Joining him in the stretch, I ask, “What did you do in the afternoon?”

I feel like the Inquisition.

He’s not avoiding eye contact, I tell myself. He can’t exactly look me in the eye when he’s hanging upside down and pulling himself into deeper extension.

“I stopped by the bookstore.” He spreads his feet and twists to reach for one ankle. “Wanted to see if they had anything on endurance conditioning and nutrition.”

Of course it was something innocent—he was researching our training.

I smile as I mimic his stretching, mentally whipping myself. Clearly, I need to get a handle on that jealousy monster—which Nicole insists has red eyes, not green. Sometimes I wonder how she knows so much about mythological beasts. Other times I don’t want to know.

“Did they?” I lift my foot behind me and grab my ankle, stretching my quads.

“No.” He smiles and says, “But Iona said they would order some for us.”

Why am I so eager to assume the worst about Griff ?

As the daughter of a psychiatrist, I do not go in for the therapy thing. After a lifetime of psychoanalysis, I’m immune. But I’m starting to think that maybe I need some help on my trust issues. I mean, I shouldn’t be so quick to doubt Griffin. Especially not after what we went through to get together.

We’re fated by an oracle, after all.

If the prophecy says Griffin will “find his match in a daughter of victory”—aka the goddess Nike, aka my great-grandmother—then our relationship, our future is secure, right?

The red-eyed monster needs to take a hike.

“So what’s our training plan for today?” he asks, interrupting my self-exploration.

I give him a wicked grin. “Steps.”

“Excuse me?”

I nod in the direction of the stadium stands. “We’re going to run steps.”

He looks warily up at the stands.

The stadium is a smaller version of the Roman Colosseum—or maybe the Colosseum is a bigger version of the Academy stadium?—but it’s still several stories high. From field level to the top row of bench seats is probably around one hundred steps. I don’t know what Griffin is worried about. This is nothing. It’s my dream to run the steps of the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State Building. Stadium steps are no big deal.

“All right,” he says, without enthusiasm. “Let’s do it.”

After a quick four-lap warm-up and another round of stretching, we tackle the steps. There are ninety-six, to be exact, and I know this because we run them a dozen times. I count them aloud each time.

As we turn around for our final climb, I begin counting down. “Ninety-six, ninety-five, ninety-four . . .”

“How many more?” Griffin gasps.

“Ninety, eighty-nine, eighty-eight,” I pant, keeping my count. “Last one.”

“Thank the gods,” Griffin gasps as we keep climbing.

I manage a smile that probably looks more like a wince. Griffin doesn’t notice—he’s too busy trying not to die.

“Sixty-three, sixty-two . . .” I manage, though my lungs and my quads and my everything are burning. Every last muscle in my body is screaming, desperately begging me to stop this insanity, to just drop down and die like a normal person.

But I’m not a normal person, I tell my body. I’m a runner. Pain is my game. All this bodily rebellion tells me I’ve let my endurance go. Cutting back on my running time for the last few months to work on controlling my powers has made my running suffer—and it hasn’t done wonders for my powers, either.

A wave of endorphins washes over me, bringing that familiar feeling of invincibility. With crystal clarity, I know that somehow—I’m not sure exactly how, but somehow—everything will work out. I’ll get a hold on my powers. I’ll keep my race training on track. And I’ll learn to trust Griffin . . . somehow.

A girl can’t spend her whole life suffering the aftershocks of one bad boyfriend.

“When we reach the top,” Griffin wheezes between sucking breaths, “just push me over the edge.”

“Not on your life.” I wince-smile again. “Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen . . .”

He grunts, but keeps taking step after step.

We’re so close.

The muscle burn is overwhelming. I concentrate on the lactic-acid buildup in my quads, embracing the pain and knowing that it means my muscles are trying to work more efficiently. Trying to keep up with what I’m forcing them to do. I’ll pay them back later with a long soak in a hot bath.

“Three,” Griffin says, probably trying to hurry the countdown.

“Two.” I can almost feel the recovery that will begin as soon as we reach the peak.

“One.” He bursts up onto the top level of the stadium, raising his fisted hands in the air at our success . . . and then dropping them immediately when the exhaustion overtakes the thrill.

“We did it!” I join him and stop long enough to squeeze a quick hug around his waist.

“Let’s never do this again,” he gasps.

“Never again,” I agree as he turns and starts the final descent. Then I smile. “Until next week.”

I can hear his groan from a dozen steps away.

Before following him to the stadium floor, I hesitate, casting a glance out over the parapet to appreciate the view from this far up.

The island of Serfopoula stretches several miles to the east, covered in barren rocky patches and thick pine forest, interspersed with stretches of shrubby plains. To the north, a lush green valley peeks out between rolling hills. As I turn to descend one last time—for today, anyway—I think about how little of the island I’ve actually experienced. Since the school and the village are on the west end, I’ve only really seen that part. The only beaches I’ve run are on this end. I wonder if the beaches on the eastern shore are the same silky white sand?