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“Slow down.” He pulls me closer. “We have plenty of time.”

“Twelve hours?”

“The rest of our lives,” he says.

And I could swear, there’s humor in his voice. Like he knows that’s going to be short.

But there’s no way.

I’m projecting.

I close my eyes and lean into his touch.

His body still feels good, yes, but it doesn’t overwhelm me.

I’m not dissolving.

I’m thinking.

This is when I stop thinking.

Why isn’t it working?

I close my eyes. I try to remember what worked to seduce him when I was blocked.

It was harder with Matteo. He saw through the slightest hint of falseness.

I had to build Jamie Moriarty out of parts of myself.

That’s what I need to do know.

And there is a part that wonders:

What if I don’t kill him?

What if I burn down my entire life to spare him?

I’d have to leave Olympus. I’d have to lose touch with Elena. I’d probably spend the next two decades on the run.

Then, if I was lucky, Hera would die, or end up in jail, or lose interest in an old betrayal, and I could lie a semi-normal life again.

That lack of freedom is my worst nightmare.

But what if I was the kind of romantic, artistic woman who said fuck it and did it anyway?

Only an idiot would throw away everything for something as ephemeral as love.

I’d never.

The entire idea is absurd.

Even so, my stomach flutters. My heart races. My blood flows south.

This is the character. And the scary thing is, I understand her.

“Do you trust me enough not to tie me up?” I ask.

“No,” he says, matter-of-factly. “But I want you to fuck me enough to risk it.”