The Challenge (Pandora's Harem 3)

By: Angelique Armae


A hint of Hope…

Now that I’m fully entrenched in being Pandora, yes, that Pandora, a revelation that was gifted to me on the eve of my twenty-first birthday, I am challenging Moros, the Greek god of Doom. My three well-muscled Spartans think I’m insane to push the darkest of the gods. Even Moros’s grandmother, the goddess Chaos, is refusing to stir this pot. But I have good reason for my current flight of fantasy.

A collection of pottery is on display at a local gallery and lo and behold, one of the vases drew me in. It was a small bit of a thing, just a shiny black urn with two handles made to look like snakes, and a lid that refused to budge. What can I say, I’m history’s most famous imp, of course I tried to pry off the top. All I got in return, however, was a zap that raced up my arm. A spark unlike any I have ever experienced before. Trust me, this was different. Plus, there is the matter of that strange mist that suddenly appeared beneath the vase’s surface, swirling about and giving rise to a colorful blend of blues, pinks, and salmon-hued clouds moving beneath the urn’s glossy glaze. I’m pretty sure no one else witnessed the revelation. So, I did the only natural thing Pandy the Imp could do—I purchased the urn, agreeing not to take my little treasure until the show ends. Getting my hands on it permanently is a must as it just may be my long-lost magic box.

But thieves ransacked the gallery last night and the one item that wasn’t broken—at least there are no shards remaining among the smashed bits of pottery—is that tiny black vase. Someone has it. I want it back. It may be the clue I need to find my lost box. But as with all things associated with the world of the Greek gods, nothing is as it seems. Oh, and did I mention I have a new enemy to worry about? Chaos has backed off on this one challenge, but Athena has stepped in. And from my studies in Greek Mythology, I know that no one challenges Athena. Look at what happened to Arachne. But I’ve cast my dice. Moros and Athena have accepted my challenge and I have no choice but to face them.

I need my lost box, because without it, the hell I unleashed on earth thousands of years ago will never be reined in. And if Moros beats me to it, he’ll destroy the one thing left inside—Hope. And every soul needs Hope to survive. And that includes me and my sexier than sin Spartans.

*This is a reverse harem serial romance with one heroine and three male lovers. Each novella is a complete story, but the overall arc for the series plays out over a series of short novellas. Scenes, language, and situations are steamier and a bit darker than in my other books and may not be to the taste of all readers. 18+ only.

Chapter 1

Now that I know the Greek gods can torment my hours of sleep as much as they can mess with my waking ones, I figure throwing caution to the wind and spending the weekend out and about with my guys can’t be that disastrous. After all, I’m sure I’m not the only soul the gods find amusing, which means despite me being their favorite plaything of the month, I’ll probably have at least a few moments of peace each day. And it’s those rare breaks that I’m counting on.

“I think we should get out and take a walk,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “Maybe take in a movie or check out the museum.” I pray the guys agree. They’ve been housebound since our encounter with Phobetor, that villainous god of nightmares. And they haven’t relaxed much either after returning from the dream plane, insisting I need to be watched twenty-four-seven, each of them taking turns and giving up their much-needed hours of sleep to make sure I’m resting soundly and not being disturbed by Phobetor. Though I honestly don’t know if they’d be able to tell if I was in distress while catching up on some zees. Phobetor has immense powers. I’m sure he can make it seem on this plane like I’m off in some utopian dream world while in actuality I’d be battling him in the most horrendous scare fest my head could dream up. And Pandora the Imp has a very vivid imagination. Dreadful nightmares are not out of my range of capability.

“We could check out The Met.” I glance across the room to Leonidas and Lycus, but neither of them comments.

“Not the museum,” Ares says.

Finally. At least one of my guys is listening to me.

Ares continues. “The current exhibit centers on Ancient Greece and I for one have no desire to spend hours looking at statues that don’t accurately depict my fucked-up family. Museums make the gods out to be flawless with their alabaster forms of well-shaped muscles and picture-perfect war poses. They dismiss their defects and faults—save for when they mention me—completely.” He tosses the latest issue of Gods Illustrated, Olympus’s number one sports magazine, onto the coffee table and sits up from the couch.