This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(58)

“It doesn’t matter to me what they think,” I say. It wasn’t shame that I felt when Demeter and Hephaestus warned me against Ares. A bridling anger that they dare stand in judgment, yes. Compassion for the hurt it causes an already wounded god, that too. And fear that they might be right. “I only thought that if we kept it secret that I could keep it under control.”

“And?” he says. “Can you?”

I slide my hand to the back of his neck, pulling him toward me. My kiss is all the answer he needs.



* * *



—

In the morning, I tell him about Dionysus. “He has plans,” I say. “And definitely a grudge against Hera.”

Ares rolls his eyes. “It won’t take him long to realize it isn’t worth it. Zeus will fight her forever, but he won’t let anyone else attack her. He might find it amusing to watch his new son spar with her, but he’ll never let it go far.”

I shift onto my elbow, looking down at his face. I never get tired of tracing the haughty angle of his cheekbones and the dark beard that dusts the line of his jaw. “Did you never think,” I ask idly, “of raising an army against them both?”

“And rule Olympus myself?” He snorts. “No. They can keep it.” His eyes flicker to mine. “You don’t think that’s what this Dionysus intends, do you?”

“No.” I remember the Wine God’s tousled curls and limpid charm. “It’s definitely not his style. He was all about pleasure. I don’t see him as a fighter.” But there was something about him that gives me pause. A steely determination underneath that merry surface.

“Hmm.”

“What?” I ask.

“He interested you,” says Ares.

“Oh,” I say, kissing him lightly. “He did. Very much.”

His hand twists in my hair, holding my face to his. “How much?” he asks, a wicked glint in his eye.

I laugh. “You’ll see for yourself,” I say, “when you meet him. He’s captivated half the gods on Olympus already.”

He presses his mouth to mine hungrily. “I don’t think,” he says, “that I’ll like him.”

“You don’t like anyone,” I reply.

He pulls me against him, his skin hot against mine. “Not quite,” he says. “I can think of one exception.”

“Are you jealous?” I smile.

“You told me you’d take other lovers,” he says.

It isn’t an answer. “And what about you?” I ask. I’m thinking of the mortal woman who summoned me. There’s no shortage of admirers who would eagerly take my place. I ask it playfully enough, but I feel the moment change, a seriousness settling in his eyes.

“There’s no one,” he says, “no one for me except you. Not anymore.”

I’m taken aback, too startled to think of what to say in return.

He smiles, his mood lifting once more. “You didn’t think the God of War had a heart to give,” he says, kissing me again. “But if I do, it’s yours.” His kisses trail down my neck, and he stops for a moment. “I’m not jealous, though,” he adds. “As long as you come back to me.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I will.”



* * *



—

After that, I can’t pretend any longer that things between us are about to come to an end. Something has shifted. And, as Hephaestus is so observant, I think it’s kinder for me to stay away.

I ask Charis to go to him, to bring him more nectar and ambrosia. I should have asked her in the first place. No one would question her presence in the storerooms.

“Of course.” She’s eager, just as I knew she would be. This is better, I decide, for all of us.

And, true to his word, it’s only a matter of days before Dionysus comes to Olympus. Hera’s face is a sight to behold, but Zeus insists on hospitality for his son, a guest in our palace.

Hera alights on the word guest and, though she regards Dionysus with hostile suspicion, she seems mollified that his stay is only temporary. He brings great jars with him, winning over the rest of the gods with an abundance of wine like none they’ve ever tasted before.

Except for Ares, naturally. “I’d rather drink worse wine and not have to listen to him talk,” he mutters to me.

Dionysus looks over at us, smiling, unfazed by Hera at one end of the long table and Ares at the other, both mutinous and ungrateful, both wishing him gone. We’re all sitting together along the wide benches in the center of the feasting hall, and there’s a throng of nymphs and minor gods standing together in clusters by the walls. Word has spread, and everyone is eager to lay eyes on Zeus’ divine son.

I lean across the polished wood, toward Dionysus. His eyes sparkle as they meet mine and, despite myself, my heart flutters. “I’m impressed,” I say. “You did get to Olympus, just like you said you would.”

He inclines his head. “In a way.”

“What way?” I ask. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

He shrugs.

“And now you are,” I continue, “you’re probably realizing how much you prefer Naxos.” I laugh, expecting that he will too, but he’s looking through the archway at something in the room behind me.