Page 30 of Loved By Aphrodite

Aphrodite stared after her, the tension in her shoulders obvious. “Thessaly,” she murmured. Her gaze met his. “Looks like we’re going back to where it all started.”

“Great,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Because nothing screams fun like revisiting the past.”

Chapter 8

Aphrodite

Aphrodite let go of Hephaestus’s hand and strode toward the house, her sandals crunching the gravel path. The old structure loomed before them, its whitewashed walls and terracotta roof as pristine as the day they’d left. The enchantment she had cast had held up well, preserving the home’s outer charm against the passage of time.

“Well, let’s see what we’ve got here,” she said.

Hephaestus followed her, his pace slower, eyes scanning the area. “It looks the same.”

“I placed an enchantment on it before we left,” she replied, tucking a strand of hair away from her face. “You haven’t been back?”

He shook his head. “Have you?”

She hesitated. It was such a simple question, yet it made her heart feel heavy. “No,” she admitted. “There’s been…no reason.”

An emotion flickered across Hephaestus’s face—something between nostalgia and regret—but it was gone before she could name it. The sight of it made her stomach twist in a way she didn’t like, so she pushed the feeling aside.

“Let’s go,” she said, heading toward the front door.

“Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm. “We don’t know what’s waiting for us.”

She arched an eyebrow at him, her patience wearing thin. “Oh, please. Only the three of us knew about this place. We’re fine.”

His grip tightened briefly. “I’m serious, Aphrodite. Anchises’s disappearance isn’t some random accident. If someone’s using him, they might know about this place too.”

“And if they do, we’ll handle it,” she shot back, shrugging off his hand. She stepped up to the door and placed her palm on the smooth wood. The enchantment she’d cast all those years ago hummed faintly beneath her touch, recognizing her magic. With a soft click, the door unlocked and swung inward.

The air inside was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of aged wood and wild thyme. She stepped inside, her heels echoing lightly on the tiled floor. She glanced around the open floor concept, taking in the familiar surroundings: the simple furniture, the shelves lined with scrolls and small keepsakes. It was like stepping back in time.

He followed her in, his broad frame filling the doorway as he paused to look around. His gaze lingered on the low worktable near the hearth, where Eros had spent hours fletching arrows under his watchful eye. Her eyes followed his, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

“It’s like he’s still here,” he said quietly, breaking the silence.

She nodded, her throat tight. “Yeah. It is.”

She turned away abruptly, unwilling to dwell on the memories tugging at her heart. “We need to focus,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “If there’s anything here that can tell us why the sirens sent us here, we need to find it.”

He gave her a long look but didn’t argue. “I’ll check the workshop,” he said finally, disappearing through a doorway at the back of the room.

She watched him go, then let out a slow breath. She tried to steady the flutter of emotions swirling inside her. The kiss earlier had been nice, better than nice, really. And last night had been incredible, the kind of connection that left her both exhilarated and vulnerable.

But as much as she cherished those moments, a knot of uncertainty tightened in her chest. They still hadn’t talked about what they were, about what any of this meant. Why was it so hard for them to just say the words? They had shared so much laughter, arguments, and history, yet when it came to defining their place in each other’s lives, the words seemed to fail them. Was it fear? Pride? Or were they both just too stubborn to risk putting their feelings out in the open? Whatever it was, the silence between them was starting to feel like a wall, and she wasn’t sure how to tear it down.

She moved to the small desk near the window, her fingers sweeping over the scattered papers and trinkets left untouched. She picked up a tiny wooden carving—a rudimentary attempt at a rabbit that Eros had made during one of their rare quiet afternoons. Her heart clenched, and she set it down carefully as if it might break under her touch.

Outside, the waves crashed on the distant cliffs, their rhythm steady and unchanging. The sound was both comforting and unsettling, a reminder that while the world moved on, some places—some memories—remained frozen in time.

Then the memory hit Aphrodite like the scent of a flower from long ago—sharp, vivid, and inescapable. She had been standing on Olympus’s gilded steps, the air electric with anticipation. The Golden Apple ceremony was about to begin,and Eros was fidgeting, his wings fluttering erratically as he adjusted his ceremonial toga.

“You’re going to do great,” Hephaestus said, placing a large, steady hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Remember, it’s not about showing off. Be yourself. The gods aren’t looking for perfection—they’re looking for heart, and you have more of that than anyone I know.”

Eros threw his arms around Hephaestus in a quick, tight hug. “Thanks, Heph. I’ll make you proud, I promise!”

“You already do,” Hephaestus replied.

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