Sophie gaped at him. She’d gaped so much today she feared the expression would freeze on her face, and she’d be gaping forever. “Hospital food sucks,” she said as the elevator doors opened.

Piers strode toward their room at the end of the hallway. “Then we’ll avoid it. Croissants aren’t bad, but I’d need about fifty more of them.”

Sophie stared at his strong profile, starting to feel a little less woozy and a little more focused. The man needed protein. She should’ve known that just from ogling his fit, hard-as-a-rock body. “I’ll order room service.”

“Will there be cheese?” he asked. “Bread? Lamb?”

“I don’t know.” She’d been living off coffee and soup—and half a croissant—for days now. “I’ll show you the menu.”

He nodded. “Choices. Excellent.”

“How can you look so normal when you have a bullet in you?” The men she knew would’ve been squealing in agony. Even her brothers, and they were big and strong—Heracleidae, like she was.

But then, she also didn’t know anyone who could casually break a man’s arm and throw him across the sidewalk. One handed.

“It’s not in me,” Piers said. “It went straight through. I saw it hit the pavement.”

“Oh.” Sophie swallowed, woozy again. She’d fainted twice in her life, both times at the sight of blood. It was a good thing she wouldn’t have to operate.

CHAPTER 5

Piers wanted to look at the Shard of Olympus. Sophie wanted to clean his wound. Since he was apparently incapable of saying no to her, he found himself seated on a stool in the brightly lit bathroom getting something called saline solution spewed all over him. It didn’t feel good.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled. This wasn’t the first time something had gone in one side of him and come out the other. It happened. That was war.

As if to echo his thoughts, Sophie murmured, “Jesus, you’re covered in scars.”

“Piers,” he corrected, stung she’d somehow forgotten his name. That hurt more than this ridiculous little bullet wound.

She paused, then laughed. “I know—Piers. It’s like saying holy shit or oh my God. Honestly, I was taught not to say any of those things, but I slip sometimes. Maybe you have an equivalent from Thalyria I can use. It’ll be totally guilt free, which I would love.”

He thought about it, trying not to get distracted by Sophie’s light, delicate touch as she patted his torso dry with a clean towel. “Well, there’s oh my gods—plural. Everyone uses that, and there’s no guilt involved. A friend of mine—Flynn—he likes Hades, Hera, and Hestia!”

“That’s catchy.” Sophie set aside the towel and picked up another bottle from the counter. “Maybe it’s the alliteration.”