“In this, I do.” It’s almost the truth. I can’t afford to lean on Eros, can’t afford to assume our endgames match up. But I can trust that he is as invested in getting this marriage off the ground as I am, fake relationship or no.
He gives me a slow smile, heat slipping into his eyes. “And, Psyche? I meant it when I said you look divine. I want to eat you right up. Again.” He slips out the door before I can formulate a response.
What is there to say?
I’ve already established that Eros is a consummate liar and that’s he’s cold down to his very soul. It doesn’t matter how warm his eyes get when they look at me, how intoxicating his smile. I can’t trust it.
It didn’t feel fake when he had his mouth on me earlier, though. When his hands shook as he gripped my thighs and his voice went rough and low. In that moment, it felt like he wanted me just as much as I want him. More, even, because he didn’t seem to be fighting his reaction.
A lie. It has to be a lie. We needed to rip the bandage off, so that’s what we did. If I still desire him, there’s a logical conclusion as to why. Adrenaline and pheromones. A physical response is normal under these less-than-normal conditions. That’s all.
I’ve almost managed to convince myself that it’s the truth by the time I step into the elevator to take me down to the room Eros has claimed for the event. Persephone is at my side, and she’s doing the beaming-sunshine thing she does whenever we have to deal with the Thirteen. I try to draw myself in, to push everything that matters to me down deep and lock it away so that nothing that happens tonight can hurt me.
I try…and I fail.
How can I lock everything away when I’m one giant exposed nerve right now? I know I have to do this, but expectations about the wedding I always wanted are crashing against the reality of this moment, and it hurts so much more than I expected. It feels a whole lot like grief.
The elevator doors slide soundlessly open, revealing a long hallway that reeks of money for all that it’s gone the same minimalist route that Eros’s penthouse leans toward. Brushed concrete floors gleam in the bright light, and the walls are painted gunmetal gray. It might feel like walking through an expensive prison if not for the mirrors.
They line the hallway on either side, stretching nearly from the floor to the nine-foot ceiling. Wrought iron and shining silver create the frames, and I have the near-hysterical thought that if I pressed my hand against one, it would give way and I’d end up in another world entirely.
What is it with this building and mirrors?
Halfway down the hall, a door opens and my mother steps out. She’s dressed in an elegant gown that covers her slim body from neck to wrists to ankles, and the silver and structure in the bodice and hips give the impression of armor. She’s twisted her dark hair, so similar to mine, back from her face and her makeup is, as always, flawless.
It takes every ounce of courage I have to keep walking next to my sister until we stand before Demeter. She surveys me from head to toe and back up again. “If you wanted to make a statement, you’ve succeeded with that dress.”
Persephone gives my hand a squeeze. “I’ll see you inside.” She slips through the door, leaving me to face Demeter alone. Coward. But then, I was always going to face my mother alone in this. I chose this path, was forced to choose this path because I wasn’t good enough to outmaneuver Aphrodite.
This time.
“Mother—”
She lifts a hand and shakes her head. “We are due for a discussion, but not here. You’re set on marrying Eros?”
Something like relief courses through me. No matter what else is true of Demeter, she’s not one to waste a valuable asset. My marrying Eros gives her a direct line to Aphrodite, or, rather, a direct way to constantly needle and undermine the other woman. She might have learned her lesson about selling her daughters into marriage without their knowledge—and that’s a rather large might—but if one of us is foolish enough to stumble into a marriage with a powerful person, she’s hardly going to stop it. “Yes, I’m set on it.”
“Then let’s go.” She pivots to face the door and holds out her elbow. “I’ll be damned before any of my daughters walk down the aisle alone.”
We don’t really talk about my father—about any of our fathers. Three marriages resulting in four daughters, and every one of our fathers disappeared off the face of the earth within weeks of the divorce. Or, rather, they disappeared out of Olympus. If not for the rather active social media accounts of her ex-husbands, my mother might have a reputation as a black widow. As it is, my sisters and I are pretty damn certain she paid off our fathers and ensured they found a way out of Olympus.
I suppose I could blame her for my not having a father figure, but the truth is that my mother never goes with a stick when a carrot will work just fine. My father chose to take her money, take passage out of Olympus, and never look back. Why would I mourn the loss of such a selfish man in my life?
So, yes, it’s entirely apt that my mother be the one to walk me down the aisle and give me away to my new husband.
I slide my hand into the crook of her arm. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You are my daughter, Psyche. More than the others, you are the apple that doesn’t fall far from my tree. I trust that you have a reason for doing this.” She shoots me a severe look. “You should have told me. We could have negotiated for more favorable terms.”
Despite everything, I huff out a laugh. “Maybe on my next marriage.”
“That’s my girl.”
15
Eros
I never expected to get married. It’s not that I have an issue with monogamy, though I’ve only flirted with it in the past. Something as relatively permanent as marriage is more than just a relationship. It’s more than sex, more than moving someone into your space and figuring out how to share it. It’s a partnership. An alliance.
But as I stand before the altar, Hermes bouncing on her toes in her silver three-piece suit, it just feels fucking right.
I refuse to examine that sensation too closely.
Instead, I focus on the door opening and Psyche walking through. On the expression on her face as she takes in what I’ve spent the last few hours putting together.
The room isn’t large, which is an asset for this event. There are two pews on either side of the aisle, each capped with a bouquet of crimson roses tied with a shining silver ribbon, a perfect match for her dress thanks to the swatch Juliette provided. The aisle itself is a deep red runner in the same shade. As I watch, Helen walks up to Psyche and hands over another, larger bouquet of the same arrangement.
The shock on Psyche’s face deepens as she looks around the room. I see her register that everyone is wearing some variation of red, black, and silver. Even Hades, though his black-on-black suits seem to be the only clothing he owns. A photographer who I hired edges around the room, the snap of his camera the only sound for one long moment.
Then the music rises, a variation of the wedding march that sounds almost like a dirge. From her small smile, she finds it as fitting as I do. Almost like an inside joke between just the two of us.
Psyche takes the first step toward the altar—toward me—and meets my gaze. Her smile widens, and even as I tell myself it’s all for show, I can’t help the warmth that blooms in my chest. I know this isn’t what she wants. If she’s like Helen and Eris, she’s had plans for her wedding from when she was a little girl, and I hardly expect that those plans included marrying the son of her mother’s enemy in front of an audience of five.
I can’t change that, but the least I can do is give her this gift. Something photograph-worthy. This wedding might not be a good memory, but at least the publicity in its aftermath won’t embarrass her.