Page 11 of The Gods Forbid

“That’s not what I meant,” Persy said, completely unapologetic. She picked up a fork and knife and started cutting into the omelet on her plate. Did she not know it wasn’t wise to put a weapon near me or did she just not care?

Regardless, I grabbed my fork and used it to cut my own eggs, trying to ignore how good they smelled. The “chef” she had defended, asking me in that sweet voice of hers to eat the food, was unfortunately an excellent cook.

“I am curious which craft under your power you prefer the most,” Persy clarified, her head tilted in interest. “You have so much. All of the arts, medicine, music, archery, and light—though I guess light isn’t really a craft, but that’s fine if that’s your answer.”

There was an answer to her question, but I wasn’t going to say it. I hadn’t even picked up a—

“I’d assume it’s painting. Or physical forms of art in general. You used to have paint on your hands quite often, but I haven’t noticed that in a while. Did you stop painting or did you find another medium you prefer?”

What. The. Fuck.

“Paid close attention to me, did you, love?” I said, my voice hoarse and barely on the right side of sarcastic. Dangerously close to earnest.

Persy blinked at me once. “Yes.” Then something happened to her face. There was a flash of panic, so quick that anyone who wasn’t staring directly would have missed it. Then her mouth opened, the way it does when you speak before thinking. “Well, not you specifically, it’s just that I notice that stuff with—”

“Yes, it’s painting.” I wasn’t sure whether I cut her off because I wanted to preserve the idea that she only noticed it because it was me or because her voice had wavered. Both were fucking inappropriate.

Let alone the fact that I answered her ridiculous, invasive question. It was of no consequence that it was objectively a perfectly normal thing to ask.

Persy smiled and it carried a note of relief that made me want to throw the tray against the wall. “Oil? Watercolor?”

“Oil.” I was losing my fucking mind.

Persy nodded, resolute. “Great. Thank you. Do you have a favorite painting?”

“It would be rude of me to choose. I’m supposed to stay neutral.” And since when did I give a fuck about whether or not I was rude?

Persy hummed, a rumbling sound in the back of her throat that I sure as shit never wanted to have to hear again. “That conviction is probably why you are so well-liked.”

It was barely a compliment, more of a fact than anything, but I still felt her words straight in my chest.

So this was how she fixed people, huh? Buttered them up until they were forced to bend to her will and repent for their sins.

“But do you?” Persy pressed. Her resilience was astounding. “Have a favorite painting?”

I wasn’t ever going to answer that, because she’d read far too much into it, chattering on about the Fates or some shit like that. “Anything painted by a former Apollo.”

Persy rested her chin in her hand, her elbow braced on the foot of my bed. I would be grateful to be rid of this fucking thing. “I don’t believe you.” Before I could even begin to respond to that, she was already barreling ahead to the next topic. “I don’t think I have a favorite painting, but that’s the truth. I just think they are all unique in their own right. Now, I do have a favorite sculpture. It’s…”

Persy continued to talk about her favorite art pieces scattered about the Mediterranean until her food was finished and I’d picked through all that my stomach could handle. I’d lost track of how many responses she’d pried from my throat, but she seemed content to talk, so long as I listened, without much from me.

It was torture, but torture I could endure.

By the time she excused herself to go about the rest of her day, I was fucking exhausted. I just prayed that was enough for the week.

She was back at my cell by dinner.

Chapter 5

Persy

Sebastian’s color was back. And he’d started working out in his cell again. Good, he only had a day left.

I was sure he enjoyed some type of physical activity. Even a god didn’t have a body like that without working for it. His arms were quite big and he seemed very strong.

From what I could tell under his shirt, his back and shoulders seemed equally adept. He had rather large legs too. Whenever we were talking and he stretched out into a more relaxed position on his bed, he’d widen his legs a bit, his hips pressing forward as he stretched his thick muscles.

I had half a mind to ask him to refrain from doing that. It would be irrational, I reminded myself. I couldn’t ask him not to do that because it had made me trip over my words one time.