He was the most beautiful male she’d ever beheld.
Abruptly, the raven halted its attack and flew into the night sky.
She writhed on the floor, clawing from the flames, yet unable to look away from the beauty of her lover.
Her husband.
A god.
Not just any god. Eros. The same divine being she’d assumed had cursed him. How utterly blind she’d been.
Psyche struggled to her elbows, coughing from the smoke.
The flames lapped at his fingers. He stirred, swatting at them while sparks danced onto his cheeks. Suddenly, his eyes bolted open and his stunning perusal bored straight into her.
She froze, tears pooling in her eyes both at his beauty and at the realization of her doom flashing in his features as he gazed upon her, such pitiful grief reflected within his bluest depths. For an instant, she suffered more sadness for him than for her fate.
“Psyche…” he whispered, waving an absent hand to snuff the flames out. They cleared, the smoke dissipating.
She lowered her head, awaiting her fate, yet she continued to breathe. Lifting her face in question, she extended a hopeful hand toward her resplendent husband. Instead of accepting her hand, he regarded his, the flesh blistered and raw from his wounds. Then he scrutinized her with a hard, unforgiving glare, his brows narrowed at the dagger in her hand.
The hilt of the blade seared her palm and she dropped it. Staggering to her feet, she stumbled toward him, pleading. “Forgive me.”
His hardened features widened. “No, Psyche, don’t!”
She frowned in question, but something sharp pricked the sole of her foot. Yelping, she slowly gaped at the magnificent beauty of him.
“Nay, don’t look at me,” he snarled, bracing a hand over his radiant face.
Her knees weakened, lightheadedness seized her, and her stomach twisted, causing her to collapse. Her breath knocked from her lungs, her vision spun dark, and his words faded into her ears as she crumpled onto the floor.
“Psyche, what have you done?”
Eros gasped in shock and pain, his being shattering. One moment, he’d been peacefully asleep, and the next, he’d awoken to a most traitorous vision. The fragments of his form drifted in and out of corporeality, fading between his home and Mount Olympus.
He howled at the sight of Psyche’s collapsed form on the floor. She was dead. He couldn’t bring himself to approach her, so he faded to the realm of the gods instead.
She was gone. His sweet, lovely Psyche.
She’d seen his face and she’d still been breathing. For the briefest of moments, he’d been filled with hope.
Until he’d glimpsed the dagger in her hand.
How could Psyche have betrayed him?
His heart splintered into thousands of shards, spearing outward through his chest. Each breath he seized sliced them back and forth, sawing through him.
And those bloody arrows. How had they ended up scattered across his floor? Psyche had stepped upon one—and damn, but he hadn’t been able to tell if it had been leaden or gold.
Not that it mattered. An instant later, the curse had seized her, claiming her life.
She hadn’t loved him. Just like all of the others. Damn, but he’d believed she’d been different. Had he been wrong to place such faith in Psyche? After the pleasure they’d shared, he’d assumed he’d dissuaded her inquisitiveness. Earned her trust. Instead, she’d set fire to their bedchamber in order to steal a glimpse of his face.
My face. He sneered, clawing his fingers down his cheek. He would tear his face off if it meant having another chance with Psyche.
Not that he was certain he would offer her one. She’d abused his trust and failed him.
Sweet heavens, she had perished because of it.
He slumped forward, pounding his fists on the marble. Moisture stung his eyes as he imagined Psyche’s cold corpse resting in his castle. He hadn’t been able to stay and observe the life drain from her. Coward.
He never should have touched her.
She was mortal. He didn’t blame her for her curiosity. Nay, this damnation was upon him. He was at fault.
This was his bloody wager, after all.
He grimaced at his melted flesh and healed the wound on his hand.
The swish of skirts glided toward him. Ah yes, he’d transported to Aphrodite’s palace.
“Come to boast of your victory, Mother?” he grated, new flames of fury alighting because of her. She was the one who’d goaded him into this bloody torturous hell.
“No, of course not, my son.” Slender arms wrapped about him, shielding him to her chest. “You are injured.” She traced his cheek with the tip of her finger and he winced. He hadn’t even noticed, but the flames must have danced across his cheek as well. Clawing through the wounds had caused even deeper ones.
“Let me heal you.”
“Nay, leave it.” He shoved backward, prodding the injury.
“If you don’t heal yourself, it will scar.” Aphrodite scrunched her nose, her ruby mouth twisted down.
Good. Let it scar. At least then, every time he looked at himself, he’d be reminded of what he’d done to Psyche. “I care not. Now, no one will care to view my face.” A shudder whirled through him as the image of Psyche gaping at him crossed his mind. He squeezed his eyes and struggled to thrust aside the vision, but wetness pricked the backs of his eyelids and broke free of his lashes, scattering along his cheeks.
How had he lost her?
And how, in all the world, was he ever to live without her?
“Oh, my dove.” His mother placed her hand atop his. “Grief is a most wondrous emotion, is it not?”
“Hell, no, Mother,” he snapped, whipping his glower to her. “That is the most insensitive utterance, especially for a goddess of love. Instead of offering me words of comfort, you would rather I wallow in this devastating misery?”
“Misery is love, my darling,” she murmured. “For how can you appreciate the value of what you have cherished, until you have lost it?”
He snorted. “What good is it to have lost what I cherished? What value is there in that? She is gone forever, and I will never recover from this loss.”
“Is she?” Aphrodite rose, gliding forward. “How interesting you should conclude that, because the wager you deem you have lost, in truth, you have won.”
***
Psyche coughed and blinked, prying open her heavy eyelids. Her body weighed her prostrate on the floor. She pressed a hand to her belly and sighed in relief. Her babe was fine. Grunting, she lifted herself upright, first to sit, then staggering to stand. The smoke had cleared and all that remained of the drapes were ashes. The empty bed seemed to frown at her in righteous disdain.
She deserved its judgment and simply shook her head, walking away. Somehow, miraculously, she was alive. At least, for now.
Where was Soren…er, Eros?
She scoffed at her naiveté. This whole time, presuming she might capture the heart of a god?
The god of erotic love at that.
Her cheeks flamed as she recalled her clumsy attempts at seduction. How he must have been rolling his eyes and grinding his teeth to tolerate her.
The image of his beauty burned into her mind. How magnificent and robust he was. Heat coursed through her body, demanding just one more glimpse. She scowled at the odd and unwelcome urges, forcing them aside. Straightening her spine, she dusted off her skirts and marched to the armoire, dressing in a gown and cloak. She’d broken his third rule.
Where did the gods go when mortals disappointed them? Mount Olympus, of course. A place she would never be able to follow. While she might be alive, her heart whispered the awful truth that she would never see him again. Sighing, Psyche treaded through the barren corridors. She refused to stay here any longer, even if Eros never returned.
This was not her home. It never had been.
Psyche, what have you done? She shuddered as his reprimand echoed through her mind.
The betrayal in his eyes had spoken loudly enough. He would never trust, or love, her. If he ever had.
That was why she’d awoken here, alone. He’d abandoned her. Without even tending to her or awaiting an explanation. Had he assumed the dagger in her hand had been intended for him? He’d certainly fled from her fast enough.
Ugh, her horrid sisters, and that villainous raven. Somehow, they’d taken everything from her. She blinked back stinging tears and swiped them away. No tears, not for Eros. She could have loved him, had he been anything but himself.
I can show you many forms, Arete. None of which will be the truth. His words resounded in her mind. Lies. He’d appeared before her in his natural shape, a man, which was close enough to a god. His black locks and trimmed beard weren’t sufficient alterations. She huffed. Hiding his divinity behind a mortal’s beard. The nerve of him. She’d almost rather he’d been a dragon. Such a beast she might love. But not a god. Never a god.
Psyche stared at her all-too-mortal hands. He must have known there’d never be a future for them. Why in Hades had he wed her? The other gods must have deemed him mad.
After retrieving a mechanical horse from the stables, Psyche glanced one last time at her cherished home. None of it had been real.
Still, it was the most beautiful dream any mortal had ever had.
***
“Won?” Eros glowered at his mother’s triumphant beaming. “You and I have very different opinions on victory.”
Perhaps she meant she would concede him the win, so this terrible wager might end. While once that would have pleased him greatly, he mustered no joy at the news. Psyche was gone. Who cared for the future now?
“Oh, my dove, you can be so blind at times.” Aphrodite tsked, extending her graceful hand. “Come with me.”
He accepted her hand and she flashed them to the ballroom of his castle. The moment he recognized the chamber they stood in, he wrenched his arm free, intending to flee this place forever.
“Wait,” Aphrodite hummed, “and behold.”
He tensed and twisted toward the direction she pointed. The rose?
Bunching his brows together, he peered closer. Instead of the frozen, shriveled bloom which should have been present after her death, a robust, glowing blossom shone before them. Impossible. An ethereal glow radiated from within the crimson petals, bursting forth with crystalline brilliance. The rose was more than restored; it was alive. Gingerly, he brushed his fingertip across one silken petal. The rose thrummed in vibration, sparks traveling all the way up his arm.
His heart thumped, pounding harder and harder. “Psyche is alive?” He whirled to his mother, demanding answers.
Instead of complying, she lifted and dropped a shoulder. “First, tell me why the rose blooms.”
He growled at her lack of cooperation. “Who cares why the rose blooms? Tell me, is she alive?”
Aphrodite waved him off again. “I care. You’re my son and this is important.”
Huffing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, striving for patience. “It blooms because she loves me. That is the rose’s purpose.”
“Incorrect,” his mother intoned. “The rose was never meant for her.”
His muscles stiffening, he lowered his hand, opened his eyes, and cocked his head at her. “Nay, you’re not implying—”
“Indeed, I am.” Her lips parted in a sweetly coy smile. “The rose has bloomed because—”
He swallowed hard and whispered, “I love her.”
***
Psyche trudged through the woods, the dense terrain too challenging for her horse. She’d released the creature an hour ago, and now, she wandered aimlessly. Neither going forward nor stepping backward. Perhaps, she twirled about in circles. Who knew and who cared?
She’d employed her powers of concealment during her departure and the arachnids on the edges of the estate hadn’t attacked her. Although, she might not have defended herself had they.
Not true. She placed a hand on her abdomen. The child within her deserved better, even if she didn’t.
The wind howled about her, whipping her hair around and obscuring her view into the forest. It was too cold outside for any beasts, though, so she didn’t fear being hunted. Having abandoned her home, she had only one place to go—her father’s castle. She’d face her sisters and… What? Accuse them of coercing her to murder a god?
How absurd. She plodded one foot forward, in front of the other, but halted as a merry tune carried to her on the wind.
What creature could be so daft as to be out in this storm? Other than herself, of course?
Curious, she followed the whistling melody. Lovely and haunting. It perfectly suited her mood. She treaded toward a clearing in the woods, where the flickering flames of a fire beckoned her. Tending to the blaze was a bizarre male with furred legs and hoofs instead of human legs and feet.
Odd. She cleared her throat so as not to surprise the being.
He whirled about, the whistle dying on his lips, and appraised her. “Ho there, lass, what are you doing in this atrocious weather? Are you lost?” He lifted the hood of his long leather jacket to smile at her with kind russet eyes. “ ’Tis not fit for man or beast out here. Will you join me and warm yourself?”
“Why, yes, thank you. And if I am lost, I care not.” She wound through the bushes and sank onto the boulder he waved her toward.
Sighing, she angled her face toward the soothing warmth of the hearth.
“My name’s Alder.” He flashed her a disarming grin. “And you are…?”
“Psyche.” She sniffled and blew on her cold hands. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“My pleasure, milady.” He plopped onto the boulder on the opposite side of the blaze. As she peered closer, the youthful arches of his cheekbones struck her. “Are you a god?” she blurted.
He let out a loud guffaw. “Nay, I assure you, I am not.”
“Forgive me.” He must simply be young. After all, not everyone she encountered would be a divine being intent on tricking her. She clenched her fists in her lap, fighting her resentment.
“Pray pardon me for speaking boldly, but, milady, if a beauty such as yourself is lost, surely someone is looking for you.” A bright blush not caused by the wind flamed across his cheeks.
How endearing. She shook her head. “Trust me, no one will come for me.” Eros had made his stance clear the moment he’d discarded her.
“I doubt that, but you are welcome to stay for as long as you like.” He hopped to his feet and rummaged through a sack, withdrawing bread, cheese, and meat. A shy quirk crossed his lips as he handed them to her. “Here, you must be starved.”
His kindness melted her heart. “Thank you, Alder. You have no idea how much your companionship means to me in this moment.”
He took his seat and regarded her with surprising wisdom in his youthful features. “Actually, I believe I do.”
***
“I love her,” Eros murmured the words again, but the repetition didn’t comfort him. What use was the knowledge, when it had come too late?
“Yes.” Aphrodite chimed a laugh. “I have waited so long for your heart to open, Eros.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm. “So you see, you have won our wager. You have found love.”
He snorted and brushed off her arm. “Found love? What, to a dead maiden? There is no joy in this.”
“The wager was only that true love could be fashioned of pure lust. We never actually specified it had to be the maiden’s heart claimed. Even Ares has conceded to your victory.”
Sneering, he shook his head at the mention of the war god. “I care not.”
Eros swept his hand across his heart, then toward the blooming rose. Psyche was lost to him. No emotion would ever grow within his heart again, of that he’d make certain.
A sudden realization struck him. “The other maidens. They died because I could not love them?” His shoulders bowed as he hunched forward, weighted by this new burden. Mayhap he truly was a mons
ter. A beast.
“No, Eros.” Aphrodite rested a gentle hand on his arm. “Love does not have to be reciprocated to be true, but pure love must be given and accepted. Even the love of a mother is welcomed by her babe. Those maidens perished because they would not receive your affection, no matter how small a spark you offered.”
They didn’t want his love. He understood the logic, yet the guilt and rejection speared through him nonetheless. “Psyche accepted my love… Did she love me?”
“As Soren? Yes, in a way, but love needs truth to thrive.” She squeezed his arm. “You won the wager, but you are imprisoned still. Only earning Psyche’s love in return will set you free.”
“Earn her love?” he sneered. “How? She’s gone.”
Aphrodite folded her hands in front of her. “She is not dead.”
He whipped his gaze to her, glaring. “Do not jest of—”
“Behold the empty chamber for yourself.” She waved toward the corridor that led to his bedchamber.
He leapt to his feet and raced through the castle, skidding to a halt outside the chamber. His heart launched into his throat and he hesitated at scanning inside. But then, straightening his spine, he steeled his resolve and strode into the room. Icy winds whirled about the empty chamber and the residual stench of smoke stung his nose.
No Psyche, lying cold as stone on the floor. He exhaled in deep, painful pants and spun about the chamber, searching.
If not dead, then where was she?
Gone, was the answer. Rightfully so, after he’d abandoned her. How deceived she must feel, to learn of his divine nature.
Likely as betrayed as he felt upon witnessing the blade in her hand. He spied the distasteful knife on the floor and plucked it. Squinting, he studied the crest, his gut twisting. A flaming sun. Apollo. He tossed his head, unable to accept that Psyche acted on behalf of his enemy.
Glowering, he swept his hand over the dagger, incinerating it.
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