and other maudlin bullshit.” I laughed, and he continued, “You could talk about whatever is bothering you if you’d like.”

Well, I couldn’t tell the truth.

Apollo said he never lied.

I often did.

Not because I wanted to.

But my life called for me to lie all the damn time.

When or where or how could a prince be truly honest?

I tapped my fingers over a globe on the desk, tilting it until it spun and the colors blurred together. “I’m worried about my sister.”

“Epiphany?”

“Yes.” I frowned. “Something is off, and she’s not being forthright. I’m not sure.” I lifted my eyes to him. “Do you know what she and Temi spend their time doing?”

He chuckled. “Oh, it’s really charming that you think Temi divulges her affairs to me, but I’ll have to disappoint you. I know she is very fond of your sister, more than I’ve seen her with others before.”

“That feeling seems to be mutual.”

“Is it this dinner that’s bothering her, perhaps?”

“How do you know about the dinner?”

Apollo cocked an eyebrow, dropping his paper into his lap. “An attendant delivered me an invitation to it. Was that a mistake?”

I laughed and trailed my fingers over my head until they bumped into my crown. “No. Sorry. My mind is—” I swept my hand through the air. “Actually, you’re seated next to me.”

“Oh, aren’t you lucky? You’ll have the best company of the party.”

My shoulders loosened. “You might be right.”

“You’re getting so easy with your compliments. I need to find some trouble to stir up again.”