Page 49 of Apollo

Yet not nearly enough.

Would that ever happen with this woman? Was getting enough of her a conceivable thing?

Evidently, she already thought so. In her stare, he observed nothing but the traveler who’d paid her bill in full and now just wanted out of here. Down the rest of her dirty and blood-crusted body, tired impatience reigned supreme.

No.

Tired wasn’t the whole explanation.

She was also ready to topple over from sheer exhaustion. He needed no supernatural help from the string to read that in her slouched shoulders and unsteady steps. It was just an obvious fact.

Exactly like her mortal boyfriend would observe it . . .

And understand it . . .

But instead of preening satisfaction, the conclusion had him snorting then scowling.

Boyfriend? Mortal? Understanding?

You mean all the things you can’t relate to her about?

“Fuck that.”

He ditched the snort but not the scowl, spitting it from discreetly gritted teeth. Underneath the façade, he granted his psyche full permission to vent.

Fuck. That.

He was Apollo of Olympus, damn it. If he desired to bring the mortal boyfriend game, she’d get it with a board that put every Tom, Dick, Harry, and Prince Charming to shame. They only dreamed of hitting his dream date game.

But exhaustion was a different topic. A subject he’d fought to fully fathom, evidenced by his numerous attempts throughout the eons, but could never fully crack. He’d tried all the tricks, from normal to drastic, but had never known the bliss of craving a dreamless sleep, a long massage, or a long gulp of water after a workout.

Though his efforts hadn’t led him to a speck of firsthand empathy, at least he now knew the signs of when a human needed those physical essentials. Like the human swaying right in front of him.

Aha. Got you now, droopy little kaiju.

“All right, fine,” he pretended to capitulate, raising both palms. “You want to play noble lone wolf, fine with me. But you’ll eat and hydrate before you go.” He toggled his regard to Lois again. “Have you eaten since we left Natasha’s place?”

The writer glanced away with purpose. “Only if a couple of wafer cookies from your brother’s pantry count.”

“That settles that,” he declared. “Is pizza and salad good for everyone?”

Irowen snorted. “Are goblins thick crust snobs?”

He quietly chuckled, though resisted the temptation to rub at the string again. While he’d be empowered to zap a message straight into her brain regarding her cranky quip, he still opted for the old-fashioned way: a hot glower to directly deal her some swerve for the snark.

Did you know a slice of Underworld pizza also makes an interesting flogger, Little Monster? Yeah, neither do any of your goblin friends.

As he hoped—well, expected—the woman’s mouth popped open. She’d gotten the message, every syllable, without a single need for the lyre string messenger service. She heard him that well. Connected to his frequencies that clearly. Comprehended him that completely.

Facts that should have sent him running that very moment, on more than the pretense of heading out for the pizza. But he didn’t flee. Not for the pizza, which he could handle by simply hailing a couple of the trainees from Kaw’s team on break in the condo’s aviary, but especially not because of the larger epiphany here.

Connection. Comprehension.

Being heard. Being seen.

Bridges he shouldn’t be building with a mortal. Links she didn’t even want with him anymore; she’d just made the point baldly clear. Severed his obligation with sweet and smooth convenience.

Which fully explained why he promised a fifteen-minute return with the pizza, only to duck into an alcove behind Menhit’s Forge in hopes that Herc’s little writer decided to go investigative reporter all over Irowen’s odd attitude.