You never signed up for this. And yet here you were, standing shoulder to shoulder with Jason Grace while a council of smug minor gods observed you like a pair of prize canaries. “For the final trial,” one of them had said, voice all wispy and divine, “only soul-bound mortals may enter. Those whose fates are entwined.” And somehow—somehow—Jason had stepped forward. And said your name. You’d blinked. Froze. Swallowed the no that almost slipped out of your throat. Because if you refused, they’d send someone else. Someone who wouldn’t survive. And of course Jason knew that. Of course he used your sense of duty against you like the manipulative little Roman he was.

Now, you’re stuck pretending to be madly in love with the same boy who once told you your dagger form was “cute.”

“You could at least pretend to look happy,” Jason murmurs from beside you, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re supposed to be in love with me, remember?”