Page 7 of The Games Gods Play
I frown, confused. “I thought you already—”
“And with the Crucible starting tonight, even,” he continues in a disappointed voice, as if I hadn’t spoken.
I sigh. “Do you want an apology before you smite me or something?”
“Most would fall to their knees before me. Beg for my mercy.”
He’s toying with me now. I’m a mouse. He’s a cat. And I’m his dinner.
I swallow hard, trying to force my heart back down my throat. “I’m pretty sure I’m dead either way.” Of course I am. Let’s not heap even more humiliation on my early end. “Would kneeling help?”
His silvery eyes—not dark like I thought at first, but like mercury—swirl with cold amusement. Did I say something funny?
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask. “The Crucible?”
Hades has never participated, and Zeus is hardly his favorite sibling, so why is he at this temple, really?
“I have my own reasons for being here tonight.”
In other words, Don’t ask gods questions, reckless mortal.
“Why did you stop me?” I glance at the temple, ignoring his tone entirely.
Instead of answering, Hades taps his thumb against his chin. “The question is, what do I do with you now?”
Is he enjoying my predicament? I’ve never thought much about the god of death—I’m a little busy with surviving mortality first—but I’m starting to really not like him. If Boone acted more like this, I’d have gotten over him ages ago. “I assume you’re going to send me to the Underworld.”
Seriously, stop talking, Lyra.
Hades hums. “I can do worse than that.”
Just like with Chance, backing down now isn’t an option. “Oh?” I tip my head, pretending like I don’t already know. “I do hear you are creative with your punishments.”
“I’m flattered.” He gives a tiny, mocking bow. “I could make you roll a rock up a hill and never make it to the top, only to start back over every single day for the rest of eternity.”
That already happened to Sisyphus ages ago. “I’m pretty sure Zeus came up with that.”
His lips flatten. “Were you there?”
I shrug. “Either way, it sounds like a vacation. Peaceful, undisturbed labor. When do I start?”
My mouth is going to get me permanently dead.
I’m waiting to end up in the Underworld any second, or maybe for Hades’ famous bident to appear in his hand for him to skewer me with.
Instead, he shakes his head. “I’m not going to kill you. Yet.”
Really? Do I trust him?
He must see the wariness in my eyes, because a muscle tightens in his jaw like he’s irritated I would doubt his word. “Relax, my star.”
I hesitate at the endearment. It clearly means nothing to him. When he doesn’t immediately talk, I manage not to as well, and instead I take in more details about the god standing before me.
He’s not exactly what I expected. I mean, beyond the obvious dark-and-brooding thing.
It’s his clothes. He’s wearing worn boots and jeans, for Elysium’s sake. The jeans sit low on his narrow hips and are paired with a sky-blue button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal forearms a deeper tan than I would expect from someone who lives in the Underworld. Who knew forearms could be sexy?
Over the shirt, he wears vintage leather suspenders that I suspect meet in the back at the top of his shoulder blades, side holster–style. The metal rings on the suspenders look like they have a purpose that he’s not using them for right now. Are they for weapons? Or does he have a bad back?
