A Maid for the Titan: TITANS, #2

By Sotia Lazu

For an eternity, Hyperion has been locked in stasis, watching life pass him by. The past couple of years, specifically, he—a once omnipotent Titan—has been relegated to being part of a hotel room's Chaos-blasted decor. Worse, he's lost all hope that's ever going to change. 

Until a mortal woman's touch awakens him... one body part at a time. 

Okay, so Olivia thought he was a statue, and only meant to dust him, but now he's flesh again, he's not letting her get away. And not only because the uninvited son of an Olympian claims Hyperion needs to bond with Olivia, to keep from unraveling and destroying all creation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Acelette Press
• Release date: Jan 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201831820

Sotia Lazu

Sotia loves romances with a twist and urban fantasy novels, always with vivid erotic elements. Her favorite characters to write are not conventional hero-material at first glance, and she enjoys making them fight for their happiness. Sotia shares her life and living quarters with her husband, their son, and two rescue dogs, one of which may be part-pony. Sappy movies make her bawl like a baby, and she wishes she could take in all the stray dogs in the world. Also, she hates mornings!

Book preview

One

It was too early for Olivia to be upright. She hadn’t metabolized last night’s alcohol in the mere two hours of sleep she’d managed before this morning’s rude awakening. She didn’t have a hangover; she was still drunk. And it was no fun, even without having to clean the largest room in the hotel.

She took in the spacious suite. Damn Katerina for calling in sick today, of all days. As if Olivia didn’t have a spinning head and upset stomach to deal with.

This was why she didn’t drink—didn’t have more than a glass of wine with dinner, ever. Because one time was enough to screw things up. She never knew what awaited at the next corner, to demand a hundred percent of her attention. Or at least her ability to bend over without dry-heaving, like when she tried to pick up the remote someone had tossed on the floor by the front door.

Never mind. She’d get it later.

She huffed and twirled her feather duster. It slipped from her grip, to hit a vase. Olivia cursed under her breath, but stood frozen in place as the vase swayed and then thankfully righted itself. Stupid thing might cost her a week in wages she couldn’t afford to waste.

Okay. Time to wash the too-little sleep off her eyes and get started. Manolis promised to pay her double for coming in on her day off, and if she was fast, she might manage to meet Christina and the guys from last night at the beach, as planned. Olivia bit back a wave of alcohol-soaked jealousy at the thought of her roommate sleeping in this morning, after last night’s overindulgence.

She entered the enormous marble bathroom and gaped at the four-person Jacuzzi. She’d never been in one of these. Never would, either, because her chosen career path wouldn’t make her that kind of money in a million years. And by career path, she meant archeology. The housekeeping thing was to cover this post-graduate summer vacation, before she leaped into her real life.

The sink in here was almost as big as the tub in her room, and had golden faucets. She turned on the tap and splashed copious amounts of water onto her face. It didn’t help with the feeling like crap, but it did help her decide what to do next.

She’d dust, then vacuum, then make the beds, if she could stomach so much movement by that point. How many people did this suite sleep?

Boo. She’d never make it to the beach. She’d been on the island three weeks already and had yet to work on her tan. Or that general pinkness her pale skin boasted after a couple hours under the sun and copious amounts of sunblock.

When she’d seen the job opening online, it had seemed the perfect summer escape from her tiny New York apartment.

Come visit the beautiful island of Crete, and work in the mornings in exchange for room and board.

Plus tips, the manager, Manolis, promised when she talked to him on the phone.

This far, the tips didn’t cover the disgusting things people did in hotel rooms that they’d never do at home.

At least this toilet had been flushed.

She returned to the main room. Things looked relatively tame here too. No used condoms in sight. No visible tears on the furniture or curtains. Nothing broken. Still, she had to sanitize everything before she left. She grabbed her duster and got started on the coffee table. Ugh. Every time she tilted her head, the world swam. Manolis said she had all morning. She could afford to put up her feet and snooze for fifteen minutes.

She dropped onto the leather sofa and let her gaze wander up the statue that stood on a pedestal in the middle of the living room. It depicted an enormous man with long hair and a beard down to his chest, his arms held above his head, fingertips touching the fifteen-foot tall ceiling.

Other than his size, he looked real, the level of detail incredible. Almost lifelike. The man might be Atlas, though if he were from the Classical period, as the style suggested, he’d be naked. Not like the statue could be an original. It was a tourist-y gimmick, and all wrong for the era. Ancient Greek statues reveled in the beauty of the human body, and genitals weren’t covered until much later, when the Catholic Church decided they should be. Even then, penises were either broken off or covered by fig leaves, not loincloths.

Her eyelids were heavy. If she didn’t get up soon, she’d drift off.

She groaned and stood. The sooner she started, the sooner she’d wrap this thing up. She no longer cared about making it to the beach. She just wanted to return to her bed and stretch out her tired body. And never drink raki again.

This work-vacation thing wasn’t very restful or relaxing.

It took her an hour to dust and vacuum the bedrooms at a snail’s pace. She pressed through the nausea and also did the beds. Was rather proud of it too.

Time to hit the living room.

Once she was done cleaning all horizontal surfaces, she looked up at the huge-ass statue. How on earth was she supposed to dust this? She didn’t have a staircase handy.

Olivia planted her arms on her hips and inspected the room for something to step on. The dining chairs seemed flimsy. She should just clean what she could reach. Not many people would be able to see above that, anyway.

She swapped her duster for a piece of cloth, which she dipped in a mix of water and dish detergent. Better for the marble.

She ran it over the statue’s toes, and she must still be drunk, because she thought one of them twitched. Get a grip, Liv. With quick strokes, she wiped up the man’s calves and shins and along his thighs. When she reached the loincloth, she paused. From down here, it almost seemed like she could see part of a scrotum—hey, she might not have seen one in real life, but she had an Internet connection and normal urges. She just never found the time for a relationship and wasn’t into casual hookups.

But why would a sculptor bother giving this guy genitals, if the loincloth was in place from when the statue was originally sculpted? She ran her hand over the sculpted cloth. It was warm. The window was at the statue’s back, so this wasn’t the side that got any sunlight. Were the lights in the room so hot?

A stain like oil from prying fingers on the part right over the statue’s crotch drew her attention. She moistened her rag with more cleaning mixture and rubbed again.

The marble cloth moved.

No. What was beneath it moved.

She was still asleep on the sofa, wasn’t she? She’d lose her job if she didn’t wake up now and really clean the suite.

She pinched her arm and let out a little yip. That hurt. Not asleep.

She rubbed the loincloth again. Harder. It pushed against her palm, and she pulled it back in shock. A rock-hard shaft, perfectly visible from where she stood, formed a sizable tent. Woah. This thing was bigger than her forearm.

Someone groaned.

Olivia jumped around, but nobody was behind her.

She looked up again and saw the statue’s arms were no longer reaching for the ceiling, because the enormous man was no longer a statue.

The tan man before her was obviously made of flesh and radiated heat. Golden eyes sparkled above his long, black beard, as he rubbed himself over the white piece of fabric wrapped around his hips. And he was still easily twelve feet tall.

Olivia stepped back, scared but unable to take her gaze off the ripping muscles of the man’s chest and arms. She should be running for her life. She would, if this was real. But it couldn’t be. She was sleeping off last night’s buzz, in her own bed, never having set foot in the hotel suite.

But if this was a dream, the floor wouldn’t shake when the man stepped down from the base of the statue he’d been moments earlier, his gaze locked on her.

Would it?

He held out his hand, and Olivia finally snapped out of her haze.

She spun on the ball of her foot and ran to the door. Thankfully, she hadn’t locked it, and the handle turned at first try. Olivia threw the door open and sped to the elevator.

She jabbed the button with her thumb repeatedly, for all the good that did her. "Come on, come on, come on."

A glance over her shoulder revealed the man was at the door of the suite, only now he stood no bigger than six foot four, and he looked at her with a mixture of confusion and lust in his eyes. He pointed at her and said what sounded like, Ε.Τ.

No. He was saying ithi. Come, in ancient Greek.

Olivia felt a tug toward him. He was sexy, in a rough, primitive sort of way. And freaking ripped. Every muscle in his body stood out—especially the one under the towel or whatever was around his waist. The mental image of him, pressing her against the wall, lifting her skirt, and pushing into her made her head light. His hands would be rough against her breasts when he tore off her shirt, and his lips would taste of nectar.

Nectar? Where did that come from?

"Ithi," he said again, and the pull was almost tangible. Part of her wanted to go to him, take off her clothes, and let him do those deliciously wicked things to her body.

The elevator pinged, and she rushed in and pressed the Close Doors button, and then R for Reception. She’d send security up here, demand tomorrow off, and nope out of any more shifts at the suite.

Of course, she wouldn’t tell anyone that the weirdo upstairs initially looked like a statue. That had been her imagination playing tricks on her, boosted by alcohol. Nothing a warm bath and a long nap wouldn’t take care of. By the time she returned to work on Wednesday, the naked loon would be long gone, and she could get on with life as usual.

Two

How many centuries was Hyperion held in stasis, not asleep, yet not fully aware, and incapable of movement?

His last real memory was of Zeus’ lightning bolt slicing through him. Whether out of cruelty or indifference, Zeus had trapped him with his eyes open, so in his lucid moments, he saw the seasons change before him, until he lost track of the years. He watched the Olympians act like petulant children and interfere with mortals’ destinies.

When Zeus abandoned Olympus, Hyperion was sure he’d be left behind, but that wouldn’t be punishment enough. From one conscious moment to the next, he no longer stood