Page 47 of Prometheus' Priestess

“And the ones who haven’t worked in a café or the likebefore?”

“Tend to be more troublesome.” Amara laughed.

“Has anyone been giving youtrouble?”

“Just a couple of the snooty old biddies and a couple of judgemental mums. Nothing you need to worry about.” Again, she reached out to stroke his leg. The gesture didn’t soothe him as it hadbefore.

“What isit?”

“You came here looking for answers, which you still don’t have, but now you seem content to just be a waitress. Are you sure you’re happy?”

If she truly was happy, he would be. He would keep her safe, especially from the antics of the goddesses. The rest of humanity could be damned now. He knew it would hurt, losing all those souls. It would tear out a part of him, but that part would heal ... eventually. It would be nothing, he knew, nothing compared to losingAmara.

If she wasn’t happy, if the soul of the priestess was starting to wake up ... would she realise who he was? Would she be mad at him from keeping her from her moira? Would she push him away? Would he lose her? He couldn’t abide that thought. Not now. Not now that he knewher.

“Just a waitress? Ouch.” Amara’s eyes uptilted inhurt.

Shit.

“That’s not what I meant. It’s the wine ... forgive me?”

Amara gave him an assessing look, thennodded.

“Found it!” Kiaria walked back in holding another bottle of wine in the air triumphantly, the glass glistening off the kitchen light. On reading the room, she lowered the bottle.

“And I am going to take this off to bed with me … I’ll see you star-crossed lovers in themorning.”

Amara glanced at the clock that hung above the armchair.

“She’s right. It’s late. We should getgoing.”

Prometheus didn’t say anything but released Amara from the prison of his legs as she unfolded and rose languidly, like a cat stretching. Occasionally she did this, made movements that made her appear regal, and he was wracked with guilt again that he hadn’t told her the truth. But what good would it do now? Until he figured out how to get her to transmute the fear that coiled tighter around her bones every day till she seemed frozen in a perpetual human loop of servitude, until he helped her overcome it, revealing her true heritage would simply be presenting her with her death warrant − a sure-fire way for the fear to eat her alive faster. He wouldn’t do it.

He held hands with her the entire way back in the taxi. Penance he would willingly pay as her touch continued to burn into him.

When he moved to release her hand as they pulled up to Amara’s house, she tugged at him, hard enough that he complied and slid across the slippery vinyl seats and exited with her. They both watched as the black cab disappeared off into the distance.

Prometheus had drunk his fair share of wine that night, considerably more than Amara, but he wasn’t as drunk as she thought he was. Gods had a different metabolic constitution. Everyone knew that, even if they didn’t believe in them anymore.

He looked down to Amara, her hand still clasped in his, saw the invitation in her eyes. The memory of last time hounded him but he was still a man. His cock twitched.

“Are you sure?” He needed to be certain. It had still only been a matter of months since herassault.

“I’m sure,” she whispered, breaking his mental chastisement.

“We will stop if you …”

Amara pressed a small finger to his lips. “Please don’t ruin this,” shewhispered.

Her confirmation and admonishment pulled at something low in his gut, and whether it was that, the wine, or the way she looked at his lips, the last of his restraint shattered. He cupped her cheeks and kissed her. A full body kiss that had her pressing the full length of herself into his chest. Breasts crushed to him, he pushed one thigh between her own and she melded perfectly onto him. One of his hands flew down to her arse, cupping her firmly onto his thigh until she began rubbing against it needily. She moaned in the back of her throat as he thrust one of his hands into her hair, angled her head and deepened the kiss.

Eventually, Amara put her hand on his chest and he had just enough semblance of reasoning to pull back and allow them to gulp in breaths of fresh night air.

“Upstairs,” Amarawhispered.

“Yes.”

She led him through the wooden door that creaked and into a sparse hallway, where a sideboard hosted a tangled, thirsty plant that almost touched the floor, a host of unopened mail and a tray of keys. Amara placed hers in the tray gently, pushed a finger to her lips to indicate her house mates were likely home and sleeping, given the number of keys in the dish, and they proceeded up the stairs on almost silent feet − Prometheus was heavy after all − until they reached the top of the stairs and turned immediately to the door on the left.

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