Desperate Housewives of Olympus (4 page)

Rage at knowing after those steps she’d grow tall and strong, soften into feminine curves and her baby heart would be a woman’s that yearned for things as a woman does. When she reached out to take them, Demeter would die. She’d kept Persephone weak—dependant—as long as she could. Demeter had kept her afraid of men, afraid of what happened between men and women.

Yet, the bastard had gentled her.

Hades, the dark and violent Master of the Dead who struck fear into the hearts of mortals and gods alike had treated her virgin daughter softly, carefully. What turned her stomach the most was that he had loved her—thoroughly. Centuries he’d waited for Persephone’s heart to melt for him and his patience had paid off. When she’d been ready to submit to him, that was when Demeter knew she had to do something.

Demeter had prayed every night to the powers greater than herself, although she knew not what those were, that Hades would kill her. She’d been on her knees fervently hoping against hope he’d only taken her in some plot to twist his brother around to his will and when Zeus didn’t comply, Persephone’s death would be his punishment.

That was too easy for Fate. It would have wrapped up all of her angst in one neat little package and tossed it out of her extended existence. No, of all the stupid cow-eyed girls to soften the Lord of the Underworld, it had been her whey-faced daughter and her golden hair.

Demeter hated her. Every breath she took was one that she’d stolen from Demeter. When the girl had been sobbing in her arms after her ordeal, Demeter had comforted her. She’d petted her hair and stroked her back while Persephone wailed into her lap until her voice had failed her and the well of her tears had run dry. In that moment, she’d known peace such as she hadn’t felt since before Persephone had been born.

Demeter wondered if her own mother had felt such hatred for her and if she had, she’d decided she couldn’t blame her. It was all a big act, the overprotective mother shielding her little girl from the lusty ways of gods and men. She stared across the yard at the one god who might possibly be able to figure out her secret if he looked close enough.

Eros, the God of Love.

He could see what love lay in the hearts of beings and if he looked into her heart, all he would see was the dark blanket of the love Demeter had for herself.

He’d been coming every night to read poetry in secret to Persephone. But secrets were relative. Eros was sadly mistaken if he thought anything happened in her temple she didn’t know about, but she didn’t want to antagonize him just yet for fear he might decide to take a good long look in the depths of her heart. He’d find it black as Tartarus and just as cold.

Eros wasn’t at all what one would expect from the God of Love. He was shy and reserved, quiet. He was a measure twice, cut once sort of person and that was a quality Demeter respected. She also knew he was a virgin, so she had little fear he was bent on seducing Persephone. That was the bitch of it when one could see into the depths of a person’s heart; all of the dark little secrets are shoved into the light of day and melt through the veneer of affection like a splash of boiling grease on styrofoam.

It would make sense he wanted to be around Persephone, Demeter had kept her heart pure like brand new white linen sheets. Anything she felt for Hades was pure too. It would be pink and clean with the sweetness like that of a crisp apple. Yes, while he read her poetry, he wouldn’t seek to despoil her. After all, she was the only one of them who wasn’t rotten in some way. Aphrodite had told her long ago that Eros had learned at a young age not to look too closely unless he really wanted to see.

And he’d seen more in these long centuries than any of them. Eros was a reserved and quietly stoic creature. Demeter didn’t think that made him weak though. She knew the power of Love was strong. It could drive anyone to great heights of self-sacrifice or equally dark depths of depravity. She wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him.

“Eros,” she greeted. “What brings you to my temple this morning?” Demeter made a show of bringing the snap dragons on the walk to vibrant life.

“I’ve come to ask your permission to take Persephone to Elysium for a picnic tomorrow,” he asked earnestly.

It was a double-fisted punch to her gut. Had she been wrong? No, no, she soothed herself. Eros wouldn’t ask her permission if he had some nefarious intent. He’d been reading her poetry, but never had he sought to come in through Persephone’s window, or tried to touch her, or steal a kiss. This was the manifestation of his comfort with her—their honest friendship. Demeter was sure that while Persephone may have been the only one he found to be unspoiled; he’d want to keep her that way. Even if it meant not having her himself. It made sense.

No one had ever asked her permission to take Persephone anywhere, not after she’d unleashed the wolves of winter on the world when Hades had taken her. Yes, Love was strong and bold indeed, even when it spoke quietly. It could be a good distraction for the rest of Olympus to see Persephone out with a god.

A smile curved her lips and she schooled her emotions to keep them from blaring in Eros’ face. He couldn’t help but look if she shoved them under his nose, could he? “That’s kind of you to invite her, Eros. Have you already asked her?”

“No, Demeter. I wouldn’t do that without asking your permission first. I know you’ve both been through a great deal,” he said respectfully.

She was tempted to snort. He wouldn’t do
that
, but he’d creep into her garden at night to read love poetry to her? His sense of morality was interesting. “You may ask her. I think it would be good for her.” Demeter watched him carefully. “I can trust you with her, can’t I?”

“Of course.” He looked at his feet for a moment. “She’s got a purity that’s been lost to the world. I wouldn’t do anything to change that.”

Demeter smiled again. “I know you wouldn’t, Eros. That’s why you may go. I trust you.”

He looked at her for a hard moment and she could feel his eyes boring into her—blazing into her dark places. “Demeter, you don’t trust any man or god. But I think I’m as close as any will ever be to that status.”

“You’re right,” she admitted and patted his arm in a calculated move to make herself appear more nurturing. It would have been useless to lie and would have only spurred him to look deeper. Demeter needed to avoid that as long as she could. She knew eventually something would catch his eye, draw his singular attention, but hopefully, all of her planning would have come to fruition by then so it wouldn’t matter what he saw. Neither he nor anyone else would be able to stop her.

His amber eyes suddenly blazed to a golden flame—a fire lit by power of prophecy. Panic grabbed hold of her with deadly jaws.

“There will come a day, Demeter, when you will have to love, forsaking all else. Trust or perish.” She didn’t speak and as the flame died out of his eyes, he shook off the vision. “I apologize. Touch tends to bring visions, so I usually avoid skin to skin contact.”

“No, forgive me. I didn’t know.” Demeter could have palmed her forehead as Persephone was so fond of doing. How did she not know that? Knowledge was power and to let something so important escape her net… She had to bite down on her lip to keep from growling in frustration.

A sudden awareness spiked through her. It was something she hadn’t felt in centuries—carnal desire. Images flashed through her mind; conjured by his words.
Skin to skin
. Vignettes washed over her, she and Eros; bodies slick and hot writhing against each other under the noonday sun in the garden—his hair and skin golden and glowing, him taking her from behind in the hot tub, his mouth sucking her fingers as he took pieces of fresh pomegranate from her hands and knowing his lips would work against her clit the same way. She was bombarded by sensation too. Demeter could feel her nails digging into his back, and the smooth muscle there rippling with his exertion as he drilled into her. The heat of his mouth on her breasts, her belly, her neck… All of that quiet intensity inside of him focused solely on her.

She’d always thought of him as a godling, even when he’d grown tall and his shoulders wide. He’d been a boy, a child, the same as her Persephone. She’d changed his swaddling. But there was no longer any trace of that innocence or youth. Where once he’d been baby round, he was a male full-grown; all hard planes and defined muscle. Demeter had seen Aphrodite in the sullen pout to his lips, his large amber eyes, but that had hardened into something else too. There was nothing feminine at all in the full set of his mouth or those eyes that bored into her more intimately than his cock ever could.

Her gaze was drawn down his body to where his traditional style of toga barely brushed the tops of his well-formed thighs. His sandals were laced up to his knees and again, on any other male, she would have found this to be feminine, but on Eros, it only accentuated the very masculine lines of his musculature.

Demeter almost gasped when she saw evidence of his desire for her as well. The hard length of him was outlined against the filmy material and it was then she knew everything she’d seen in her vision had been real.

She wanted to touch him again, but more than a motherly pat on his arm. Why hadn’t she noticed how golden and warm he was before? Demeter was both dismayed and thankful at the same time. Even if he was willing, this wasn’t something she could do. If she let herself get distracted now, all of her hard work would be for nothing. As it was, she had to hope he didn’t decide to delve deeper inside of her because of his reaction.

Her channel clenched when she thought of Eros delving deep in to anything. Sour twinges of guilt were like ice on her spine. He was here for Persephone, and that suited her purposes. Or at least it had until she’d become aware of his cock.

He seemed blissfully unaware of the cause of her reaction and inspected her intently. “Demeter? Are you unwell?”

“I’m tired. I used too much of my power on my garden today. I was tired of waiting for the strawberries. I adore them with cream,” she babbled.

Cream. How trite such an obvious word would make her clench again, but it did. Demeter imagined all manner of creamy things, number one being his seed on her lips and breasts. Kissing her after, tasting himself on her and wanting more.

“Let me help you inside.” He reached out to touch her, but fell short of the mark. He manifested a pair of black leather gloves and then took her arm.

His touch—even blocked by the leather—thrummed with sexual energy. It coursed through her blood and made her ache for things she hadn’t wanted or needed. Demeter realized to her horror she was in danger of fainting.

She was hot everywhere, she couldn’t breathe, her skin was being torn with a thousand thorns and was hit in the face with another realization. This heat wasn’t only the attraction to Eros, her body was going through The Change. Her death was certainly imminent.

Double damn Persephone. Damn her.

Who was it she loved? It wasn’t Eros and it couldn’t be Hades. So who was it? She clenched her teeth against her new predicament, as if gnashing her own teeth to bits would help anything.

She swayed like a willow tree in the wind as she surrendered to her rage. Eros caught her as she fell. He hauled her up into his arms and as he did, his fingers brushed the edges of her breast. Her nipples tightened painfully, every inch of her wanting more of his touch. She couldn’t help but wonder at what it would feel like if he was touching her with his own flesh.
Skin to skin.

The rage bubbled again. She didn’t want to be thinking of him, of sex. Demeter had to come up with a way to save her own life, not how to get the God of Love between her thighs.

He carried her with ease up the white temple steps and into her bedroom. “Demeter, this is more than using too much power on strawberries. In fact, you should be able to bring endless droves of strawberries to bloom with a kiss and a promise. What’s going on?”

Don’t look, she pleaded silently. Don’t look to see what’s inside. She decided to hide her duplicity with the truth. Demeter knew he wouldn’t betray her by telling anyone and he’d see the bright shine of the truth on her words so he wouldn’t look any deeper.

“My time is almost up.” She didn’t look up at him when she replied.

“What are you talking about?” He demanded and eased her gently onto her bed, but he didn’t let go of her. She found herself held against his chest as if she were something precious. The mendacity of the reality was like ash on her tongue.

“I have a life cycle. As will Persephone. I’m aging, this form is degrading and I’ll die.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“No,” she confessed.

“But you drink ambrosia,” he said as if that would negate all the facts in front of him.

“Yes, I do. It doesn’t change the fact that when my time is up, I’ll be dust. Just like the mortals.”

“Have you told Persephone?”

“No, and I forbid you to tell her. She’s been through enough.”

“Maybe she can help you, Demeter. My vision was clear you would have to trust or die. This doesn’t have to be the end for you,” he said in a measured tone.

“I think I’d rather die,” she replied.

So much honesty in one day made her stomach turn.

Suddenly, she felt awkward and old there in his arms. Like he was holding an old woman’s hand because there was no one else to do it.

“Go on, I’m fine. Why don’t you read some more poetry to Persephone? I’m sure she’d enjoy the company. There’s pomegranate cookies and lemonade in the kitchen. Leave an old goddess alone.”

He froze; she could feel the tension in his body. Demeter slapped at his arm. “I’m may be ancient, but I’m not stupid. Did you really think I didn’t know you were creeping through my hedges? I’m not angry either, so off with you.” She shooed him away.

Eros moved to do as she bid, but he pulled the green silk sheet up over her. “You’re not that much older than I am, Demeter. Only a few centuries. Maybe you feel it because you’re dying, but if you see a line there, it’s only because you drew it.”

She found she had nothing to say to that, not even when the tickle of butterflies in her stomach jumped as she realized he had been as affected as she’d been by their contact. Demeter watched him leave her bedroom and for the first time, she felt regret instead of rage. If only things were different. Demeter could have called him back; she could have had his mouth on her, his hands—all of the things she’d seen and knew she wanted unequivocally.