“This isn’t how it happens.” I can’t seem to process that I’ve been eliminated. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. We had a plan. Fuck, I had a plan. The Minotaur. Then Paris. “Helen.”
I lost sight of her when I tackled the Minotaur, but surely she isn’t eliminated. If Paris wins… We promised her. We fucking promised her, and I lost sight of everything in the last few minutes.
I twist to look for her. There. Helen stalks Paris, fury written over her perfect face. She’s still only got those fucking daggers, and he’s got an honest-to-gods bow drawn and pointed in her direction.
He could shoot her. He could fucking kill her.
Paris lets loose an arrow and Helen dances to the side, dodging it at the last moment. She narrows her eyes and picks up her pace, sprinting toward him. Paris flinches and scrambles for another arrow. He’s got them embedded in the sand at his feet like he’s some old-time warrior instead of a cowardly little prick who sat back and let everyone fight it out so he could pick off the winner. He strings another arrow and fires, but Helen drops to the sand and it flies over her head.
I chance a glance at Patroclus. He’s still breathing and he wraps his hands around my wrists. The strength of his grip reassures me. “She’ll do it.”
I follow his gaze to Helen again. I want her to win. Of course I do. It’s not even a contest between her and Paris. But I can’t think properly right now. Not with her and Patroclus still in danger. Not with my entire plan upended.
A third arrow flies. She spins out of the way like a dancer, light on her feet and using the turn to pick up momentum until she’s flying over the sand.
She’s so close now. Less than ten feet from him. Paris grabs another arrow, but he’s panicking, his movements clumsy. He nearly drops it. That’s all the opening she needs. The little fool flings one of her knives at him. Fifty percent chance it hits, and even that’s optimistic.
Except it does.
It takes him in the shoulder, spinning Paris away from his fucking arrows and into the wall surrounding the main arena. He slides to the ground, clutching his shoulder and screaming something I can’t hear over the cheers of thousands of people around us.
Helen takes one more step before she seems to remember herself. She straightens and turns to face Athena. From this angle, I can’t see her expression, but there’s a fury in the set of her shoulders that practically dares Athena to do anything but declare her the winner.
Athena stares down at her for a long time, long enough for the cheers to die down and the silence to gain an eerie quality. Finally she lifts her hands. “We have a winner. Congratulations…Ares.”
The arena goes wild.
On the sand, medics rush out from one of the arches, teams splitting up to take each of the injured champions. I wave mine off. I’m barely injured. A fucking scratch. That’s all it took to snatch my dreams from me. I was so close. So fucking close.
It’s…over.
I’ve lost.
My dreams are dead and gone, and it’s my own damn fault.
29
Helen
I can’t stop shaking. I need to see Patroclus, to make sure he’s okay. The medics have him on a stretcher, and they move past me as they carry him out of the arena. I barely get a glimpse of his pale face before he’s gone.
The referees march the Minotaur out behind him. They keep looking at the big man as if they’re not sure whether he’ll leave peacefully. His words still ring in my ears. Figured you’d both come running when your little boyfriend was threatened. He used Patroclus to draw Achilles and me to him. Guilt has me in a choke hold.
If I’d been stronger…
If I’d eliminated the Minotaur before he had a chance to nearly kill Patroclus…
If…
Achilles limps toward the exit. He barely looks at me as he passes. I should give him space, should let him process what the fuck just happened. I haven’t processed what happened, so I can’t imagine he has.
But I can’t. Fear swamps me, stronger than I could have anticipated. “Achilles.”
He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t stop, doesn’t so much as slow down.
The feeling gets worse. “Achilles, talk to me.”
He barely hesitates. “You got what you wanted, Helen. Get that sad look off your face.” He’s still not looking at me, instead offering me his perfect profile. “Celebrate.”
The bottom of my stomach drops out. “Was it all bullshit? The talk of the future and keeping me?”
He shakes his head. “I have to go with Patroclus to the hospital. I’ll talk to you later.”
It doesn’t sound like a promise. He tosses out the words as if he’ll say whatever it takes to end this conversation. To end…this.