Electric Idol (Dark Olympus #2)(69)

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.”

“I honestly don’t care what you prefer.” She sets down the glass with a clink, which is right about the moment I realize we have the undivided attention of everyone in the room. Wonderful.

I keep my smile in place, though it’s a challenge. I don’t want to smile at this woman. I want to throw my bourbon in her face and light a match. The sheer force of my violent thoughts nearly derails my concentration. I’m not one to let emotions get the best of me, but I’ve also never sat across the table from a person who wants my literal heart on a platter.

The blood would match her lipstick.

Aphrodite looks at Eros, who’s still so tense, it’s as if he’s carved from stone. She sighs. “I suppose every child must have a rebellious stage. You’ve simply come to yours late.”

“Don’t.”

She ignores him. “On occasion, it’s a mother’s role to save their children from themselves.” Aphrodite smooths down her dress. “I’ve been cleaning up Eros’s messes since he was a child. This is no different.”

Eros’s messes. As if he decided to wade into the muck of his own free will, rather than being shoved there by the one person in this godsdamned city who should have been protecting him. Now she’ll do it again and pretend she’s doing him a favor, rather than pursuing her own selfish agenda.