of the stairs, the floor opens onto a balcony, but there’s only one set of doors. Zeus pulls them open and gestures me in. Everything still and dark and...peaceful. It’s strange after the blinding glamour of the brothel.
“You’re very quiet,” I tell him, because I have to say something. How many nights did I watch him hold court at Olympus, and now he’s like this?
“I don’t… I don’t bring people here.”
My cheeks flush. I want to say something snappy and brave, but this doesn’t feel like the first night at the whorehouse. The stakes are so much higher now. So I say nothing and go where he leads me.
Which turns out to be a foyer with a plush rug and a three-legged table. Zeus reaches in his pocket for something—his wallet, decorated with my teeth marks. The wallet goes into the bowl. He kicks his shoes off into a narrow closet off to one side and holds the door open for me to do the same. It’s so particular and fussy that I have to swallow a laugh. The act of suppressing it hurts my back.
From the foyer, we step into a living room.
It is the most incredible living room I’ve ever seen. The ceiling is high and round. The original art—
He’s left the original art intact. It’s a springtime scene divided into panels framed in cream and gold, and the whole thing looks down over a sunny den writ large over the space. A set of armchairs rest by a fireplace with exposed brickwork. A giant sofa, big enough for even Zeus to sprawl out on, takes up one corner and faces a paneled wall that probably hides a television. Huge windows reach up toward the ceiling, and below those windows are rows of built-in bookshelves coming to waist height.
I have never once imagined Zeus reading a book. But the shelves are dotted here and there with cushions that make their function clear—to sit on them while you read. Round rugs in neutral colors form islands in a sea of hardwood. I would never, not in a thousand years, think to put all these things in here.
Zeus would. Clearly.
His shoulders let down as he crosses the room to the other side, then turns back to beckon me along with him. “The living room.” He gestures with one hand, then steps into a hallway. “Kitchen.” I get a glimpse of the kitchen through the interior doorway. Stainless steel. More hardwood cabinetry. I add cooking to the list of things I’ve never imagined Zeus doing. Past the kitchen there’s a bathroom, and then we turn another corner. This hall runs along the back of the theater, with big windows that look over a view of the city I’ve never seen.
From here, there’s no sign of the whorehouse.
“Bedroom,” he says, and for the very first time since I almost got blown up, there’s heat in his voice. Zeus pushes open double doors—a necessity, for a man his size—and goes in.
This room is nothing like the other bedroom—the whorehouse bedroom. Nothing. No black furniture, only the same polished hardwood I’ve seen in the rest of this house. A massive bed. Two bedside tables. One of the tables holds three books.
And the walls are covered in paintings.
They’re uniform in size, but otherwise the subjects are completely different. One is a beach scene—a single wooden chair, half-buried in sand. One is a portrait of a woman in profile, sitting in a window seat. Dark hair, pulled up into a bun on the top of her head. She has a book in her lap and an apple in one hand. “These are like the paintings in your closet.”
“Funny. I don’t recall giving you permission to go through my closet.” Zeus steps behind me and pulls me into him. It’s a simple, unguarded motion, and my brain kicks into high gear. Remember this. There might not be many of these moments left. My heart races, but I’m being paranoid—I’m being foolish. He doesn’t bring people here, but he brought me. There’s no reason to think this will end.
“I didn’t have permission,” I admit. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” he whispers. “Yet.” And then he picks me up and takes me to the bed. Zeus tugs the shirt over my head, leaving me bare from the waist up, then eases me against pillows with great care. It hurts. I feel like I have incipient wings. But there’s nothing, honestly, nothing more I want in the