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His lips brush mine.

Just once.

And somehow, that’s worse than a proper kiss.

“Tonight, then,” he murmurs.

I swallow.

“Tonight what?”

His smile turns positively indecent.

“I intend to discover how many kisses it takes before you stop pretending you can resist me.”

Oh, God.

I’m in so much trouble.

* * *

An hour later, I’m alone in the museum archives, digging through the restricted acquisition records associated with Morpheus’s statue.

The deeper I search, the stranger things become.

The War of the Forgotten wasn’t simply a battle between rival gods.

It was a deliberate execution.

Seven immortals condemned to eternal stone. Their temples destroyed, their followers persecuted, their names erased from history.

I open a digitized translation of an inscription recovered from a ruined Greek temple.

Let no mortal speak their names.

Let no hand restore their forms.

Let no dream awaken what the gods have condemned.

My stomach tightens.

Then I reach the final line.

The one who awakens the forgotten shall share his fate.

I read it twice.

Share his fate?

Does that mean I’ll turn to stone?

A shadow falls across my desk.

“What have you found?”

I look up.

Morpheus stands in the doorway.