Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 83786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“Imbros. Right.” He gives me another long look and then sighs. “Hold still. I don’t want to hurt you by accident.”
I watch in stunned silence as he digs around in the drawers until he finds a box of bandages and then expertly removes the IV from my arm. I can’t find words when he’s unclipping the heart monitors on my chest, as distant as if he were a nurse himself. The machine instantly starts beeping an alarm, but Perseus pushes a few buttons and it’s silenced before it can draw any nurses or doctors from the hall.
I swallow hard. “You know your way around a hospital room?”
“Yes.” He half turns away but seems to reconsider his abruptness. “You know who my father was. You know what he was capable of. Even before her death, my mother saw a lot of hospital rooms. After her death, I did, too.” He looks around as if he didn’t just drop truly horrific information as casually as commenting on the weather.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“There’s no reason you would have. I never visited public hospitals. What would people think, you know?”
People already believed the last Zeus was a wife killer. It didn’t affect their apparent love for him or his social standing within the city. There’s no reason to believe that finding out he was abusing his children would be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Zeus still knew enough to hide, which speaks volumes. It makes me want to bring the former Zeus back from the dead so I can kill him all over again.
I don’t tell Perseus I’m sorry. Those words mean nothing. I can’t go back and change the past, and if he thinks for a second that I pity him, he’ll resent me. It’s not pity. I don’t know what to call this feeling inside me. I would blame the damned parasite, but the truth is I’m growing increasingly sure the sensations inside me are not physical in nature. They’re emotional.
Imbros bursts through the door and skids to a stop, zir eyes wide. “I brought the clothing you asked for.” Ze glances at Perseus. “Do you want to—”
Perseus snatches the clothing out of zir hands. “Either leave or turn around.”
Imbros looks to me for confirmation, and while I don’t fully understand what my husband is doing, I nod. Ze hesitates but finally turns zir back on us. I know it’s a testament of zir lack of faith in Zeus that ze refuses to leave the room, but I don’t comment on that, either. I’m not commenting on a lot of things right now.
Perseus sets out my clothing with regimented organization: dress, then bra, then panties, then socks, boots going on the floor. Then my husband, the so-called king of Olympus, goes to his knees before me. This isn’t about sex—it would be easier if it was—and the shock holds me paralyzed while he takes one of my feet and slides the first sock onto it. He’s gentle and firm and perfectly polite. As if he’s a different person entirely.
While I’m still recovering from my confusion over this strange turn of events, he gets my second sock on and slides my panties past my feet. “Can you stand?”
“It was only a graze. I can dress myself.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
This isn’t a battle I’m going to win. I’m so bloody tired; I don’t have the stamina for another fight today. Or that’s what I tell myself as I slide carefully onto my feet. I wobble a little, and instead of reaching behind me for the bed, I grip my husband’s shoulder. He slides my underwear up my legs and into position. I find myself holding my breath the same way I did last night when he stroked my stomach. I am not ready to talk about it. I’m not ready to admit the only reason I allowed myself to get pregnant was so I could kill him. I’m sure as fuck not ready to admit that part of the reason I’m withholding this knowledge from everyone is because I…don’t want to kill Perseus.
His hands linger on my hips, his eyes on my stomach, for a beat too long. I tense, certain he’s going to make a comment, but instead he simply rises and snatches my sports bra from the pile of clothing. If he finds it strange that I’m wearing a sports bra instead of something more traditional, he doesn’t comment on that, either. My older bras don’t fit anymore, and the thought of dealing with an underwire makes my already achy breasts protest wildly. I can’t buy new bras for the same reason I haven’t bought new clothes: People might talk. There’s no graceful way to put on a sports bra, but somehow he manages. And then all that’s left is my wrap dress.