Page 40 of Hercules

Was adorable little Lois Lance actually in cahoots with Natasha Korra—and via an easy tangent, with Reks Byrd—to lead Apollo and him through tonight’s merry mayhem? If so, why? As some grand distraction? Was Byrd up to something bigger than they suspected? If so, what?

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her sincerity like a hook into the strands of his suspicion. A hook that instantly twisted and yanked, leaving a giant knot in its wake. Not even that. She was back at it within seconds, this time digging under his skin with her visible struggle for her next words. “I shouldn’t have just thrown out the subject like that.”

Unbelievably, one side of his mouth kicked up. He hardly thought about it, much less grappled with it. “It was more like a wide lob,” he softly chided. “Regardless, I can handle the line drives, Scribester.”

“Even when they’re aimed straight at your gut?”

“Nothing I’m not used to.” He reached and scooped up one of her hands, venting his frustration as thoroughly as she did her chagrin. “Lois. I mean it, okay?”

She rolled her eyes hard enough to lift her head up and over too. But as soon as Herc growled, signaling he was ready to make the point in more forceful ways, she cut in with, “I like it better when you call me Scribester.”

“And I like it better when you trust that I’m telling the truth.”

Was he now reciprocating the same back to her? And was he willing to grab a Leviathan and swear that whole truth, so help him Lucifer? If so, had she wiped away all his doubts with nothing but that adorable mea culpa?

And if that was the case, what the hell did it say about him?

On one hand, he was a paranoid bastard who’d lumped in an innocent pawn with Reks Byrd and his trickery.

On the other, he was a gullible simp who was no better than the idiot who’d come home to his family ten years ago.

A weak male falling under a depraved spell.

No. Worse than weak.

This time, he’d seen it coming and done nothing. For a full three hours, he’d been watching the sorcery fall down and around him, delivered by a pair of big bright browns, a sexy mouth full of sass, and ten fingers with pure electricity in their tips. Holy fuck, especially those fingers. And the beautiful hands that connected all of them. And the lithe arms beyond those, leading the way to the rest of her…

All of her…

Seen. It. Coming.

And welcomed it with open arms.

“I have tons of trust right here in the treasure box, Lion Man. But you know the rule about unlocking treasure. It only comes with the whole truth.”

Gods help him, he did it even now. Even when she laced up her cheeky emotional disco skates and threw down a zinger like that.

Brutal air shoved from between his teeth and through his tense lips. The moment was ripe for an answering preen from his sorceress, but Miss Lois Lance wasn’t serving a morsel of that energy. It wasn’t that she was unaware of the advantage; the exact opposite knowledge was evident in every inch of her posture. Instead, she clearly chose not to press it.

Because she was waiting for a better reward. The one she’d deftly offered in person, via those damn disco skates—

Along with a pair for him to strap on and glide out with her.

He wasn’t escaping this rink any other way.

Theoretical rink.

It was more than easy logic. It was close comfort, a pair of mental knee pads and a matching helmet, endorsing his instant scoff at her. And the next one. And perhaps—

No. Not the next.

Because there was a time when protection became limitation. When safety pads chafed, buckles strangled, and shields turned into walls. It was a lesson he’d faced, time and time again, over the last ten years. Sometimes moving forward meant ditching weight—and stepping free from so-called safety.

And he’d sure as hell done so. Risked his body in insane ways, all for setting it free to accomplish great things. All twelve of them.

But the whole time, he’d stifled his heart. Suppressed his soul. Hidden from the world, in the name of noble deeds, to avoid facing himself.

Maybe it really was time to put those damn skates on.