Page 13 of Apollo

“Yeah, well . . . ” His new shrug was more a rolling motion, making the mint-green tips of his hair stand out against his suit’s dark shoulders. “Thought you’d want to save me some time and effort.”

A soft yelp of laughter escaped before she could help it. “Because why?”

“Because it’s possible we’re after the same thing. More precisely, the same person.”

That did it for the laughter. “Are you serious?” A large smudge persisted on the glass where she indicated toward the atrium with an angry finger. “Natasha Korra was right inside there, beside your brother”—holy shit, so the big guy really was Hercules—“yet you powered up your nuclear tornado and helped them escape.”

“Yes,” he volleyed. “From you.”

“Why?”

He tsked with conviction. “Nope. No more answers until I get a few more from you, Ms. . . . ”

“Steed.” She already knew he meant it and probably had ways of learning her truth anyway, so the minor share was a no-brainer. A deep and disconcerting intuition told her it’d probably be the easiest part of the conversation.

“Ah. Ms. Steed.” At least he was cordial in return, even adding a gentlemanly nod. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

But then he had to go and add that smooth rhetoric, the implied sin about as far from gentlemanly as he could stray.

Why, with every note of the velvet-on-sandstone remark, did her mind conjure images of him doing other things with those expressive lips? Why did had every syllable of it done so, besting the efforts of every other human in at least three years?

Yet in the same count of seconds, she was positive he’d snuck into her mental movie theater and gleefully brought his perverted popcorn to watch.

She sniffed and drew her spine stiffer. “Let’s stick to the subject, Mr. . . . ermmm . . . ”

“Kyrios is fine,” he filled in, newly and blessedly businesslike. “I use it when I have to sign mortal world paperwork.”

“Ah,” Wen drawled. “Like buying castles and yachts and small countries?”

“Among other things, yes.”

Well, damn.

Still she used the moment to clear her throat and then ask, “What does it mean?”

He motioned to a waiter, who already seemed to know the purpose of his swirling hand motion. “Lord. Master. Sir.”

Choking had never felt so good. Or shitty.

“Of course it does,” she finally mumbled, to be met by his fresh chuckle. Thankfully, their unplanned pause became a chance to let the dust settle before the waiter arrived with a pair of cocktails on his glowing tray. The liquid in both caught the tray’s light with their iridescent gold color, while smelling too divine.

“What is this?” she prompted.

“Gin and liqueur of elderflower, with splashes of ginseng and ginger. The herbs will aid with your healing. Enjoy.”

She pushed the glass goblet away. “It sounds lovely, but I don’t—”

“Drink it, Irowen.”

Yes, sir.

Though she barely bit the acquiescence into silence, her eyes already flared from astonishment.

What the hell?

Men obeyed her orders, not the other way around. She’d sworn as much when she and Genny snuck away from New Chance House for the last time. Nearly ten years had gone by since, and she’d never harbored half a thought of breaking the pact. No male, even the dramatically beautiful god who’d scraped her up and saved her, would change that.

She told him as much by lifting her water glass instead of the cocktail and then riveting her gaze to his while draining the H2O. As she hoped, and nearly expected, the move seemed to amuse him—at least long enough for her to rally back to something besides lame chit-chat.