Praetor. Hope of Rome. Son of Jupiter. First of the Three. The man who had turned the fifth cohort from disgrace to elite, who had survived a fight with Perseus Jackson, who had fought Porphyrion himself, and who'd won back the eagle for the legion.
And, of course, Reyna's latest fiancée.
Praetor. Mastermind. The daughter of Bellona who had buried her last fiancée, and fellow praetor, then maneuvered Jason into both positions a week later. Speculation was still rampant about why, exactly, Marcus Flamsey had needed to be buried, but most people seemed inclined to point their neighbors at Reyna, without, of course, actually looking themselves. That would be foolish, and they all knew what happened to fools. Marcus Flamsey had a headstone to prove it.
She who had fought off every assasin, she who commanded the twin hounds, she who rode a Pegasus to victory. She and Jason certainly made an imposing pair. Her with her hard eyes and the scar that curved under her nose and up her cheek. Her with her red cloak and fighter's stance. Him with a gladius given to him by Juno herself. Him with the hero's jaw and scarred left side, borne of the fight of The Three against The Four.
Quite the pair.
Especially when alone.
She who wept for a sister she hadn't been able to contact for two years.
He whose sister fought for the Greeks. He who'd been disowned with an arrow to the arm.
She who felt the loneliness creeping in around her.
He who had to force himself to remember that the fifth cohort was not his family now.
They who woke from screaming nightmares and realized that they were at their worst when Gaea simply let their own memories take their course.
No one ever knew that. Just like no one ever knew that, contrary to rumor, Reyna had not killed Marcus. Contrary to rumor, Jason hadn't either. He hasn't even wanted the job.
And it was all slipping out of their hands now. How could it not when their hands were slick with blood?