Page 87 of This Divine Revelry

‘There you are.’

Deucalion pushes me forward. ‘She was found fornicating with the King of Athens.’

‘What?’ Dionysus breathes – more shocked than angry. It’s so compelling even I panic for a moment that he’s somehow forgotten what happened.

‘Not fornicating,’ I say quickly, shoving my brother off me. ‘I’m … ah, sorry, dear husband. We kissed.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh?’ Deucalion demands.

‘Well, you set the bar rather higher – but, um, yes. Still very bad. Terrible news, wife. I’ll give her … a stern talking-to.’ He grabs my arm and pulls me across the threshold like I will be safer there.

‘Talking-to?’ Deucalion asks, blinking between us.

‘Well, to begin with. She’ll regret it, that’s for sure. Thank you for telling me. Goodnight.’

And he closes the door before my brother can say anything else.

‘Alright, that’s a start,’ I say, pacing in the small space. ‘We have the night – what can we possibly get done in a night?’

‘We could kiss some more,’ Dionysus proposes. ‘I’ll turn into anyone you like; however it fits in with your plan.’

‘It doesn’t fit with the plan,’ I say quickly, ignoring the way my stomach tenses. I do not know how to make sense of any part of this night, let alone … that part.

‘Terrible plan, then. Make a new one.’

‘Yes, keep doing that,’ I say, nodding as I trace tight steps about my room. ‘It’s so much easier not to kiss you again when you’re being annoying.’

‘Liar. If it were easy, you’d be able to look at me right now.’

I still, taking his challenge and instantly regretting it. The cocky facade I’m so used to seeing has fallen. He looks young, vulnerable – mortal. He is still beautiful, still etched in hard lines and softened again with each ring of gold about his wrists and neck, each tumbling lock of hair. But he’s looking at me like … like he’s nervous. Like he doesn’t know where we stand either and as though he needs that answer desperately.

I’ve never seen his expression so earnest or open and something about it undoes me, like with the walls pared back we’re both just as hopeless as each other – because it’s my own fear looking back at me.

I’m beside him before I’ve made the decision to be, am pushing the curls back to cradle that exquisite face of his and take a beat to admire each fine point of it – and all the want drawn across it. I move closer slowly, enough that he can tell me to stop, that this is a mistake, that we are both too broken for this, too hurt or else too in over our heads.

But he doesn’t say anything – just closes his eyes and lets his fingers ghost across my side like to grab me would be too forward. Like he can’t let himself believe this is real either.

Then our lips are gliding over one another’s, slowly, tenderly – like we are trying to make it last.

‘Ariadne,’ he sighs, like it’s all he’s ever wanted.

Warmth curls in my stomach, a giddiness I can’t alleviate – that we’re doing this, as ourselves, without the performance. Oh, so much of this feels like an exhale: finally.

When we eventually break apart, it is not by much. Our faces still close, our breathing in tandem.

‘Was that alright?’ I ask.

‘Completely.’ He nods.

‘I don’t know what I …’

‘No, me neither.’

I’m still breathing him in: the fresh ivy leaves threaded through his hair and the sweet scent beneath, the soap of the palace. Home. He smells like home – the one I left and the one I found, all at once.

He takes my hand from his face – Olympus above, I’m still clutching him – and he holds it tight. ‘We can take this slow,’ he promises. ‘We’ll keep … talking. Processing. Whatever we both need.’