Psyche gives me a slow smile. “Let her do her worst. I can more than handle her in that field.”
I hope she’s right.
16
Psyche
Today has been filled with emotional extremes. I feel like I’m flying apart into a million pieces, and not necessarily in a good way. From those forty minutes in Eros’s bed to walking into the room that he thoughtfully pulled together into something resembling a real wedding. He’d themed the colors to my dress, for gods’ sake. That kind of attention to detail might only be so that we can sell this fully to everyone in the city, but I can’t help thinking that he did it in part for me.
I’m a fool.
To go from that to him casually mentioning that it’s likely his mother will continue with her vendetta, at least when it comes to my reputation…
Whiplash doesn’t begin to cover it.
Of course I expected this. We’ve talked about it, at least in passing. But a small part of me had held out hope that Aphrodite would turn away from this path once we were married. I really know better than to believe such a fantasy, but hope springs eternal. It seems rather naive to assume that, thwarted, Aphrodite would move on with her life and focus on some other potential victim.
Naive and selfish.
At least if she’s focused on me, Eros isn’t having to hurt other people. Now that the worst of the threat is removed, I can handle Aphrodite. I hope. In the arena of public opinion, I’m nearly as capable as she is. I have to believe that. I’m just so godsdamned tired.
I don’t manage to speak until we’re tucked safely back into Eros’s penthouse. “I suppose it was naive of me to think that this would be enough to dissuade her.”
He keeps his arm around me as we head into the kitchen. There’s a bottle sitting on the counter, and I pick it up, mostly to give my hands something to do. A pretty silver ribbon is tied around its neck, the tag simply saying From Hermes.
I examine the label. “She’s got expensive taste.”
Eros reaches around me and flips the tag over. The back reads: Totally stole this from Hades’s wine cellar. So, really, it’s from me, Hades, and Persephone.
That draws a tired little laugh from my lips. “Hermes is a menace.”
“She’s chaotic neutral personified. She’s pretty okay, though.” Eros takes the bottle from my hands and sets it back on the counter. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Psyche.”
“That’s rich coming from you, someone who intended to hurt me twenty-four hours ago.” Maybe that’s fair, maybe it’s not, but I don’t care either way. The events of the last two days are rapidly catching up with me. Too much has happened in too short a time. “If this was the plan all along, it’s not a half bad one. One cut for marrying Demeter’s daughter. A finishing move by killing her.”
“Stop it.” He takes my hands, his grip light but unavoidable. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to. I know how well Eros lies when he’s motivated. I can’t trust a single word, look, or gesture. But when I gaze up at him, he looks terrifyingly serious.
“Psyche, my mother might still be furious, but our reasons for getting married remain the same. She can spit her poison and try her manipulations, but she can’t harm you. I will not let anyone harm you. You’re mine now, and I protect what’s mine.”
“That’s very patriarchal of you.” I have no business believing him. None at all. Just because we’re married doesn’t mean he’s anything other than an enemy. He was going to kill me. I try to maintain my grasp on that truth, but it keeps bumping up against other truths.
How angry he was about the negative comments on my social media.
His insistence that I have a wedding dress that I’d be proud of.
The fact that he took the swatch and organized the entire wedding, guests and all, around my chosen color palette.
So many tiny, thoughtful things. Things an enemy wouldn’t do, even if they were trying to butter up their victim. Now he’s telling me he will stand between me and any threat to my safety and I…believe him.
He shakes his head. “I don’t really give a fuck if it’s patriarchal or not. It’s the truth. You’re safe with me. I promise.”
I don’t mean to touch him. Touching Eros is the very definition of a poor choice, but my hands find their way inside his tux jacket all the same. The fabric of his deep-gray shirt is softer than I expect, but that’s not what has my legs already shaking. It’s the curves and divots of his muscles beneath. He was shirtless in bed with me last night, but the circumstances made it impossible to enjoy the view without restriction.