“Yes.” He sounds far too satisfied with that. “I’m yours, Psyche. What will you do with me?”
The smart response would be to shut his question down. To remind him that we are not, in fact, jumping back into bed together at the first available opportunity. That this marriage is solely because my life is on the line and not for any other reason. It’s difficult to remember that here, in the intimacy of this booth, in a little bar that Eros took me to because he likes this place. Because he feels safe here. “Do you bring all your lovers here?” I throw the words like a javelin, desperate to put some kind of space between us, even if it’s emotional.
He doesn’t move back. “I don’t bring anyone here. Not like that. Sometimes Helen or Hermes will come drink with me, and Perseus used to tag along when we were younger, but like I said before, this is a…” Eros finally looks away, surveying the room with a strange expression on his face. “This is a safe space. As safe as one can get in Olympus.”
I follow his gaze, guilt closing clammy hands around my throat. I catch sight of three separate phones pointed in our direction. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never seen you photographed here and now you are, and it’s because you’re with me.”
His lips curve a little. “I knew that would happen when I chose this place. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
Instead of abating, my guilt only gets stronger. “Surely you don’t have so many safe places in this city that you can afford to lose one.”
His small smile disappears. He searches my face. “Are you worried? About me?”
“Yes.” I can’t look away, can’t break the growing intimacy of this moment. I thought I knew what was happening here, but now I’m not so sure. “I know how exhausting it can be to never let down your guard, and it’s a really special place that allows it outside your home. You shouldn’t have sacrificed that. Not for this. Not for me.”
He cups my jaw and drags his thumb over my cheekbone. “You really are worried about me.”
I don’t understand why he’s not. I can count on one hand how many public spaces are safe for me to be my true self at—and still have most of my fingers left over. Losing one would be devastating on a number of levels. “I’m sorry. If I’d realized—”
“Psyche.” He shifts his hand to the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. It’s a light touch but possessive all the same. “Being here doesn’t burn this bridge for me. You have nothing to feel guilty over.”
How can he not understand the implications? I wet my lips, trying to think of how to explain it. “The second those pictures go live, you’ll give the upper city something it loves above all else—novelty. People will flock to this bar, most of them hoping to get a chance to interact with you or your inner circle. It will become the new hot spot, which means it will change the fundamental nature of this place.” I’d seen it happen before. I’d been the cause of it happening before.
He shrugs. “It won’t last forever, and it will give the Bacchae a boost in income for the duration. In a few months, once they realize I don’t sit in this booth like a tiger in a cage, they’ll move on to the next big thing.” He leans closer, still looking at me like I’ve amused him. “That timeline will compress if we’re seen frequenting some other place.”
“But…”
“The next time we’re here after that, no one will pay us any attention.” He anticipates my argument. “I’m not the only one who views this place as a safe space. The actors and crews won’t like all the people effectively playing tourist, and they won’t share photos again. If anything, doing this makes it safer in the long run.”
I let the logic wash over me, let it reassure me. It actually makes a lot of sense when he puts it that way. Slowly, oh so slowly, the guilt fades. “I see.”
“I like that you’re worried about me.”
I’m in trouble. If I didn’t care about this man, I wouldn’t care that one of his safe spaces was compromised. He’s supposed to be the enemy, so it should be a good thing, not something to feel guilt over. I start to retreat, but he tightens his grip on me ever so slightly. I swallow hard, trying to tell myself that the fluttering of my pulse is fear, but I know the truth. It’s desire. Gods, everything Eros does seems to ramp up my desire for him. Of course this would, too.
I lick my lips, achingly aware of how he follows the movement. I have to put distance between us, and I have to do it now. If he won’t allow me to do it physically, then I have to use my words. “I’m not worried about you. I don’t care about you at all.”
“Liar.” He leans down until his lips brush against mine. “Now give your new husband a proper kiss. Since you don’t care about me at all, it shouldn’t be a problem to keep control of yourself.”
Oh, you bastard.
The challenge roars through me, drowning out the little voice whispering that this idea is even more ill-advised than marrying Eros in the first place. I grip his shirt and pull him the rest of the way to me, sealing our lips together. There’s no easing into it, no light brushing of his mouth to mine. The kiss is a battleground. He seeks to conquer, and I refuse to bend. Give and take and take and take. The sounds of the room fade beneath the buzzing in my body. The room itself seems to disappear. There’s only Eros and the taste of wine on his tongue and the feel of his body pressed against mine. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
A throat clearing has me jerking back. From the heat of my face, I must be crimson, but the flustered desire drains away when I realize who’s standing over our table.
Aphrodite.
She looks just as flawless as she always does, her sleek blond hair falling in a perfect wave around her shoulders, her makeup understated but expert. She smiles at us, a curving of her crimson lips that doesn’t reach her blue eyes. Funny how I never realized how similar Eros’s cold eyes are to hers. The only difference is that Aphrodite’s never warm.
What is she doing here?
And why come herself? She can hardly play the innocent party if she’s going to show up and make a production of things.
Eros shifts back from me, and I get the strangest feeling that he’s freeing up himself to move if he needs to. He does, however, take my hand, lacing his fingers through mine beneath the table. “Mother.”
“Son.” Her smile widens, a predator scenting prey. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.”
“I got married yesterday. I think I can be forgiven. You, of all people, know how a wedding can take over a person’s life.”
“Hmmm.” She leans forward and runs a critical eye over me. “I really don’t understand why you chose her. Literally any of the other Dimitriou daughters would be better, even the feral one. She’s…” She laughs, low and throaty. “Well, look at her.”
The insult slides right off me. I’ve been dealing with variations of it since we first arrived in Olympus. I don’t fit into their narrow definition of what acceptable beauty is, and there are plenty among the Thirteen’s inner circles who aim for the low-hanging fruit of attacking my size whenever we interact. I can count the people whose opinions I actually care about on one hand, and Aphrodite sure as fuck doesn’t number among them.
Eros, however, tenses and his tone goes positively frigid. “It’s time for you to leave, Mother.”
“Not until I’ve had my say.” She picks up his wineglass and takes an idle sip.
A laugh slips free despite my best efforts. She really is unimaginative, isn’t she? When she frowns at me, I feel compelled to explain, if only to see the look on her face. “Why not lift your skirt and pee on his foot? It will accomplish the same thing.”
“Crude thing, aren’t you?”
“I prefer honest.”