Page 152 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“You were troubled before,” he said, his voice edged with concern he had no intention of hiding.
Her gaze fled him again. Her fingers twisted together in a silent knot of nerves. “No,” she said again, softer still.
“Then why did you leave me?”
The question was harsher than he meant. Frustration coiled hotly inside him, tangling with something colder, deeper. Fear.
Her gaze fell to the grass, as though answers might sprout there. “It seemed... right. To give you privacy.”
But he heard it. Felt it—the silent hurt pressing between them.
“Did it seem so?” His brow arched, echoing the faint bite in his voice. “You are my wife. And still, you felt like an intruder in her presence?”
Silence settled thickly as tension drew sharp along Aglaia’s shoulders. “I… I do not know,” she whispered, the words laced with quiet misery.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. He let out a rough breath, then he reached for her. Rough fingertips touched her cheek. “Aglaia.”
His thumb traced the soft curve of her face. She was so close to him, and yet the distance between them felt vast. A frozen waste of silence.
“She came to ask for my aid on Troy’s behalf,” he said. “Nothing more. I denied her.”
She remained silent, eyes fixed on the ground.
Hephaestus sighed. “Aphrodite and I were never suited.” The truth, plainly put. His jaw flexed, muscles tightening against the weight of old wounds. Then he released the tension, letting it bleed out through his breath.
“Our marriage was a hollow thing, arranged by Hera for her earlier cruelty. Her heart was never mine,” he said, softer now. “And I never wished to possess it.”
“She admires you.” The words tumbled from Aglaia in a whisper. “And she’s very beautiful.”
The truth of it landed hard, twisting deep in his gut. Bitter not for what it was, but for how it sounded falling from her lips.
“Youare very beautiful,” he countered sharply, daring her to refute him. His arms crossed over his chest, tension cording his muscles like tempered steel.
“Our marriage was unconsummated,” he said bluntly, the words crashing into the silence between them. “I never shared my bed with her. She has never had me in hers.”
Color rose in her cheeks, a deep, helpless bloom. But he ignored her embarrassment.
“Look at me.” The command was heavy.
But still, she didn’t move. The silence stretched too long. His mouth opened, preparing to demand, to argue, but then—he saw it.
The slight quiver of her lips. The way her fingers gripped her chiton so hard, her knuckles blanched. A flicker of raw vulnerability that doused his anger like a pitcher of cold water.
With a slow breath, he gentled. He leaned in, his head bowing toward hers in quiet pursuit. The space between them narrowed until his breath ghosted against her temple.
“Look at me, Aglaia.” His voice came softer now, deep and coaxing. “Would you hide your eyes from me,” he whispered against her brow, “as though I were a stranger to you?”
A breath shuddered from her. Then, slowly, she looked up. Tears clung to her lashes, glittering like fragments of starlight. Her eyes met his, dark and aching.
The sight was piercing. Sharp as a hot blade to the chest, it drove the air from his lungs. The ache inside him deepened, radiating outward like a fracture through stone. Threatening to crack him open from within.
He exhaled harshly, then moved. His arms closed around her, drawing her into the furnace of his body. She yielded without hesitation—instantly, entirely. Her shaking form melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, clutching at him with quiet desperation.
His throat burned.
“What is this?” he asked against her hair, the words ragged and fraying. His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. “Why are you crying?”
Her breath hitched. “I do not know,” she said, a broken whisper. Butshe pressed closer, as though she sought to vanish into the shelter of him, disappear into his warmth.
