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Perhaps as strong as the arrow that pricked my flesh when I looked upon Psyche. No, I cage a rising growl. Nothing could be as strong as my desire and need for Psyche. Not even this enticing little Butterfly.
Aradia lowers her fingers to my jaw, tracing the hard stone. Her thumb pauses at the corner of my mouth. “Death can simply claim your soul and take it to the next realm. But love…drives one to madness and mayhem. Even to the point of murder. Death just is. But love? Love is so powerful, it’s a force used for good or evil. A cosmic power that surpasses the gravity of a black hole. Capable of stopping wars, bringing races together, healing hearts and souls, or…”
I hold my breath as she curves her fingers along my chest and concludes, “Great tragedy and hatred. It’s why love is the most powerful entity in the universe with hope as its only equal. It’s why it burns the hottest. It’s why every artist known to humanity has depicted it in some form, from poets to sculptors to musicians to authors. It’s what every being on or above the earth seeks, from the time they are born to the time they die.”
Stop now, Aradia. For all bloody Valentines, stop.
If she’d heard me, she would know it’s a cataclysmic mistake to place her hand upon my chest as if she’s staking a claim to what is dead—what can only come to life by the touch of one soul.Nother soul.
She is kicking up a storm of wrath and ruin inside me.
One second, I’m falling in love with this girl. The next, I wish to fall upon her and ravage and punish her for stumbling into my world and fucking with me this way, distracting me from Psyche.
“Eros,” her voice softens as she—oh, fucking flutes—she parts her legs, her whole body trembling as she works them around my hips in an attempt to straddle me. Not that her dainty feet make it beyond the sides of my hips.
When she lifts her shaking hands in a moment of deep vulnerability to cup my face, possession thunders through me. I memorize every hypnotic beat of her heart, every note of her deepening breath, every tantalizing scent. “Death? It simply is. But love…is, was, and ever will be.”
I snap. Push her down. Spread her legs. And bury my face in her cunt until she’s screaming my name.
“Oh, Eros, this is incredible!”she gushes over the banquet over an hour later.
“Thought you might appreciate it,” I say while lowering her into the chair at the table since her limbs aren’t quite strong enough. Unable to resist, I brush my lips across her pink curls adorning her sweet head.
After I ate her out, indulging in my dessert before dinner, I helped her dress in a new violet gown, one that emphasizes her pretty pebbled nipples.
I sit back and observe with one hand propped casually in the air as she practically devours the caprese flatbread. Chocolate-flavored cheese tops it—infused with cocoa and walnuts, heirloom tomatoes, cocoa-candied bacon, and cocoa balsamic.
She eagerly moves to the cocoa-spiced squash soup, cocoa ricotta-stuffed pasta, and cocoa nib-crusted salmon. I’m amazed, flattered but amazed that she still has room for the white chocolate creme brulee—paired with fresh berries and whipped cream.
I’m absolutely not fantasizing about whipped cream on certain naked body parts of hers. Or chocolate body paint.
Now and then, she lifts her head and smiles at Crescendo who sups with us while playing every romantic song he thinks of.
“So, tell me, Eros…” she smiles impishly while folding her lips slowly and sensually over the spoon.
My cock twitches.Flirty little brat.
“What are your thoughts on the holiday of love?”
“You mean the lovely little day when greeting card makers run off withmyblueprint, cheapen it to a day of heart-shaped IOU cards stamped with the chubby little, dart-blowing, stumpy-winged mascot, and give all the credit and royalties to a dead saint with his marital martyrdom crusade that conveniently excluded the homosexual and polyamorous?”
She blinks, parts her lips, then nods. “Yeah, that one. Maybe…um maybe you could sue for identity theft? Or demand a love audit?”
Fuck, this girl! I bring a fist to my mouth, battling the urge to laugh, but she bats her lashes at me and winks, seeing right through my attempt.
Propping her elbows on the table, chin in her hand, she lilts, “So, will you show me?”
I lift a brow.
“Your arrows.”
I stiffen. And the devil jester behind me starts playing Fifty Fifty’sCupid. “Cres!” I shout, stabbing a finger at him. “You know how much I hate that song.”
Muttering something about turning him into a music box, I turn back to Aradia, who sits in the same eager position, eyes sultry as she waits. “They don’t work anymore. Haven’t for quite some time.” I brace a fist on the table, veins showing through the stony skin.
“Can I still see them?” She leans toward me.
Sighing, I reluctantly conjure one of the arrows that has failed to work ever since Psyche. Crafted by ancient forces, imbued with my magic and blood, the arrows are sleek and obsidian as my gargoyle skin. With arrowheads forged of blood rose gemstones and the fletchings crafted from the feathers of Soulshade harpies, who fly throughout my realm, the weapons are far more imposing than any of the stereotypes. So powerful, they can alter the very course of time—not to mention spread mass chaos through acts of violent or rejected love. Unless they are not cursed, of course. They are no longer warm to my touch. In the hands of a mortal, they would burn.
