I don’t blame Achilles for having sex with her. The problem is I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. Jealousy. Anger. Hurt. Guilt. It’s not a simple situation, and the fact that we’re competing tomorrow in the first trial only muddies the waters further.
It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter.
When we started down this road, I decided to have Achilles in my life for as long as he’ll have me, to support him and do everything in my power to ensure he realizes his dream of becoming Ares. Feeling hurt that he slept with Helen after declaring her off-limits changes nothing. I will still do what it takes tomorrow to get him through the first trial. Not that he’ll need my help, but Achilles can have tunnel vision when it comes to his goals. If the factors change, he doesn’t always notice. That’s why I’m here.
I just…never expected to resent the role.
* * *
The next morning brings no clarity. I duck into the main living space earlier than anyone else and grab food to take back to my room. I’m still not ready to face Achilles, and I don’t even know what my reaction will be upon seeing Helen.
I was telling the truth yesterday. I don’t blame her for what happened. She knows we have an open relationship. She has absolutely no reason to think she crossed any lines by having sex with Achilles.
My jealousy isn’t logical and has no basis in fact. It’s pure emotion, and I don’t trust it not to surge the moment I see her. I’m not sure what I’ll do if it does. She deserves to be more than the club Achilles and I bludgeon each other with, but I can’t guarantee I won’t do exactly that if given half a chance.
It’s not a comfortable realization.
By the time Bellerophon comes to collect us, I’m filled to the brim with restless energy. The sensation only gets worse when I step through my door and find both Helen and Achilles already standing in the hallway. We were given no clothing guidelines, so I went with a pair of compression pants and a T-shirt. Clothing that’s easy to move in but fitted enough that it’s unlikely to catch on anything or provide a handhold for another champion. Achilles is wearing the gear we commissioned for him, a similar style to mine but with a black and silver pattern on it that’s designed to catch the eye. He looks good, just like the handsome god he plays when he’s required to deal with the public on Athena’s behalf.
Helen…
Helen looks like the princess Achilles has named her. She’s wearing tiny shorts that leave her long legs bare and a tank top that clings to her skin, both a black-gold that shines even in this low light. There’s also glitter on her skin and in her slicked-back hair. She hasn’t downplayed her beauty today. Smoky eyes and black lipstick should be too intense, but combined with the glitter, she appears otherworldly.
They look…like a couple.
Bellerophon clears their throat, and I realize I’ve been staring. “Let’s go.” They turn, leaving us to follow them down the hall in the direction of the exit.
Achilles tries to catch my eye, but I shake my head. I’m not in the mood to try to hash out anything, and even if I were, now’s hardly the time. “Stick to the plan,” I murmur.
He nods, but not like he’s happy. That’s fine. I’m not particularly happy at the moment, either. I glance at Helen again, but she seems lost in her own thoughts, her gaze a thousand miles away.
The other champions are already gathered by the time we make it out there, and everyone is quiet as we file into the vans—even Paris. I end up sitting between Achilles and Helen, which might make me laugh at the irony if I could draw the breath. My emotions are a messy tangle in my chest, so I do the only thing I can think of. The only thing that makes sense.
I focus on the trial ahead.
It will be physical—all the trials for Ares tend to be physical. It’s also likely to be something timed rather than a trial that pits champions against champions. Historically, they save those for later, usually the last one. In the last four out of five Ares competitions, the first trial has been some kind of race. An easy way to cut out the majority of the champions in one sweep. That’s what I’d put my money on.
But just because it’s a race doesn’t mean there won’t be fighting. That’s usually well within the parameters of the trial. People love a good show, after all, and blood sport is the oldest show of them all.
The van stops and the doors open. It’s time. I move first, needing to get out of the enclosed space with these two. It doesn’t matter that neither Helen or Achilles have so much as looked at each other or that the simmering connection between them might be all in my head. I need space. Unfortunately, space is the one thing I don’t have access to and won’t until the trial ends.