Of Gods & Monsters

Three

Quentin

Down on the ground floor, I grabbed a much-needed cup of coffee in the breakroom. My ears pricked at the surrounding conversations. Some of my colleagues had already collected samples, while others contemplated removing the cuffs from their subject. I gritted my teeth together so forcefully an ache ran along my jawline. The success of others only highlighted how dramatically I'd failed this morning.

If I hadn't been wary before, the brief interaction with Grayson had proven how they couldn't be trusted. Gods cared for themselves above all else.

There'd been something so vulgar about his actions. An attempt to headbutt me, and when that failed, spitting in my direction. Grayson had been furious when I walked away, but I didn't plan to give him any more of my time than was necessary.

I hadn't agreed to E.L.I. to be the subject of abuse. I'd signed the contract because of the prestige it would bring my name. That dream was quickly fading, if no one on my team could get the prick to calm down long enough so we could take samples from him.

"Holden said you aren't having much luck."

Gareth joined me at the coffee machine. He popped a pod into the top and set it to start. Mechanical whirring sounded between us before a thin stream of coffee ejected into his cup.

"He hates being here," I explained, unimpressed that Matt had reported back to Gareth. "He hates us. How are we meant to work with that?" I asked, frustration lacing my words.

"Find a way, Scott," Gareth told me unhelpfully.

Visions of me grabbing his coffee mug and tipping it over his head swam through my mind. Shirt stained and hair sticky and wet from caffeine, I wondered if Gareth would be so blasé about my struggle or if I would have hammered home the point that he had given me a nearly impossible task.

"I'm sure Holden has some ideas," he added, picking up the mug before I could act on my impulse.

I liked Matthew. He was polite, made an effort, and was very easy on the eye, but he also liked to think that men could do it all. If he cracked Gray before any of us, we'd never hear the end. Yet another victory that would be added to the stories he regaled us all with over a drink at the pub.

Irritated by the possibility of that reality, I muttered, "I'll speak to you later."

I took my cup, drained it in the lift, and walked back into the lab. The room was empty with everyone taking their break, apart from Grayson, who was sitting on a stool with the same bored expression he'd entered with, written across his features.

In the lab's silence, I studied him. The fluorescent lighting highlighted high cheekbones and a chiselled jaw. His posture didn't falter, causing him to appear like a marble statue. The conclusion was that Grayson had been carved from perfection with fault lines deep beneath it all — far away from the naked eye, so you'd still buy into the pretty facade.

His attention lazily shifted to me as I approached him, and I averted my gaze instantly.

"I would rather you bow when you see me," Grayson informed me.

His voice was deep, and his tone held such authority that I nearly dropped to my knees before him.

"We don't always get what we want," I shot back. My irritation was still close to the surface, and I was struggling to push it away.

Grayson made an unimpressed sound, and I sucked in a breath.

"We need you to cooperate with us before you can begin integration," I explained, cutting to the chase.