8
Psyche
After seeing the rest of Eros’s penthouse—each room more expensive and sleeker than the last—I finally manage to pry him off me and hide in the master bathroom. It’s just as ridiculous as the rest of the place with a tiled walk-in shower large enough to fit six people with a dozen showerheads in various strategic locations. The tile is rather pretty, though I’ll never say as much out loud. It almost looks like rose quartz, which shines attractively against the slate-gray tile on the floor. The sinks are both a shiny black and deep with faucets that are motion activated. Of course they are.
And the mirrors.
Gods, there are so many mirrors in this place.
I might own more than my fair share of mirrors back in my mother’s home, but this is truly above and beyond. They’re all massive and have ornate framing. Maybe they wouldn’t be so overwhelming if there was literally any other decoration in this place. But no. Just mirrors and minimalist furniture that has me feeling like I wandered into some strange art gallery. It’s attractive and expensive but ultimately soulless.
I’m sure it says something about Eros, but I’m too tired to connect the dots right now.
I brush my teeth with the spare toothbrush he found for me, mostly to give myself something to do, and stare at my reflection in the main mirror in this room. It’s a large horizontal one that stretches across the full length of the counter, the frame a simple black metal that shines against the tile. I sigh. This entire night has turned my plans on their head, but there’s nothing to be done. I know when to roll with the punches, even if this one is a knockout. There’s a way out of this eventually, but the only path forward right now is to marry Eros.
Marry Eros.
I might laugh if I had the breath for it. I knew he was attractive. I have eyes in my head. Of course, I knew he was attractive. Knowing still didn’t prepare me for the force of his personality when he turns all his attention in my direction. He’s not warm—I don’t think he’s capable of true warmth—but the sheer sexuality he exudes is enough to melt all my logic away to base need.
The reason I jump every time he touches me isn’t because I find the contact repulsive. It’s the exact opposite. Every time his fingers brush me or he wraps his arm around me, I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning.
He wants to have sex.
He wants to sleep together.
Being self-aware means I know all my weaknesses with the same thoroughness that I know my strengths. I am smart and savvy and excellent at crafting a public image for myself. I am also lonely and exhausted and not very good at separating sex from emotion. I learned that with my first boyfriend and took the lesson to heart. Hooking up casually might be for other people, but I’ll never achieve it. I get too entangled. As a result, I have to carefully vet anyone I’m interested in, which is why my romantic life has been relatively barren the last year or so. If I can’t trust a person to really be into me—instead of either trying to curry favor with my mother or attempting to use me in some other way—then I can’t afford to sleep with them and have my logical brain sidelined.
I’ll need every bit of logic and foresight and craftiness I am capable of to survive this marriage with Eros. I can’t afford to misstep in a way that will bring my guard down.
No matter how attracted I am to him.
I close my eyes and straighten. Okay, I’ve made that decision. Now I just need to stick to it. I can do this. I’ve been dealing with strong personalities since I was born; that label fits everyone in my family and all the people I’ve met living in Olympus. I’ll just handle Eros the same way I’d handle everyone else. All it requires is finding the right angle to leverage in order to get Eros to do what I want.
To shift the power of this partnership in my direction, at least a little.
With that in mind, I head to the door and open it… Only to find Eros stretched out on the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of lounge pants. I stop short. He was handsome in a tux and perfection in an expensive gray suit. He shouldn’t be able to get better than perfection. It’s not logical in the least, but somehow Eros in lounge pants is so much worse. He’s barefoot.
I stare at his feet. They’re nice feet, I think? I’m not exactly a person who has strong opinions about feet, but this casual vulnerability symbolizes a kind of intimacy that has every alarm in my head blaring a warning. “What are you doing?”