"You can't do that to me," Athena said, her voice edged with the illusion of calm.
But Medusa saw right through her. The tremble beneath her carefully controlled tone. The twitch in her jaw. The way her golden eyes flicked away too quickly, then back again—desperate to hide just how much she feels the thrill.
"I'm not your husband," Athena added, as if the title would excuse her from the weight of her own contradictions.
Medusa didn't respond at first. She merely stared, her expression unreadable, arms crossed like armor. But the truth clung to the air between them like a bitter perfume. Athena—glorious, wise, revered Athena—was falling apart. And for what? Because Amphitrite had dared to raise her voice.
Because the sea goddess had shouted at her. Had cornered her. He had dragged her down from her lofty perch of logic and pride with nothing more than a furious scowl and words sharp enough to draw blood.
