Raphael's POV
I don’t remember how many bottles. Don’t remember when the sun set. Or if it ever rose. My hands shake when I try to lift the glass now, which is funny, 'cause the first few went down easy. Real easy. Like they were made to burn.
The room stinks. Sweat, whiskey, and something sharp beneath it. Regret, maybe. Shame. Whatever that smells like. My head feels stuffed with gravel. My mouth tastes like I chewed on ashes.
There’s this throb in my temple that won't quit, like someone pounding on the inside of my skull, trying to get out.
She’s gone.
And I shouldn’t care.
Athena. The weakling. The thing I dragged out of the gutters and dressed in silk. The omega no one wanted.
A gift, the elders said. Breed her. Use her. She’s good for that much. An obedient vessel. A body with
