Page 11 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows (Runaway Prince Hotel #5)

Chapter Nine

DON’T FORGET THE NITE

Théo

“ G nnnarrrf…” I groan, rolling over in the bed until my stomach sinks into the cool sheet, and immediately regret the swift movement. I lace my fingers together at the back of my head in a feeble attempt to stop the buzzing and throbbing behind my temples.

To no avail.

The dull, insistent, and painful ache takes residence before I so much as open an eyelid. My head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and dropped down a flight of stairs. My mouth is dry, my tongue heavy and sticky, coated with a bitter taste.

Water. I want water. I need water. No, no, no, I crave water.

I pry my eyes open, wincing at the muted light filtering through the heavy curtains.

The air smells faintly of cedar. Dizzy, I survey my surroundings, registering the unfamiliar room.

It’s ridiculously big, but thanks to the somewhat similar set up and furniture, I easily guess that I’m at the Renversé Hotel.

But… “Where am I?” I murmur to myself, my pulse going a mile a minute. For some reason, the most prominent question is: How the hell did I get here?

Hell… Bits and pieces flash inside my head. The Underworld… Seriously?

What a fucked-up dream last night! Noé would crack up at how wild my mind got. I don't remember finding a hookup—sole reason I’d be in some stranger’s bed. I don’t remember walking into this room—let alone crashing overnight. I don’t remember anything. All of this breaks my rule.

Fuck… My head is pounding like a war drum. Booze?

How the hell did I get here?

My gaze falls on the nightstand, and that’s when I see it.

A tall glass of water, beads of condensation trailing lazily down the sides, and next to it, two aspirin tablets perched on a folded note.

I blink, my brain lagging, and reach for the paper with unsteady fingers.

I have my confirmation since it’s a hotel stationery pad.

The handwriting is exquisite, flowing and precise, like something you’d see on a wedding invitation.

"Eat me. Drink me… Call me (if I’m not in the living room, that is).”

Underneath, there’s a phone number, scrawled in smaller script.

Staring at my phone, then at the note, I blink dumbly and let out a dry, raspy laugh that’s more of a croak. “Eat me, drink me… call me?” I shake my head. The first two are obvious, and they have me chuckling. But the third? Would Alice have found such a note if the story were set in modern times?

Rubbing my head, I stare at the note again. Whoever wrote this either missed the innuendo or fully understands it and is clearly asking for round two. I sigh, the puzzle refuses to settle.

Too bad I have no recollection of round one—assuming there was one to begin with .

I pop the pills into my mouth and chase them with a long gulp of water. The relief is instant, at least thanks to the cool liquid soothing my parched throat. Placing the glass on the bedside table, I rest against the headboard, my back pressed against a firm pillow.

Holding the note between my fingers, I murmur again, “Call me.” A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips. “Subtle.”

But then the smirk fades as bits and pieces of the night before resurface. Only they feel much too real this time. Only they’re not full of unbridled sex, and the current smell of the room doesn’t reveal any X-rated activity. Only they show me glimpses of a preternatural—if not scary—nature.

My rational mind is at war with my body, where goosebumps are spreading as what I lived through sinks in.

The ancient elevator. The gloomy beach. The Greek gods…

The Underworld… Did I imagine it, sparked by the upheaval that stunning painting stirred in me yesterday? Did I land in a mystical realm that no one believes in anymore? Did I spend time on the banks of the River Styx listening to a Greek goddess discuss another god’s sex life?

Zagreus, he said his name was. His voice cuts through the fog. Low. Velvety. Deep. The memory sharpens as goosebumps spread across my skin—nothing to do with A/C. A heavier shiver follows, dragging my attention to my thickening morning wood.

Squeezing myself over the heavy cotton sheet twice, I exhale a soft breath.

Damn, that feels good!

Twice more, and I’m tempted to ditch the barrier—but what if the guy shows up?

It’s dead quiet. He wouldn’t have left me alone… would he?

Then again, the thirteenth floor’s massive bedroom must be part of a suite—he said he’d be in the living room. Maybe we could put my state to good use after all.

His face remains hazy in my mind, though.

“What the hell, Théo?” I mutter. My gaze falls on the note again, and my thoughts veer into dangerous territory. It’s been a while— too long, if I’m honest—since someone has sparked anything in me beyond fleeting curiosity. I shouldn’t be thinking about this.

Not now. Not after yesterday’s alter reality. Not ever, if I consider that Zagreus is truly who he claims to be. But the way my pulse quickens betrays my genuine emotions. I don’t even know the guy, the god, whatever he is.

Damn, my knowledge of mythology is rusty…

“Focus,” I tell myself aloud, though the words sound hollow. The aspirin is working, and the headache is starting to lift, but my thoughts are as scattered as ever. I fold the note carefully, placing it back on the nightstand, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

First things first: how I ended up here. Second… maybe discover if the man behind the note is as intriguing as I believe him to be—or if my imagination is running wild. And third, if my preposterous assumption is correct, why not embrace the opportunity?

My clothes lie neatly folded on an ottoman nearby. I smirk, spotting my coat’s there, too—must’ve slipped into the elevator on the way down.

I don’t bother putting them on. After all, the self-proclaimed Greek god in the next room undressed me—hence the boxer briefs. My pulse trips over itself at the thought.

Why would I cover up then? Why am I getting all worked up when I can barely picture him? Why am I bothered by my impulse, though?

With a whisper, I shut down my overthinking brain, reminding myself of how I roll. “What I desire, I take.” Leaving my phone behind, I exit the stranger’s bedroom once my wood has somewhat receded and march to the living room.

My bare feet sink into the plush carpet.

The layout is spacious, with a mix of modern pieces and art déco ones, giving it an almost intimidating feel when paired with the black and white picture frames scattered here and there.

I can’t help but think of The Shining movie.

My junior suite is less impressive and half the size to start with.

This room alone is as big as my entire Parisian bachelor pad.

I love my cozy apartment in Le Marais area, but I’m a nomad at heart, always on the move, so I prefer renting it out when I’m away.

And there he is.

Zagreus, son of Hades, Prince of the Underworld.

My heart skips a beat, even though he has his back to me, pressed on the arm of the Chesterfield.

He is so engrossed in his conversation that he doesn’t notice me.

I unabashedly spy on him, watching his relaxed posture, barefoot with his legs crossed on the couch.

His hoarse voice is calm but carries that edge that I remember.

I purse my lips and welcome the sudden heat at the nape of my neck.

I linger by the doorway, rethinking my initial plan to maul him out of pure lust. Hesitant to interrupt, I’m unsure of what else to do.

A grin spreads across my face as I realize that he’s wearing an outdated outfit akin to the one from last night. Today it’s pale blue. How many of these does he own? I make a mental note to inquire about his wardrobe choices. Not that it matters, but I’m curious. Oddly, he somehow pulls it off.

“Thanks for the update, Nathan.” He sighs.

The name rings a bell. Is he one of Zagreus’s exes?

I rack my brain, trying to remember what was said yesterday by the river.

A little voice inside me says that I shouldn’t care, but I do…

“Keep an eye on Rose.” Is that the answer to my question?

Nathan is saying something I can’t hear from where I stand.

“Considering what she did to you, who knows what her next move will be? You’ve got my number—hit me up if anything comes up on the East Coast, okay.

” More silence, then he adds, “She might be powerful, but she’s not as invincible as she thinks. ”

He props his feet against the coffee table’s side, near a steaming mug. Then he stills, as if sensing me behind him. I stay put.

Slowly, he turns his head, eyes roaming over my bare skin—neutral at first, then molten in seconds.

My mouth waters at his glorious sight. Heat coils low in my belly, and a sly grin tugs at my lips—my boxer briefs leave nothing to the imagination, and he’s clearly taking it all in.

Which is why my heart lurches—understatement of the year—when Zagreus doesn’t budge. Greek gods are known for their appetite, after all, and he let me spend the night, stripped me down to this. I expected more… enthusiasm.

Instead, he swallows hard, slips his feet off the table, plants them firmly on the floor, and ends the call.

He sets the phone down and offers a small, almost distant smile.

Rooted on the couch, he leans forward, fingers wrapping around his mug.

He takes a sip and puts the hot beverage down before speaking—his tone poised, completely at odds with the fire I just saw in his eyes.

“Morning—or, well, late morning. It’s a little past eleven. How are you feeling?”

“Better than I deserve to,” I reply, my voice rougher than intended. My throat feels dry again, but not as bad as earlier. “Thanks for…” Playing it cool, I gesture vaguely at the room, at him. “All of this.”

He shrugs, standing and stretching a little.

“You’re welcome, Théo.” Once again, my nickname rolls off his tongue like honey.

This time, goosebumps rise uninvited along my arms. I’m twenty-six, and somehow this is all it takes to turn me into a starstruck idiot.

This isn’t me. “Thought you could use somewhere safe to crash. After last night, leaving you alone to process it all felt wrong. Aspirin’s working, I hope? ”

“Yeah, and the water,” I say, opting for a faint smile. “Your note was… memorable.”

A brief smile quirks at his lips, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he strolls towards the small bar area. “You should eat something. I’ll order room service. Do you trust me on it?”

I nod and watch him pick up the room service menu, flipping through it with an easy familiarity.

His voice, as he speaks into the phone to place the order, stirs a longing I have no business nursing—aching and unwelcome, especially now that he’s pulling away.

And yet, I’m drawn to the rhythm of it, the casual authority behind every word, as if nothing he says could be accidental.

It’s stupidly captivating, and I find myself standing there like an idiot, soaking it all in.

He notices. I know he does—there’s a flicker of awareness in the way he glances at me, but he doesn’t say a word.

He finishes the order, puts the phone down, and leans against the counter with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re allowed to sit, you know. You’re my guest,” he says, tilting his head towards the couch.

“ Ma maison est ta maison .” Wow! His French is flawless, and I tell him so after thanking him.

He gestures dismissively, saying that he has no merits since languages come naturally to him and his peers.

Oh, right… The Greek god magic. I’m eager to hear more about it, but at the same time, I’m in no hurry. My current interest lies in him as a person, not his mythical abilities.

I laugh softly, hover a second longer—my inner rebel doesn’t enjoy being told what to do—then ease down onto the far side of the couch from where he sat earlier, some tension loosening from my shoulders.

“So…” I study him. “I remember… pieces of last night. It comes back in fragments—flashes, sounds—and then…” I can’t admit what stirs in me when I look at him.

Throwing myself at him isn’t an option I can consider for now.

“Actually, I’m a little queasy.” He winces.

“But I could eat… I think,” I hurry to say.

He sighs, crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Must be an aftereffect. But it was all real—I promise. I know it’s a lot to take in, trust me, I do.”

Trust seems important to him. I betrayed it by stealing from him, and part of me wants to set things right.

He’s been nothing but nice. “None of it was a hallucination. When I brought you back, you passed out. I didn’t have the heart to wake you or ask for your room number—couldn’t bring myself to cross a line by grabbing your keycard and barging into your room.

So, I brought you here. Left your memory untouched.

And don’t let the boxer briefs fool you; I figured you’d sleep better that way.

Besides, I took the couch. Simple as that.

” He shrugs as if his chivalrousness is no big deal.

His tone stays grounded—no apology, no embellishment, no nonsense. Just facts.

I’m not used to people caring. My mom never did.

My dad wasn’t in the picture. The grandparents who raised me weren’t warm and demonstrative.

I felt like I was a burden to them. My gran used to rope me into baking when I was little, more out of duty rather than affection…

Funny how the act of baking turned out to be more rewarding than the time spent with her.

In the end, the emotional walls they built prevented me from coming out to them. Why bother, right?

Still, part of me wonders if Zagreus’s blunt kindness is another kind of barrier—should I be relieved, or quietly disappointed?

But how he meticulously handled my clothes, anticipated my headache, and held my gaze so unwavering—it feels like something… I can’t name it at first. Then, I know.

I matter.