Page 58 of Where Darkness Bloomed
The question came from him, low and edged with challenge.
Aglaia stilled, looking up. Her gaze became trapped on the slow glide of his thumb against the shield’s edge. “I am—”
“Aglaia.” His deep voice cut through hers like whetted iron. “The youngest among your sisters.”
Without warning, he released the shield. It crashed to the table with a thunderous clang, and she flinched.
Then he turned, facing her fully. His gaze found hers once more. “I know who you are. Why are you here?”
Her throat worked once. “To deliver Lord Zeus’s message.”
“Hermes is my father’s messenger.” His reply was sharp, slicing through pretense. “What is it you want?”
Aglaia’s cheeks burned, her poise slipping. The words spilled out. “I... I wished to meet you.”
The air stilled, as if holding its breath.
Hephaestus tilted his head, his expression stony. “You wished to see the crippled god?” Bitterness curled his voice. “Hephaestus, the hideous and lame?”
“No,” Aglaia replied swiftly. Her eyes softened on him. “You are not hideous.”
“No?” His brow arched, a humorless smile tilting his lips. “Generous words from the goddess of beauty,” he remarked dryly. His gaze slowly swept over her, heated as embers dragging against her skin. “Fortunately,” he added, taking a heavy step forward, “neither am I vain.”
He emerged fully from the shadows then. Firelight illuminated the harsh planes of his face, the dark intensity of his eyes—eyes that dared her to look away. A flash of gold drew her gaze down to the brace fastened around one of his legs.
“Though I was born lame,” Hephaestus continued, watching her, “the tale was twisted to hide my mother’s shame in casting me from Olympus as a babe. I was called a monster to spare her dignity.”
The confession struck like a blow. It sank deep, hollowing out a cold void in Aglaia’s chest. Her gaze traveled up from the golden brace to the uncompromising lines of his face. Compassion wrenched through her.
What mother could treat her child this way?
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat felt suddenly tight, her eyes pricking. She glanced away from him quickly, biting the inside of her cheek to regain composure. But it was futile against the rising tide of sorrow.
Sorrow for what he had endured. For the scars that lay buried beneath this rugged exterior—the god who bent metal and fire to his indomitable will.
A tear slipped free, sliding down her cheek. Across the forge, Hephaestus tracked its path. Then wordlessly, he moved toward her.
Steam parted for him like breath, curling away. Each stride was heavy, purposeful, reverberating through the cavern like a heartbeat. He stopped before her. The heat of him washed over her, radiating from his skin as though fire were kindled beneath. It pressed into her without touch.
He towered above her, and Aglaia tilted her head back, meeting his eyes. They glittered in the haze, dark and unreadable. His hand—so clever, so strong—lifted toward her cheek.
But he hesitated. His fingers stopped short, hovering over her skin. Then he let them fall, a grimace flattening across his mouth.
“I do not need your pity.” The words came harshly, but his eyes burned with warmer light. “What is it you want from me, Aglaia?”
Her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine, heat curling low and soft. Though her fingers trembled, she reached for him then—drawn inescapably, like a tide to shore.
“Don’t.”
The command scraped low in his throat. His hand caught her wrist.
Firm but careful, he turned her palm up. His thumb swept the soot-streaked tips of her fingers that had dared to brush his cheek. He stared down at the marks on her skin, his face hardening at the sight.
“The goddess of beauty has no place in a forge,” he bit out roughly, releasing her.
A cold ache spread through her. But Aglaia did not retreat.
Instead, she lifted her sooty fingers and, with quiet purpose, wiped them against her chiton, letting the remnant of his labor stain the fabric. Hephaestus watched, brow furrowing.
