Page 68 of The Mortal Trials

I shake my head. “No. My family’s great.”

“Then who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though,” he insists, his blue eyes studying mine.

I know it does. And I know it shouldn’t hurt after so many months, but it does.

“After the battle, when the healers had done all they could and sent me home, Niall came to visit.” I feel his body tense. Feel him bristle. “He couldn’t handle it.”

I don’t tell him that Niall said as much. Or how I screamed at him to get out of my house and never come back. That I told him and everyone within earshot I hated him and never wanted to lay eyes on him again. And I hadn’t until he showed up on Abuela’s doorstep to bring me to Morrigan and these trials.

August turns onto his side to face me. He moves a wet strand of hair that’s caught in my lashes. “He’s an idiot.”

My heart aches at the tenderness in his voice.

And it cracks when he softly asks, “How could he have ever let you go?”

15

Iwake to sunlight streaming in through the windows, dust motes drifting through the beams, and a dull ache in the back of my head. The skin on my throat is sore to the touch. It hurts to breathe.

Groaning would hurt or I’d do it.

The front door is wide open and shirtless August Aymes is sitting on the step with his feet in the sand, gazing at the temple. He’s eating from a tray full of fruit, bread, and cheese. They’ve also supplied carafes of fresh water and juice.

He notices when I sit up. “I went and got yours from your house,” he says, nodding to the table beside the bed. “And you lost your feather in the sheets last night, so I put that on your tray, too.”

“Thank you.”

August’s mood sours. He scratches the back of his head. “Your house is pretty much destroyed.”

I sigh. “I know.”

Beside my side of the bed, my sheath and prosthesis rest on the floor. I twist to plant my foot on the floor and work the sheath onto my thigh. August peels an orange and eats a section, curiously glancing my way when I slide my thigh into the prosthetic and the pin slips into the lock with a click. Daedalus’s magic wraps itself around my leg, securing it.

I stand, find my balance with ease, and walk to collect my breakfast, carrying the tray to the doorway. “Can I sit with you?”

“Of course.”

He takes my tray as I join him, scooting over to give me room. The scent of his orange makes my mouth water, so I peel mine and try it. It’s fresh, and so, so flavorful. I wish I could send one to Abuela and Cillian.

I picture her working in her garden, humming as she prunes what doesn’t really need pruning, and watches her resplendent green friends flit around.

I wonder if Cillian is already in Olympus for the day, working for the gods I hate most. In a few days, will he be in the colosseum to watch our second trial? What if I don’t make it?

My chest tightens. I’m worrying, and I need to stop.

August’s throat works as he drinks his juice. A worthy distraction if I’ve ever seen one.

“So, where do you live?” I ask. “Where’s home?”

He lowers the glass. “Are you asking me which realm I live in, or whose blood I have?”

I shrug. “Both, I guess.”

“Let’s see…” He pops a grape into his mouth. “I have Slavic blood from my father, Norse from my mother. Not that I’d ever want to be compared to Torsten.” He eats another grape, favoring those over the remainder of his orange. “What about you?”