Page 218 of The Mortal Trials

August’s, on the other hand, is neat.

When he emerges, he hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I can run back and find something for you to wear, or you can borrow something of mine.”

I want to go search the wreckage for my lost feather. Just… not tonight. My nerves are shaken and I don’t want to go back while it’s dark. I also don’t want August to leave me to go look on his own.

I offer a sheepish smile. “I’ll borrow something of yours, if you don’t mind. When the sun rises, I’ll go clean up the mess he made.”

August crosses the room to his chest, tosses open the lid, and rifles through his clothing. While he’s busy, I wander across the room to look at his fresco.

Starting from the left, I see August on stage at one of his concerts, his fingers expertly plucking guitar strings. Sweat dampens his face and hair and plasters the shirt to his body. The crowd roars, hands in the air.

I move to the right and the image shifts. He’s on the same stage, wearing the same clothes, blowing a kiss off his palm. Girls always scream when he does that, wishing his kiss was meant for them.

“No wonder the gods are jealous,” I murmur. “It’s like they’re worshipping you.”

August stiffens, and his hand tightens on the white tee shirt in his hand.

“Is that why you’re here?” I guess.

He stares at me for a long moment, a question on his brow, before waving me toward the bathing room. “Does what brought any of us here matter in the end? We’ll all be exiting their games one way or another.”

Win them. Defeat every other mortal here. Make them fall as you rise. Or die.

In the bathing room, he places the shirt on a small table along with a towel and wash cloth. “Need anything else?”

When I shake my head, he inclines his head and moves toward the door. His bathing room is tiled from ceiling to floor, like mine. It’s not the same turquoise tile as in my oikos, but rather tiny squares that match the pale tan sand on the shore when the sun burns it into powder.

“Actually,” I say, watching his back muscles tense, “can I use one of your chairs?”

“Of course,” he agrees, bringing one in before excusing himself again.

I settle it on the tile just inside the shower, strip off my torn, blood-soaked dress, along with my undergarments, and sit on the chair to remove my prosthesis.

Daedalus’s magic releases its grip. Thankfully, my new sheath isn’t ruined.

The remaining feather in my hair comes free with a tug. Blood stains the barbs.

When I stand, the movement triggers a cool cascade from the shower head. It spills over my sore scalp, shoulders, and back. The water warms and scours my skin. The mess swirls around my foot and down the drain.

I wash Torsten’s blood from my feather.

Some of the other unchampioned contestants also have weapons. Were they robbed tonight, too? Were they beaten, or worse?

Gods damned Torsten. I hope his nose and balls ache for weeks and every time he takes a step or breath, he remembers who dealt his pain.

He won’t forget this. When he faces Freyja with bruises and a cracked nose, he’ll have to explain where he got them.

I need allies, not enemies, but here we are. He chose violence tonight and left me no other choice.

Sighing, I lean against the cool shower wall, working bergamot and citrus soap into my hair with tired hands, then scrub until my flesh is red and raw and I smell like August instead of iron.

When I sit in the chair again, the water stops pouring. I reach out and grab the towel, wrapping it around my body before wringing water from my long hair. I stay seated until my skin dries, then pull his shirt on.

I lift the collar to my nose, sniffing the fabric. It smells like him. And I’m not sure what to do next or how to leave the room. I bite my thumbnail. I have no bra or panties. And my leg… should I put my leg back on? I probably should.

Two soft knocks on the bathing room door. “You okay?”

I clear my throat. “Do you have any extra underwear?”