He lifted an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“You have a strange passion for yourself, and you favor the color red,” I replied, catching his amused look as he led me to a staircase.
“That is correct.” His palm left my back while we ascended the stairs, and I was grateful for the distance. “The house is rather spacious, but I will focus on the main areas to save you from a lengthy tour.”
I nodded, allowing him to guide me through the enormous first floor’s echoing hallway lined with six imposing doors on each wall. He showed me the painting room, the smell of turpentine filled the air, and he admitted he wasn’t a talented painter, but it was his artist’s sanctuary.
When he led me to his personal workout room, I let out a snort. “Why train when you can snap your fingers and look however you please?” I made a show of clicking my fingers against each other, raising a brow.
“It helps to clear my thoughts,” he answered, twitching his jaw as if he’d find himself wandering inside this room often.
Throughout the rest of the tour, I stayed quiet as he showed me the sauna, the music space, and the compartment with apanoramic view, but I couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of his library. He let out a low chuckle, flicked his fingers and lit up the room for me.
Stepping inside, I breathed deeply, savoring the familiar aroma of old books. Of all the rooms, this one was the darkest, its shadows providing a comforting embrace with only a sliver of moonlight escaping through the small window. The tall mahogany bookshelves reached the ceiling, filled with books arranged by color; a gradient of gray, red, blue, and brown.
He gestured toward a rolling ladder of aged wood and a small, inviting reading nook tucked into a corner, complete with a plush armchair and a lamp. My fingers itched to reach out, to trace the spines, to inhale the scent of old paper.
“I would have bypassed the house tour and brought you here immediately if I had known it would be the most pleasing to you. Please, you are welcome to explore the area.”
The smile in his tone was noticeable but I wasn’t able to take my eyes off the books to look at him. Tears welled in my eyes as I approached the first shelf, my fingers gliding along the spines of the books. My personal collection, while extensive, paled in comparison to his.
My teeth dug into the inside of my cheek. What a privilege to own so many stories.
“You are welcome to take anything that piques your interest. I possess multiple copies of the majority of my books.” His voice inched closer, his breath now brushing over the exposed skin of my neck.
I frowned. “Why?”
“As an avid reader, I sometimes damage the spines of books, therefore, I like to have an undamaged copy for display.”
At that moment, I spun, my mouth agape in disbelief. “You call yourself an avid reader and yet you break the spines? How dare you?”
My mind wandered back to the last book I read. The book was already in poor condition when Maggie’s mother gave it to me, so I’d been cautious, careful to avoid bending it or leaving my damp fingers lingering too long on the pages. After all, my books were the most valuable things I possessed, and I wanted them to be in perfect condition; like a trophy, a beacon of hope in my life.
I couldn’t imagine destroying a book when it was the only thing keeping me intact.
The God of Love chuckled. “I do not inflict spinal damage for enjoyment, mortal. I do so for my own comfort and because the markings show the books were read and valued.” He picked a book from the library and handed it to me. “Perhaps you should consider trying it.”
My eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. “It doesn’t make sense to me,” I murmured, moving the book from one palm to another. “How can you say you value something when you’re actively ruining it? Say you love someone, a woman; would it count as love if you’re hurting her?”
He shook his head. “That is not precisely equivalent. If I love a person like I love a book, it transcends a pristine object on a shelf—it entails exploring every facet, including the difficult and flawed ones—and upon my reading, she’s comprehended by another; one who attains a deeper understanding than she possesses of herself. What constitutes love if not the acceptance of an individual’s imperfections? Ultimately, she is not harmed, but rather vulnerable.” He squinted as his hands found their way into his pockets, searching for something in my expression. “Perhaps the reason for your potential difficulty in processing my words may stem from an absence of personal experience with vulnerability. It is possible that you are a reader who enjoys being inquisitive about the lives of others because you are not yet prepared to acknowledge your own.”
I reeled from his words, each one a fresh wound, as if a knife had been plunged into my chest. I stumbled backward, taking a few shaky steps, opening my mouth to contradict him, but no words came out.
“My intention was not to offend you, mortal. Do not interpret it that way.” His eyebrows lowered on his eyes, his footsteps inching closer to me. He reached out a hand to touch my shoulder, but I moved away, disgusted by the thought of his touch.
“Then what exactly did you intend?” I asked through gritted teeth, my tone bitter.
I didn’t anticipate my temper, but his words struck a chord, pulling a hidden part of me out into the open. Even though deep down I knew he was telling the truth, a part of me fought against believing it.
He lifted his brows. “It was a mere observation.”
If anything, his excuse only exacerbated my rising anger. “You don’t know anything about me.” I shoved the book back at him, my fingers trembling and then forming fists. “You act like you know everything because you are a god, but you don’t. How could you know how poverty feels like when you have a house so big—which still doesn’t fit your enormous ego—just because you can? I dare you to live a day in our world and watch how you crumble in despair without all of your privileges,” I said, and the words clawed at each other, tumbling out in a flurry.
My chest was rising and falling rapidly, my vision blurring. I wanted to get out; I wanted to be as far away from him as possible, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t because of Zeus and his stupid plan. Clenching my fists, I pressed my nails into my palms, anticipating the crescent-shaped marks that would still be there later while I muffled a frustrated scream.
I swallowed the tears that threatened to spill and tried to maintain composure, refusing to cry in front of a stranger. Whatwas wrong with me, acting out like that? I had never experienced such a loss of control, where my nerves and words betrayed me.
Calm down. I had to calm down.
