Page 37 of The Games Gods Play
Loopholes
I don’t know what I was expecting, but the room Hades pointed me toward is distinctly feminine, mostly in creams set against antique wood furniture with pops of lavender in the form of blankets and artwork. Through the wide-open door to the bathroom, I spy a massive claw-foot tub and actually sigh out loud.
The Order’s den only has a few communal bathrooms shared by all of us with single-stall showers so narrow, I bump my elbows against the walls when I wash my hair or shave my legs, and they regularly have no hot water.
This is luxury. My reward for surviving a shitty day.
I toss the tiara on the bed, strip off the clothes that were never mine to begin with, and within minutes, I’m soaking in beautiful bliss. Heaven.
My muscles, already turning sore from my sprint up the stairs in Olympus, release in the hot water like they are sighing, too. Under the bubbles scented with jasmine and vanilla, I trace the bruises cropping up in interesting purple stripes from my belly flop on those stairs.
“I’m lucky I didn’t break something.” I drop my head back against the rim of the tub.
Being banged up isn’t a whole lot better. The first official Labor is tomorrow, and I’m going in damaged while the other champions are in perfect health. Terrific.
What did I ever do to the Fates, anyway?
Eventually, the water cools, and I force myself to get out of the tub. I pause in the doorway at the sight of lavender pajamas—modest, with long pants and a short-sleeve shirt and even a bralette and underwear—folded and waiting neatly on the bed. The other clothes are gone, but the tiara is still there.
I shake my head. “Hades is a good host. Who knew?”
It isn’t until I’m dressed and pulling back the covers that I finally take a good look at the tiara as I pick it up to move it off the bed. I go marble statue–still, staring at the thing.
“It can’t be…”
Black gold, it is designed to look like butterfly wings spreading from a black jeweled center. The wings are dotted with black diamonds and pearls. And that’s what I’m staring at.
Because the black pearls with their hint of pink are familiar. Too familiar.
I count, then count again.
That’s what I was afraid of. There are exactly six.
I execute an about-face a soldier would admire and march out of my bedroom and through the penthouse. I stop in the middle of the living room, not sure where to go. The sound of a blender, of all things, whirs from off to my left, and I follow it to find Hades in the kitchen. His hair is damp from a shower, that errant pale lock curling on his forehead instead of brushed back. He’s changed into jeans and a faded blue T-shirt that’s seen better days that reads, “Sure, you can pet my dog.”
If I wasn’t still thrown by the tiara, I’d laugh because his dog is Cerberus, the three-headed hellhound who notoriously doesn’t like anyone.
Also, Hades is barefoot.
I mean, so am I, but he’s a god. I have never, in my entire life, pictured gods or goddesses barefoot. In a kitchen, no less.
He glances up. “Smoothie?”
What alternate dimension have I fallen into? I shake my head.
“Help yourself to any food in the fridge, then.” He waves a hand.
Just like we’re regular people. Sharing a space like it’s no big deal. But it is. It’s a big deal to me. I’m not entirely sure how to handle this Hades, who is suddenly all solicitous courtesy, which feels wrong coming from him, like wearing clothes that are a size too small. “Don’t do that.”
He frowns. “Do what?”
“The polite-charm thing.”
“It’s how I put others at ease,” he says.
The god of death tries to put others at ease? There’s a disturbing thought. “Are you sure that actually works?”
“I was until now,” he mutters.
