Page 44 of This Divine Revelry

‘Are you sure?’ he asks, arching a brow. ‘I’m awfully good at it, you know.’

‘I’m better,’ I counter, meeting his gaze and watching as he swallows, that slow rise and fall in his throat. This could be fun – seducing him and denying him. But I break the challenge early – not sure that I like my odds. Dionysus is irritatingly beautiful and far too aware of it. I’m half tempted to offer it – that yes, we’ll consummate the marriage, just the once, so we don’t have to wonder what it would be like. There’s nothing so enticing as a mystery, after all.

But I remember the sting of waking up alone. Of watching that ship sail away and still being able to feel Theseus’s hands on my skin days later.

I don’t want anyone touching me who won’t beg to do it again and again and again.

‘Very well, Ariadne. As surprising as this may be, I prefer my companions pleading for my touch rather than declaring they don’t want it. No sex. But if we want anyone to believe this is real, it would be better if there was a degree of physical affection between us.’

‘I agree.’

I didn’t think this would be an entirely chaste endeavour.

He smiles and it’s thoroughly wicked. ‘So where can I touch you?’

‘That’s dependent on time and place. On Crete? My hand.’

He gasps. ‘In public? How indecent.’

‘We can kiss. You can touch my waist. My arm. My hip.’

‘Could you label them? Maybe wear green where I’m allowed and red where I’m not.’

‘And outside Crete … at your revelries or where it’s appropriate …’ I look right into his eyes and note that they are sparkling with amusement until the moment I say: ‘You can touch me wherever you like.’

Then they flare with a touch of panic, and a flash of desire.

‘And you?’ I ask.

He presses his lips firm. ‘Likewise.’

‘And finally,’ I say, ‘if we’re to do this –’

‘Trying to back out of it already?’

‘You need to take my recommendations for your worship seriously. If I’m tying my life to yours, I’m unfortunately becoming rather invested in your continued survival.’

He places a sardonic hand over his heart. ‘You do care about me.’

‘Yes, I do, actually.’

He stares, brow softening, and it’s difficult to ignore how lovely he is like this, clutching a cup of steaming tea, his curls held back by a golden clasp, framed by the soft lantern light and the technicolour glow of the sheets hung about us.

If I were marrying him in truth, that’s how I would want him: at ease and open, not hiding behind that incessant smirk or curt brows.

‘I don’t think I like that.’

‘Good. If me caring about you prevents you from doing something foolish like falling in love with me, that serves us both. You can keep chasing after those you push away. But I’m close, Dionysus. And after we take those vows, I’ll be even closer.’

His eyes dart across me like he’s looking for some indication I’m lying.

‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ he says softly. ‘Loving me.’

‘I didn’t say I loved you.’

‘I’m not talking about what you’re saying.’

My jaw clenches. Though I’m not sure why the accusation feels so inescapable.