Electric Idol (Dark Olympus Book 2)
Electric Idol: Chapter 12

I don’t know how Eros got Juliette’s information, but an hour later, we’re driving onto one of the three bridges in Olympus to meet her. Each of them have a particular feel, and Cypress Bridge calls back to our Greek roots. There are tall pillars lining it, and in the light of the late morning, they give the impression of crossing into another world.

My ears pop as we cross the River Styx, but that’s as uncomfortable as things get, thanks to Persephone’s invitation. Without it, moving from the upper city to the lower city isn’t impossible, but it’s significantly more uncomfortable. Or that’s what everyone says. I’ve never tried it myself. The few times I’ve visited my sister in her new home, I’ve been welcomed.

We’re not headed to that house today. Eros guides us south along the river to the lower city warehouse district. It looks nearly identical to the one in the upper city—each block populated with massive warehouses, the streets with very little foot traffic. It’s strange how determined the upper city is to pretend the lower city is actually lower, when really it’s not that much different. At least on the surface.

In reality, the differences run bone deep.

I know my sister loves it down here, but I don’t understand this side of the river. Surely the people here aren’t actually as transparent as Persephone makes it sound? How do they go through life without the defense of a public image in place? It boggles the mind. Then again, I suppose they take their cues from Hades. He’s a very different kind of ruler than any Zeus has ever been.

Eros circles the massive block and parks in front of a warehouse that looks indistinguishable from the rest of the others in the area. I recognize the subtle sign above the door, though. Juliette’s.

He turns to look at me. “Get whatever you need. Spare no expense.”

“Eros—” Maybe he doesn’t realize how expensive Juliette’s custom pieces run, but I’m not mercenary enough to take him up on this offer.

“I mean it.” He shuts off the engine. “Image matters, remember?”

Right. Our image. My image. That’s what he’s worried about. He’s not some besotted man with a black credit card wanting to treat his partner. This is all about the plan. “Of course it matters.” I step out of the car before we can continue the conversation. He’s right; I need to keep my eye on the prize.

The prize being my life.

Juliette’s warehouse might seem like all the others on the outside, but it’s a completely different world inside. Right off the door, there is a stylish sitting room with a variety of chairs and reading material. The rest of the space is divided into two. The front half for racks upon racks of clothing, arranged by style, size, and color. The back is her work space, and only a fool tries to check it out without an invitation.

She must have been watching for us because she appears immediately, striding down the space between two racks as if it were a runway. If she were anyone else, I would think she’s putting on a show, but this is just Juliette. She started her career as a model, and while she may have moved to the fashion side of things, she’s still naturally aware of her surroundings and subconsciously putting forth her best angles.

Not that the woman has a bad angle. She’s a tall Black woman with cheekbones sharp enough to cut and a focused air about her that speaks to how she made it to the top of her field. She meets my gaze and smiles. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

I manage to smile back, and it almost feels natural on my face. “Thank you. And thank you for working with us on such short notice.”

“Of course.” Juliette motions toward the changing rooms tucked against the far wall. “I have a few options picked out that I think would suit.”

If she says they’ll suit, I believe her. The woman is truly a master with fit, fabric, and style. There’s a reason I have a few of her pieces in my suitcase currently, though she’s expensive enough that I try to ration my purchases for special occasions. A wedding is nothing if not special, I suppose. “Thank you,” I say again.

“You.” She turns dark eyes on Eros. “Go sit down or wait outside. I don’t want you wandering about the place and distracting me.” There’s no give in Juliette’s voice. Or on her face, where she’s barely concealing her dislike for Eros. When he obediently walks away, his footsteps echoing in the large space, she turns to me. “It’s not my job to ask questions, but I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I hope I know what I’m doing, too. Confiding in anyone, especially a near stranger, is out of the question, though. Instead, I offer her a bright smile. “I do.”

Juliette gives me a long look and finally nods. “Let’s get to it.”

She sends me into the changing area with six dresses. It takes me ten minutes to eliminate four of them as possibilities. They all fit perfectly, but they just don’t feel right for the image I plan on projecting. Plenty of people spend years dreaming of their wedding, and when I was a little girl, I was no different.

Once we moved into the city, I set those dreams aside. Oh, I always hoped I’d end up married one day, but with every year that passed, the reality of our situation sank in further. The only people I can trust in Olympus are my sisters. Even my mother has her own agenda, and more often than not, she asks for forgiveness instead of permission when she ropes us into her schemes.

A part of me always dreamed of walking down the aisle to my partner, of putting together a small but tasteful wedding of our closest friends and family, one that had nothing to do with the press or social media or the judgment of others. A marriage that I chose, rather than one set up for political gain like my mother wants.

That dream has turned to ash now.

I study the remaining two dresses. One is what I would have chosen for that dream wedding. It’s a fitted white dress in a mermaid style with exquisite lace and beading over the bodice and hips and thighs before flaring out in layers of tulle that create a short train.

The other is a deep merlot color that’s breathtakingly striking. It’s got a structured sweetheart bodice that does impressive things for my breasts. The fabric gathers on my right hip in a burst of silver roses, the flowers appearing to be swept along, with silver petals trailing down the full skirt. Tiny sleeves create an off-the-shoulder look that seems more designed to show off my shoulders and chest than cover anything up. Silver stitching creates a V along the top of the bodice, finishing the look.

It’s bold and untraditional, and even though it’s not the right color of red, it still makes me feel like it’s been dipped in blood.

In short, it’s perfect.

“Juliette.”

She steps into the changing area and raises her brows. “It wasn’t my first choice when I put these options together, but it’s a showstopper.”

I stare at myself in the mirror. My coloring allows me to pull off a wide variety of palettes, but I usually keep to a subtler neutral with pops of brightness. A look that doesn’t scream for attention but also isn’t hiding. No one can look at me in this dress and see anything other than a statement.

Choke on that, Aphrodite.

“I’ll take it.”

Juliette nods. “Give me a few moments.” She circles me, tugging the dress in a few places and pinning the hem a little higher. “I can have this done in an hour or so. Do you want to wait?”

It’s not a good idea to linger in the lower city. Persephone might be willing to let us be here, but Hades doesn’t like Eros, and there’s always the risk he’ll override my sister and revoke his invitation. “I’ll ask my sister to bring it when she comes tonight.”

“Works for me.” Juliette pins one last piece and nods. “Okay, I’m finished. I don’t need you anymore.”

I smile. “Thanks for the rush order on this.”

“Don’t thank me. As I told Eros, I plan on charging for my disrupted plans. Triple my going rate sounds fair.”

The amount is more than a little staggering. I can’t believe Eros agreed to that. I don’t even really require a wedding gown for this marriage, except for the fact that we need it to look real. But he didn’t have to pay out for one of the best designers in Olympus to make it happen. “Definitely fair.”

“Also, before I forget.” She pulls something out of her pocket. It’s a swatch of fabric the same color as the gown. “In case you need to replace a matching palette.”

“Thank you.” Such a small detail, but one I hadn’t really thought of in the midst of this whirlwind. “I really appreciate it.”

I dress quickly and then head through the aisle of clothing to the waiting area situated near the entrance. Eros lounges in one of the chairs, glaring at his phone. He glances up as I approach, his blue eyes hard. “You should really limit who’s allowed to comment on your shit. These people are toxic as fuck and have too much time on their hands.”

I almost miss a step. I’m not foolish enough to assume that he’s expressing actual concern. More likely, guessing by the comments I normally see on my posts, he’s pissed by proxy. We’re a unit, at least for now, so an insult against me is an insult against him. I fight for a smile. “I told you not to read the comments.”

He rises and falls into step at my side, moving just ahead to open the door for me. I send a quick text to Persephone, confirming that she’s good with ferrying the dress to me, which she is. That done, we head back across the river. I don’t mean to breathe a sigh of relief as we cross the River Styx, but Eros shoots me a strange look when I do.

Embarrassment flares. “I know it’s just part of living in Olympus, but the River Styx has always creeped me out.”

“You’re not alone. It’s a kind of barrier, a reminder of how isolated we are from the rest of the world. That would unsettle anyone who brushes against it.” He reaches across the middle console and sets his hand on my thigh. I stare at it, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Eros just keeps driving, his gaze on the road.

Oh. Right. The whole getting-comfortable-touching-each-other thing. I can’t deny that I’m failing terribly at this goal. It’s not even that I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me. I know he’s capable of it, of course, but that’s not the problem.

The real issue is that every time he touches me, it feels like he’s hooked me up to a live wire. I can be a great actress when the situation calls for it, but I haven’t managed to act natural a single time we’ve made contact. It’s something the gossip sites will glom onto without hesitation—some out of spite, some out of curiosity. Neither is good for us.

Or maybe I’m looking for an excuse to take something I most certainly shouldn’t want.

I slowly, hesitantly, place my hand on Eros’s. It feels like his palm scorches me through my jeans, like his fingers are making imprints against my skin even though he’s not gripping me at all. I’m achingly aware that he’s a few short inches from the apex of my thighs, and it’s everything I can do not to clench my legs together. I’ve never been affected by someone like this. I don’t know if it’s the danger heightening my desire or the simple fact that I shouldn’t want this man, almost husband or no.

“You’re so tense, you’re practically vibrating out of your seat.”

The comment stings. “I’m doing my best.”

His tone is mild. His words aren’t. “Your best isn’t good enough. We have mere hours to make this work. As enjoyable as it is to kiss you every time you start spiraling, you have to be able to handle me touching you.”

A hot feeling flares across my face, but I can’t tell if it’s shame or desire. “I’m aware of that.”

Eros takes the turn to his block and then again into the parking garage. “The offer still stands.”

No need to ask for clarification. There’s only one offer on the table right now, and it’s one I most definitely shouldn’t accept. I stare down at the way his hand looks on my thigh. Broad palm, blunt fingers, perfectly maintained nails. It’s as handsome as the rest of him, but there are calluses on his palm. A small external indicator that he’s not entirely as he seems.

The heat suffusing my face flares hotter, lower. It feels like Eros has sucked out all the air in the car, and he hasn’t even done anything. The only time I’ve felt this discombobulated was when I held hands with Jenny Lee in seventh grade. Hot and clammy and desperately not wanting to do anything to make the contact cease. It hadn’t ended well for me then; I’d dredged up all my bravery and leaned in to kiss her, only to discover she was holding my hand as a friend.

Eros doesn’t want to be friends with me, but the sensation of walking a tightrope over a pit of crocodiles is identical. One wrong move, and humiliation will be the least of my worries.

He parks and we climb out of the car. Eros allows me to grab one suitcase, but he takes the other and the lighting equipment. He’s got a strange look on his face, but I don’t know him well enough to recognize if it’s just a default distant expression or if something’s actually bothering him. He locks the door to his penthouse behind us and leads me down the hallway to one of the doors we passed the night before.

It opens into a perfectly nice spare bedroom decorated in cool gray tones. A king-sized bed takes up one wall and there are two doors on the opposite side of the room, leading to a decent-sized walk-in closet and a bathroom that is only slightly smaller than the master bath. And, of course, there’s a giant mirror in between the doors, reflecting our images back at us.

Eros sets my stuff on the bed, and I follow suit. He turns to me. “You can have the spare bedroom.”

Relief has me weaving on my feet. It was one thing to sleep next to him last night, but I can barely comprehend doing it every night. “Thank the gods.”

Eros’s lips curve, but it’s not a nice smile. “Don’t misunderstand. You can put your shit in the spare bedroom. Make it as cluttered as you want it, but keep it confined to here. That’s the only thing staying in the spare bedroom.”

My relief fizzles out like a deflated balloon. I want to yell at him, which is precisely why I can’t. It’s just proving that I’m not prepared to do this all the way. Damn it. I have to do this 100 percent. I thought I could cut corners, but today’s proven that’s an impossible ask. There’s only one solution.

I glance at my phone. It’s nearly one. “What time is the jeweler getting here?”

“Two.”

“Plenty of time, then.” I walk out of the spare room and down the hall to the master. I’m achingly aware of Eros shadowing my steps, and when I glance over my shoulder, I replace his gaze on my ass. Strangely, that gives me the confidence I need to pull my shirt over my head. “Let’s do this.”

He stops short. “I’m going to need you to elaborate.”

I start unbuttoning my jeans. This would be a lot less awkward if he was stripping, too, rather than staring at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. “You were right, I was wrong. We need to rip the bandage off, and we need to do it now. So let’s trade orgasms and be done with this so we can convince people we’re a real couple.”