"Are you feeling better?" he questioned politely, arching a brow as he appraised her. He shifted the two books he was holding his arms.

Annabeth swallowed back an uncomfortable flinch at his civility. She had grown so used to his demanding drawl, she had almost forgotten what it was like to face his cold disposition. She hated it, she decided—then remembered she hated him.

But her anger was stolen from her when she remembered that she was still in her nightgown, the thin fabric cutting off just above her ankles. Her stomach twisted with discomfort.

"Very," she said simply, her vocal cords straining.

She tried to summon the power to turn away from him, trying desperately to recall just how sick she'd felt after their last interaction.

"Good," he replied.

She breathed. He blinked, then did what she hadn't, he turned and left—well, not really, but Annabeth faintly registered the shuffle of his feet, the slight shift of weight that might have indicated his discomfort or desire to leave and felt an immediate uncontrollable urge to stop him.

"Are you ignoring me?" she prompted, diverting his attention.

His eyes met her, surprise flickering over his features for a second before he schooled them into disinterest. "I didn't realize my absence was missed," he returned, his mouth curling at the corners.

And maybe it was the flash in his eyes, the gleam of excitement and intrigue—or maybe it was the way he was looking at her, like she was a mystery he desperately wanted to solve—or maybe it was the faint voice in the back of her head warning her to turn around and leave the library and never come back, begging her never to be alone with him again—or more than likely, it was the spark in her chest, a flame beginning to blossom, as she registered that she felt a thousand times more alive at this moment than she had when Luke had declared his love for her, but Annabeth finally came to terms with the truth—she was in horrid trouble.

"It wasn't," she denied impassively.

"Clearly," he scoffed, setting down his books to step towards her, his hands free to—to what?

God, she was doomed, there could be no doubt now. The rational part of her was yelling for her to leave because this wasn't like the other times, she wasn't trapped or coerced or under the influence, there was no excuse this time. There would be no excuses.

"What are you doing exploring the castle in your nightgown?" he asked, his gaze running up and down her body before meeting her own in question. "Seems improper," he added, throwing her words back in her face.

It was improper. This was improper. God, she should stop. She should leave.

There would be no excuses this time. There would be nothing for her to tell Luke or her parents or Rachel—and something about that, the thought of her disappointed and devastated sister sobered her, throwing her harshly back into reality.

"You're right," she nodded stiffly, her breath going shallow as she attempted to rush out of the room.

"Wait," Percy objected, stepping smoothly between her and the door. "I think in the future, it would do us good to present a united front, and thus I wanted to extend my forgiveness for any transgression that might have occurred in the past."

She crossed her arms.

Well, that was certainly unexpected.

"Why?" she ground out, keeping her eyes level with his shoulders. There was no need to get even more distracted by his eyes—not that they were anything distracting in the first place, of course.

"With the delay of your parent's trip," he shrugged simply, the information leaving him with ease. "I thought it would be best for the kingdom to see a united family at its helm."

"We are a united family," Annabeth snapped, her nails digging into the skin of her forearms.

He sighed, then rolled his eyes at her continued silence. "United in image then," he amended half-heartedly.

He stepped away from her, clearing her path towards the door. She didn't take it.

"How did you hear?" she accused instead, finally meeting his eyes as she carefully observed his features for any sign of deception.

"Your mother wrote," he replied evenly.

Annabeth bristled, the implication swallowing her in a wave of annoyance because of course, of course, her mother had also written to Rachel—and of course, Rachel had told him.

"Rachel will be pleased that you are feeling better," Percy remarked as if having read her mind. "Your prolonged ailment was troubling her."

"Are you attempting to guilt me into accepting your lazy apology, Duke?" Annabeth scoffed with undisguised disbelief.

"No," he denied, his jaw tensing. "Especially because I haven't done anything worth an apology."

It was her turn to roll her eyes.

"Why are you here then, Duke?" Annabeth indicted icily, tilting her head upwards just slightly to meet his eyes.

"I told you," he sighed, obviously exasperated—and honestly good, he deserved to be. "United front."

She should have believed him, even if she didn't. She should have forced herself to believe him. She should have smiled and nodded and picked her books and retreated to her bedroom. This—whatever this was—could only end badly. She knew that.

"No," Annabeth rejected. "Why are you here?—in a library without any onlookers to convince of our familial bond, forcing me into a conversation."

"Pardon me," Percy sneered derisively, his lips curling into a firm leer. "I didn't realize you were being forced."

Annabeth saw an irritated crease appear between his brows and reveled in it, surging forward.

"You speak of a united front," she challenged, stopping just inches from him, her fingers jabbing aggressively into his chest, "of a united family, but all you do is insight turmoil within mine."

"I insight turmoil?" he repeated, his voice low and guttural, the words reverberated through her.

She swallowed roughly, doing her best to ignore the feeling of his heartbeat—strong and heavy—beneath her finger. He hadn't moved her hand away.

His eyes clouded over with something obscure and severe and ominous and—and the tenure of the room seemed to change, the candlelight waning as darkness enveloped them.

Why wasn't he moving her hand away?

She should reply. She should open her mouth and say something—anything. No—she should leave. Yes, she should leave—

Why wasn't she leaving?

"Have you considered that perhaps I am only trying to bring your family peace?" he snarled suddenly, taking a long step towards her and suddenly he was too close, and his breath was hot and humid on her lips and she could feel the frustration rolling off of him and thought she saw a fleck of please in his eyes—

Annabeth stumbled back, it was just a step—a half step even—but it was enough for her to breathe, to inhale and consider the implications of his words before unequivocally, unreasonably rejecting them.

"I could bring your kingdom peace," he said then, and that fleck in his eyes seemed to glint with desperation before being swallowed up.

"I don't care—" she argued, feeling her chest heave as her composure left her with every strained breath.

"About the kingdom," he finished for her, his teeth clashing savagely with the harsh constants of his words. "Yes, I've heard."

Annabeth told herself she didn't hear disappointment in his voice, because she didn't—she didn't. What did he have to be disappointed about anyway? He didn't know her? He didn't know her—

She was abruptly vehemently conscious of her movements, feeling every rise and fall of her chest, every twitch of her fingers, every ragged breath that escaped her lips.

"Are you going to threaten me again, Duke?" she asked but found her voice unexpectedly faint, emotion trembling in the final syllable as she lifted her chin, determined not to be talked down to. "Or tell me more tall tales you have heard about me?"

Percy was silent, his gaze boring into her as if he were trying to decipher her, make sense of her words, of her expressions, of her.

Annabeth tried to clear her throat, to speak louder, to instill power and confidence and authority into her words but failed.

"Well, Duke?" she maintained warily, still matching his stare boldly. At least she could still do that.

"You care so much," he began, his eyes narrowing, a nearly imperceptible crease appearing between his brows. His words brushed the dip of her collarbone, slipping down her spine. She shivered.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that his words could affect her like this. It wasn't fair. It was right. It wasn't just. It wasn't healthy.

The room spun around them. She anchored herself in his eyes, the blue-green keeping her standing.

"You love your family so fiercely," he continued, stepping closer to inspect her better—yes that was why, that was why he was getting so close, "that you are utterly ignorant to their flaws."

Annabeth blinked. Frowned. The room stopped spinning.

What had he said? A renewed sense of fight drilling into her blood because who the hell did he think he was to speak about her family that way? The people who had raised her? The people she had protected her entire life?

"No!" she denied forcefully, powerfully, venomously. "You have no idea what you're talking about, Percy. You've been here for what? The entirety of two weeks and think—"

"Tell me then, Annabeth," he spat back at her, the fire in his eyes seeming to rival hers for once. Had they always looked like that? Had they always burned so brightly? "Why did your parents tell you they are in Atlantis right now?

Rebels, she inwardly recalled, but—

No, no, no—he was just trying to confuse her, to insight distrust, to inspire doubt, no, no

"What story were you fed? he asked, laughing humorlessly.

He surged forward.

She stumbled back.

"Did they tell you it was a matter of taxes?" he prompted. "Or perhaps a rebel attack?"

And just like that, in the matter of a few sentences, Annabeth felt trapped again. Logically, she knew she could have escaped. She could have turned around and left the library without a book, returned to her bedroom and forgotten all about his wretched seeds of distrust, but Annabeth had never felt so weak or powerless and the thought sparked something violent in her, something ruthless and spiteful—and suddenly, Annabeth wanted nothing more than she wanted to hurt Percy Jackson like he was hurting her.

"I could tell them you know?" she seethed, too frantic to realize that she had stepped closer to him so that they were only inches apart or that his gaze had dropped surreptitiously to her lips. "I could tell them about what really happened to Duke Dohlov."

Percy watched her intently, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with hers. There was a question in his eyes.

"Aren't you going to deny it?" Annabeth snapped, her jaw clicking tensely as she stood before him.

"No."

"So I'll tell them then," she breathed, unsure what to make of his reaction or lack thereof. "What if I tell them—"

"You won't," Percy shot back suddenly, and she was off balance again, spinning and dizzy and out of control, but it wasn't like before, there was nothing desirable about this confusion, nothing exciting or alluring about the sensation that was shaking her. "And even if you did, do you really think it would matter?"

Annabeth opened her mouth. She had something to say, didn't she? She always had something to say—

"They already know."

No.

He was lying—he had to be lying.

"No—" Annabeth began, tried—but the words didn't come out.

"There are things you don't understand," Percy pressed, leaning forward, folding his stature into hers. She inhaled, praying for the breath to clear her mind, but it didn't help.

He took another step. She didn't step back this time.

His half-lidded eyes flickered over her features, tracing the bow of her lips before returning to her eyes.

"Things happening behind closed doors," he continued, his voice hushed and hoarse and Annabeth's worst nightmare.

She was vaguely aware that whatever he was saying was important, that it was probably dangerous but it was difficult to concentrate when the world around her seem to be going fuzzy, and she suddenly wondered if she were truly as strong as she had always believed. Perhaps she had overestimated herself and underestimated him. Because here she was, melting onto the floor and he was still standing strong and straight and—except no, no he wasn't.

And then she noticed the ragged swell of his chest, the imploring nature of his gaze, the way his eyes seemed to catch on hers and his breath faltered—every time.

"Then tell me," she demanded suddenly, her words carrying much more weight than she had imagined.

He was silent.

Was she wrong? Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe she'd been so caught up in the rise of her own chest, the beat of her own heart that she'd fabricated his reaction to her. Maybe her mother had been right. Maybe her emotions were clouding her judgment.

The thought stung—and that disturbed her more.

"Tell me," she commanded again, her fingers brushing against her skirt. It was soft, smooth, something—something to hold onto, to prove that this was real—that she was in control. "Tell me or—or I'll kill you."

He was silent again, and then—

"We both know you wouldn't do that," he sighed.

Her fists curled, the fabric of her dress caught in the violent crosshairs. She fixed her posture, standing straighter, taller, stronger.

"Yes, I will," she disputed angrily. "I could kill you in an instant—"

"You could," Percy reasoned, seemingly unphased by her outburst. "But you won't."

"Why—Why not?" Annabeth managed, that horrible emptiness building in her chest again, slowly traveling lower and lower, asking, pleading, praying for resolve.

He tilted his head to the side, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Because you find me just as captivating as I find you," he said finally, and his tone was softer—no harder—no, she didn't know. She didn't know, but it was the least of her worries because there was something wrong with her—because it was supposed to be cold. The library was always been cold. Her library was always been cold.

Except it wasn't. It was searing, sweltering, scorching in the worst way. This couldn't be normal. There was something wrong with her—there had to be—

She swallowed heavily at the intensity of his gaze, trying so desperately equal it until she couldn't stand it anymore. She dropped her eyes, focusing instead on his billowy white shirt. It was stuck, caught in time, trapped in an infinitesimal second.

"Because there are secrets, and you want—need them answered."

Oh god, he was still talking. Why was he still talking? Didn't he understand what he was doing to her? Didn't he know how dangerous this game was? That it could only end badly?

"Because your sister would be devasted."

Oh god.

"Why are you doing to me?" she uttered, so quietly she thought he might have missed it—hoped he had.

He exhaled sharply.

And then—

Rachel, Rachel, Rachel

Annabeth prayed for her to give her strength—it seemed to work, the air cooling around her as she finally found the power to lift her arms, only then realizing how close she'd been—close to what?—she couldn't stomach the question.

Her hands flattened against his chest. She shoved him away. He stumbled back, just a few inches, surprise flickering over his features before turning impassive again.

She shouldn't want him. She didn't want him.

It was enough. She decided. It would have to be enough.

"Why won't you answer my question?" she snarled. "What do you know about my parents?"

"Why don't you ask them yourself, Princess?" he seethed.

Annabeth flinched without thinking.

It was gone. That horrible, alluring, prepossessing drawl that had doused his words in honey, that had turned a threat into music, was gone—replaced with something harsher, darker, angrier.

"You're bluffing," Annabeth denied.

He smiled. Her heart dropped.

"Am I?"

"You're bluffing," she maintained, hoping her distress didn't show. Her heart beat frantically. "You have to be. Why would they tell you anything?"

"I never claimed they did," Percy said simply.

"Why are you here, Duke?" Annabeth whispered, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

He didn't answer.

"To instill uncertainty, doubt?" she guessed. "Or to scare me—"

"I never said that," he denied, irritation setting into his features again. The sight comforted her, even as he took another step in her direction. "I'm simply—" he began but Annabeth didn't want to hear it, she didn't want to hear him.

"Oh," she laughed, but the sound held no humor. "So you are going to threaten me."

His mouth clamped shut. She could see the tension strumming his neck.

"I'm beginning to think that's all you know how to do," she added, thinking she'd won, thinking she'd fired the finishing blow—

"That's not all I know how to do."

Oh god

Annabeth felt sick. She had lied when she'd said he didn't want him. Because she did. She wanted him so badly. She wanted to freeze this moment, to hold her hand to his chest and feel the timbre of his voice, to press her lips to his and taste him—and it made her sick. This was sick. She was sick.

She bit her cheek. She couldn't talk anymore—didn't want to. Except, she had to didn't she? She had to tell him no. She had to tell him stop. She had to tell him think.

"Careful Duke," she said in the end, her breath shallow. "You're engaged."

"As are you," he replied slowly.

"I'm not," she denied quickly and then froze.

Why had she said that? What would he think? What would Luke think? What had she said that?

Percy raised a brow. She couldn't read his expression.

"Not yet," she corrected shakily, but his lips were already curling into a mocking smile.

oh god, oh god, oh god

"Oh," he mused. "Could have fooled me."

She should say something. She should say anything. She needed to get out of this. She needed to escape this thick, sticky atmosphere clinging to his every word.

"Tell me, princess," he dared, her title an obscenity as it fell from his lips. "Does he challenge you?"

No—

"Does he excite you?"

No—

"Does he make your blood rush and your head spin?"

No—no—no—

She had to make him stop—she had to make this feeling stop—

"Yes," Annabeth managed. "He's very—exciting."

He laughed, the sound dark and heavy. He stepped closer, until there was nowhere else to go, until there was nowhere closer to step.

"What does he call you?" he questioned, his voice turning soft, his tongue caressing the words in a way that should have been illegal—she would make it illegal, if she could just concentrate— "Your Highness?" Percy questioned. "Darling?"

Annabeth blinked, her eyelids heavy and sluggish.

"Or is it—"

And she knew—knew he was going to say her name.

Annabeth.

She wanted him to say her name, wanted to watch it spill from his lips, feel it travel across her skin. She wanted to hear him scream it, to hear him whisper it, to hear him moan it—oh god, oh god, oh god.

But he couldn't—he couldn't and she knew that, so she cut him off.

"Are you deliberately trying to make me uncomfortable, Duke?" Annabeth snapped, her breathlessness coming across as irritation. She was grateful.

He paused, considering her then took a step back.

"Not at all," he replied politely.

Annabeth sighed in relief—because he was back—that horrible cordial, polite, respectful version of him had returned.

"What is your intention then?" she asked, just to be sure.

"Is it wrong to want to converse with my sister in law?" he questioned, arching a brow. Her eyes followed his movements as he picked up his books, tucking them into the crook of his arm.

"I am not your sister," she rejected angrily.

"No," he agreed, his words carrying a thoughtful lilt. "You certainly are not."

Annabeth didn't even want to consider the implications.

"I see you found your books," she gestured to his arms, her posture stiff, her limbs heavy.

"And you haven't sought any of your own," he remarked, flicking his gaze to her empty hands.

"Well, forgive me," she scoffed, stepping away from him and towards the endless shelves. "I may have been a little distracted."

"Hm?"

"Are you quite finished bothering me, Duke?" Annabeth sighed, wrapping her arms around herself as the library's cold breeze finally reached her. "I think I'd like to go to bed now."

"Quite." He spared her one final glance before retreating towards the doors. He paused, just before reaching them, his fingers lingering at the handle. "Annabeth," he called.

She exhaled, composed herself, then turned.

"Tales of Trial and Strife," he said.

She frowned, confused.

"On the shelf to your right," he clarified evenly. "It might answer some of your questions."

Annabeth blinked.

He smirked.

And then he was gone, leaving her to decipher the meaning of his words.


a/n: things r gonna get crazy. what do yall think is happening?

this chapter is dedicated to I've never been so tired and Fangirl Shrieks. thx for being grrrreat.

also promise to get a new chap of fb out soon.