A Maid for the Titan (TITANS, #2)

by Lazu, Sotia

  A Maid for the Titan

  TITANS, Volume 2

  Sotia Lazu

  Published by Acelette Press, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A MAID FOR THE TITAN

  First edition. January 15, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Sotia Lazu.

  Written by Sotia Lazu.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Chapter 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 whe
re 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.

  Chapter 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 on green grass, but was surrounded by dark, still waters. He gave up. Stopped trying to see or hear. No light reached the depths of the sea that was to be his grave.

  Then one day he awoke, and he was in this room, surrounded by noise and humans and lights. Voices spoke in tongues that made no sense, and a large opening on the wall across from him showed him images of war and famine and celebration. Of love and hate. After ages of feeling only cold, now warmth caressed his bare back for a while every few... hours? He chose to believe it was Helios, heralding the morning and shining down on him. Reminding him he wasn’t alone.

  But wasn’t he? His brothers were lost to him, and the females of his generation were long gone. Hyperion couldn’t begrudge his nephew the safety precautions. He’d warned Kronos not to eat his children, lest he share Uranus’ fate, but did the giant pain in the glutes listen? No. And all Titans paid for it.

  Hyperion didn’t care whether the mortals that came and went were friends or foes; he could best any human. He yelled inside his head and raged against the unseen shackles holding him immobile. But Zeus’ spell had enough of a hold over him that the void never failed to suck him back in.

  Something brushed along his manhood and pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. That he could feel it wasn’t surprising. He hadn’t lost sensation when he was turned into stone.

  What was surprising was that he physically responded to the stimulus. The touch was feather light, but his body rose to the occasion.

  Huh? His body had been locked in position for eons, and the one part that decided to move after all this time was what hung between his legs?

  He looked down—he looked down?—and saw a dark-haired woman staring up, under his loincloth, her brown eyes wide and her lips parted. It had been a very long while since a woman looked at him with such open interest, let alone evoked a response.

  The woman licked her lips, and his manhood grew to its fully erect position, which couldn’t possibly fit inside a mortal female. Was this a new kind of torture—getting him ready to enter a female’s body and leaving him incapable of sating his hunger? Another of Zeus’ tricks? Hyperion groaned, and the woman gave a little jump and spun around.

  No. She’d leave, and he’d be stuck here like a satyr, with desire burning in his loins.

  He ached for her to finish what she started. He didn’t realize when his hand moved, but he was no longer holding the ceiling. Delighted, he cupped himself. Yes. He could feel his palm on his shaft. Could feel the fabric between his grip and his erection. Was he turning into flesh again? Was his unjust punishment finally over? He rubbed his length over the loincloth and shivered with delight. This was real, not another wishful-thinking fantasy.

  He looked at the woman again. Should he ask for her help?

  First, use his mind-controlling power to compel her to forget what she saw. It would save him from having to explain how he’d gone from marble to flesh and blood, and she might be more willing to continue what she was doing when he awakened.

  She turned back toward him, and shock and fear replaced the awe in her expression.

  Yes, compulsion would be necessary. Good thing he was a master at reading and swaying the human mind.

  “You never saw me as a statue,” he said, compelling her to believe him. “I am a human male.”

  She looked perplexed. Like she didn’t understand him.

  Right. His mother tongue was dead to this world.

  Luckily, thoughts didn’t have to be words, and if he touched her, he could wipe her memory. Come to me, he thought at her, holding her gaze. A hint of seduction would do the trick. If she were attracted to him, she’d be more open to trusting him.

  The woman took a step back, her eyes impossibly wide. But she wasn’t leaving, so his planted suggestion was working.

  Slowly, both to avoid losing his balance and so she wouldn’t feel threatened, he stepped down from the plinth he’d been set on. He held out his hand, but she twirled around and ran for the exit.

  Wait, Hyperion ordered in her head. Come to me. Don’t fear me.

  Yeah... That? Didn’t work. She swung open a barrier and rushed outside.

  Why didn’t his mind-control work on her? Had his captivity rendered it useless? Surely it would return, even if it took some time.

  He was about to chase her down, when he caught his reflection on the glistening surface of one wall. Of course she was afraid. Although Zeus’ lightning had lessened Hyperion’s size as it cast him in stone, he was still double the height and width of a mortal.

  He could fi
x that. He hunched his shoulders and focused on reducing his mass. When he stretched again, he could pass for a tall human. Good thing he still had this power.

  The woman. It was imperative he find her and figure out why he couldn’t bend her to his will. And maybe then she’d let him bend her over an easily accessible horizontal surface and pound into her soft, writhing body.

  He fumbled with the metal thing on the wood and pulled. It took a couple tries before the thing twisted in his grip and the vertical panel swung inward. The woman stood a handful of paces away, in front of a shiny wall that seemed as impenetrable as Tartarus’ gates from the inside. She had her back to him and prodded a protrusion, tapping her foot on the floor.

  Hyperion took the time to study her behind, which was clearly outlined by her tight, black... Argh. What was the word for this way-too-short chiton?

  She turned to glance at him over her shoulder, and her warm brown eyes betrayed alarm, though nowhere near the panic he’d gleaned before.

  “Come to me,” he mentally ordered her again. An opening appeared to his right, and a naked woman made to step outside. “Not you,” Hyperion thought at her and returned to his woman, who remained unaffected.

  Why was she unaffected?

  He didn’t usually need his powers to make women desire him, but he’d do what it took to get her close. He focused on conjuring mental images of their bodies tangled together in ecstasy, and projected the thoughts to her. When he heard her breath hitch, he held out his hand and said aloud, “Come.”

  She frowned, and for a second, he was sure she would obey. Then a tiny bell sounded behind her, and the wall split in two. She entered the small room it revealed, and the wall slid in place again, concealing her.

  Hyperion crossed the distance with a howl and banged at the wall, but it didn’t yield. He was about to tap into his real strength and rip it into shreds, when he noticed the protrusion the woman had pressed with her finger. He pushed his thumb on it.