Exhaling, I closed my eyes as I rubbed my palm over my forehead. Just a dream—a stupid dream. Titans couldn’t get inside the University. Wards prevented that. The shades could, but I’d rather face a hundred souls that had escaped Tartarus than see Hyperion’s or another Titan’s face again.

I had no idea who the man was that I’d dreamed about, except that I knew deep in my core that he was a Titan.

“Josie?” came a rough, sleep-heavy and slightly accented voice. “What are you doing?”

My pulse kicked up again, but this time for a very different reason as I twisted around and got an eyeful of possibly the sexiest being alive.

Seth Dio—however you spelled or pronounced his last name—was lying on his side. The thin comforter was tangled low around his hips, revealing a whole lot of golden-colored skin—taut and ripped skin.

Seth had a legit six-pack. Like, not painted on, or only visible when he was flexing or doing strenuous activities. I half-suspected he was born that way, a baby with a six-pack and rock-hard pecs, doing bicep curls with milk-filled bottles. Speaking of biceps, they were extremely nice too. So were his broad shoulders and tapered waist. And his face?

God.

He was beautiful. Almost too much. Like his features had been carefully pieced together, a collection of perfection—which they had been. Angular, high cheekbones and full, sensual lips you could get lost staring at. Dreaming about. Well, fantasizing about. A straight, flawless nose, and his eyes . . . They were the most stunning ocher color, framed by dark, thick lashes. His arched brows were slightly darker than his blond hair—hair that he’d cut recently. I was still getting used to the shorter locks. The soft strands were buzzed close to the skull on the sides and longer on the top, sometimes straight, sometimes a mess of waves. I liked running my palms against the sides, feeling the shorter hair tickle my palms.

I just liked touching Seth in general.

Sometimes I had no idea how he had ended up in my bed. I mean, of course, he was there because I invited him in and wanted him there, but I don’t think I was the type of girl anyone pictured with someone like him. I wasn’t knocking myself. I was just being realistic. I was five feet and nine inches of uncoordinated mess most of the time. My hips would’ve been popular back in the fifteen-hundreds or something, when “child-bearing hips” were all the rage, and I’m pretty sure my thighs were never in style or going to be. Apparently no amount of training—kickboxing, grappling, running, defensive or offensive training—was going to tighten my stomach or trim my waistline. I wasn’t thin or willowy, or graceful and demure. I was loud, could be fairly obnoxious, and I rambled.