Not to mention the fact that Eurydice and Callisto are here, both ideal backup targets for Aphrodite’s wrath. Next time she orders one of Demeter’s daughter dispatched, Eros might not take the time to have a conversation. He might simply strike.
I can’t let that happen.
“I want this,” I repeat for what feels like the twelfth time.
“If you change your mind, we’ll get you out.” No telling if she’s talking about her and her husband or her and our sisters, but neither option is a good idea. “We’ll be at the wedding, though. Hades and I.” Persephone hesitates. “Do you want me to try to convince Callisto and Eurydice to come as well?”
“No, it’s okay.” I can’t blame them for not wanting to attend our sham of a marriage ceremony, even if it stings. “But if you could invite Mother out to brunch, I’d really appreciate it. I need to get my things from the penthouse, and I can’t do that if I run the risk of seeing her there.” Time might have tempered my mother’s impulse control, but Callisto comes by her rage honestly. I wouldn’t put it past the two of them to lock me in my room until I see reason, which would just make this situation even messier.
“Consider it done. I’ll text you when it’s confirmed.”
“Thank you.”
She gives me a small smile. “Be careful, Psyche. Eros is dangerous in the extreme.”
I understand that far better than she ever will. I try for a smile in return. “I know. He’s a monster. But after tonight, he’s my monster.”
We hang up pretty quickly after that, and I take a few minutes to try to put my appearance to rights. Eros, thankfully, has a whole cabinet full of hair and skin products, but most of it is unfamiliar to me. I comb my hair and twist it up into a messy-chic crown around my head. I keep a small selection of makeup in my purse for touch-ups, which is a lifesaver right now. By the time I exit the bedroom, I look like a woman who just had an unexpected sleepover with her partner but still put together. It will have to do.
A divine smell draws me into the kitchen to find Eros finishing up a hash with potatoes, peppers, and fried eggs. It’s heavier than what I’d normally eat for breakfast, but I accept the plate he passes over and take a seat on one of the stylish iron stools that flank the kitchen bar. They’re not exactly comfortable, but they are pretty. I take a few bites, enough that Eros stops watching me and digs into his own meal.
We eat in a strangely comfortable silence, interspersed by our respective phones buzzing with notifications every few seconds. Eros gives his a dirty look. “How do you put up with this shit?”
“It’s necessary.” I learned early on that power is the only thing the upper crust of Olympus respects and that I’d never attain it by trying to imitate them. I had to go my own way while still playing the game—a careful balance that exhausts me more often than not. But it was working, at least until Aphrodite turned her vengeful gaze in my direction. I scroll through the notifications. Several are from my mother, growing increasingly irate. Another few are interview requests. “How long do you want to make them wait for interviews?”
He hesitates and finally says grudgingly, “I bow to your expertise in this.”
Surprising that he’ll willingly give up even this much control. I ignore the strange flare of warmth in my chest at the trust he’s placing in me. “I say we give it a week. A few pictures of the wedding, a few outings where they see us being the loving couple in public, and they’ll be so frothing at the mouth to get an exclusive scoop that they won’t bother to ask hard questions.” I have just the interviewer in mind for it, too, but I haven’t heard from her yet.
“Okay.” He stretches and then his hand lands lightly on the spot between my shoulder blades. I don’t flinch this time; I’m too busy trying not to melt as he trails his fingers over the nape of my neck. “I like your hair up.”
“I assure you that your preferences have absolutely nothing to do with how I’ll dress or act in the future.”
Eros chuckles, the sound low and strangely happy. “You are a constant surprise, Psyche. I like that, too.”
I don’t shrug off his hand. Even as I tell myself it’s practice for being in public, I know I’m a liar. I like the weight of his palm against my skin. I like how tenderly he traces his fingers down my spine. Believing that he’s actually affected and not simply adjusting to me the same way I’m adjusting to him…