“Then we’re going for Eris. She bogs me off, but she’s one of ours. Not theirs. She would do the same for any of us.”

Nyx shut her eyes and nodded. “Fuck, but you’re right.”

“Me too,” said Cato. He shook his head and gave a rueful smile. “Gods help me, but I would. After Ismara, I can’t go back to the way I was before.” There was no trace of cockiness, no uncertainty.

Ariadne nodded. “Okay,” she murmured. She let out a rough, shaking breath. “Okay. Count me in.”

“Good,” Clo said. “First, we figure out how to get past the Laguna checkpoints. Then we infiltrate the ceremony, get our stubborn fluming princess, and stop a genocide.” Her face split into a sly smile. “Easy.”

She returned to the captain’s chair, put her hands back on the controls, and moved the ship faster through the endless expanse of space.

46.

ERIS

Present day

Damocles had bound Eris’s hands so tightly that she couldn’t even wiggle her fingers.

She watched her brother give commands in the same sharp way she remembered from when they were children. He sounded like their father, though she suspected that was for her benefit more than anything. When he rolled his shoulders back and glanced at her, it was in the way someone might seek approval. They had fallen into that role for so long, it came naturally—even after three years. Even with her captive.

“Get the medic,” Damocles told his soldier. “Tell him to bring his mod kit.”

The soldier left and Eris leaned back in her chair. She wouldn’t let her unease show; this had been a game her father played once. Damocles would have learned it from him. How much torture could his children take?

Eris had always taken the most.

“You don’t need the cuffs so tight,” Eris said. “It’s not like I can go anywhere.”

Her brother sat across from her, crossing his long legs. “You’re clever enough to find a way around that.”

“I’m not armed.”

“I’m not stupid.”

Eris raked him with a gaze. “That’s debatable.”

She didn’t even blink before he smacked her across the face. The blow rocked her chair back, but the toe of his military boot stopped her from falling. When she rocked forward, Damocles had her chin in his grip, a hard press of his thumb and forefinger.

“Who do you think our father would be more disappointed by? His second-choice son or his traitor daughter?” His voice was low, almost a growl.

There. She could use that. “Traitor or not, he’d prefer me. He always has.”