A window between worlds.
He cradled the glass gently against him, walked forward until his feet brushed his pallet, then sank down to his knees. He held the glass in front of him and whispered the words the little old lady who had visited him in secret both in Tartarus and here had taught him.
“Show me my heart’s desire.”
The ripples inside seemed to move. And then the glass cleared. Heat flowed from the object in his hands into his body, warming him from the outside in. And when he looked, he saw her face.
Excitement pumped through him because only rarely was she looking straight on when he peeked. And because it meant at this very moment she was gazing through glass somewhere herself. Maybe she was thinking of him right this second, as he was thinking of her.
Oh, she was beautiful. A smile spread across his face. She never aged, but then, being an Argolean, she wouldn’t, would she? Not until the last few years of her life. To anyone else she would look to be in her early thirties, though he was sure she was much older. Her skin looked silky, her eyes a dreamy violet color, a lot like his own, or at the very least how he hoped his appeared. Her hair was a deep auburn, today falling to her shoulders in a silky drape he was sure was as soft to touch as it was to look at. But as he peered closer, as he drank her in inch by inch, he realized her features were set, that her jaw was locked, her mouth a slash across her pretty face. And though he’d seen her take on many expressions, this was one he didn’t know. Today she looked…upset.
A protective urge bubbled up in him. A need to find who had hurt her and why and then make them pay. But before he could read anything else in her features, she turned away and the image faded. The glass once again became the same frosted, rippled and cold piece it had been before.
“No. Wait. Come back.” He shook the glass. “Show me my heart’s desire. Come back!” He said the words again. And again. Only nothing happened. The heat that had been there only seconds before was now gone. Right along with her.
Knowing it was all he was going to get tonight, he stretched out on the pallet, closed his eyes and cradled the glass against his chest. Tears burned the backs of his eyes. His stomach rumbled again. Never before had he felt as dirty and gross as he did at this moment.
Maybe she could see back through the glass. Maybe that’s what had upset her and why she’d turned away in disgust. But even as the thought hit, he knew it wasn’t true. The little old lady in the white robe had told him it only worked one way. And yet that was small consolation when just thinking of her reminded him of everything he couldn’t have.
He liked to imagine she would be proud of him. For standing up to Atalanta, for staying true to what he knew he was deep inside. But the reality was, maybe she wouldn’t be. Maybe all she’d see when she looked at him was the same thing everyone else saw. A grimy, ten-year-old boy no one wanted.
He rolled away from the food his body desperately needed, fought back the tears that were now sliding down his cheeks and held on tighter to the glass. The warmth that had flowed into him before still resonated in his chest, so he clung to that feeling. And to the hope that someday she’d come for him.
He didn’t care anymore why she’d let him go. He only wanted her back. If the gods could see their way to send her to him, he would be the best son any mother ever asked for. He promised.
Sleep pulled at him. He saw her face again. Only this time she was standing in a field of white, her beautiful features lined with worry as she looked, searched. For him, he hoped. And though he knew it was only a dream, he ran to her.
Because even just the dream of her was better than anything else in his miserable life.
As an Argonaut, Zander had never been one to just “go with the flow.” It went against his nature. If someone said sit, he stood. If he was told to go one way, he went the other. The only person he took orders from was Theron, and then usually grudgingly, so listening to Callia boss him around right now didn’t just set him on edge, it sent every single hair on his body standing at attention.
However, he wasn’t stupid. He knew there were times when it was better to bite your tongue rather than let the rage rumble through. And right now—though he hated it with a passion—this was one of those times.
But there was still no way in Hades he was getting naked in front of her.
He crossed the room without looking at her, dropped onto one of three velvet couches in the sitting area and reached forward to unlace his boots. Too late he realized the couch he’d picked was the same one he’d bent Callia over one dark and sultry night nearly eleven years before.
Blood pooled in his groin. His skin grew hot and damp. Her words, the words she’d whispered to him the night he’d intercepted her after she’d been to see the king, echoed in his head.
Take me, Zander. Fast. Before someone gives me a reason to say no.
Thirteen simple words. That was it. She’d known exactly what to say to turn his entire world upside down in the span of a heartbeat.
Perspiration dotted Zander’s forehead as he remembered the feel of her silky smooth skin, the taste of her wet heat, the way she’d come apart around him right in this very spot. He reached up to wipe his brow. Dropped his arm. Then scowled, because that was a memory he so fucking didn’t need in his head while he sat here unlacing his boots so Callia could do her little “examination.”
And—dammit—the rod of steel now nestled between his legs was an in-your-face reminder she, and not the gynaíka he was about to marry, was his soul mate.
He let the boot in his hand thunk against the floor. Looked up and glared across the room. Callia had finished setting up and was now looking out the tall windows toward the countryside beyond, her arms folded across her chest and her jaw locked and tense.
His chest pinched as he watched her. Gods, he’d been a fool. Back then there hadn’t been a single thing about her he hadn’t needed. Hadn’t wanted. He’d been so blinded he couldn’t even comprehend a time when she wouldn’t be exactly what he needed and wanted most.
But that was then, wasn’t it? Before he’d realized what she really was deep inside. Before he’d discovered Hera had been absolutely correct in picking Callia as his soul mate because she was the epitome of everything he hated most. That past? What he’d done with her in this room? That really was a fantasy. This—he stared at her cold indifference and saw her as she really was and not as he’d wanted her to be—this was reality.
The erection he’d been fighting since he stepped in the room faded. He dropped the other boot, locked his jaw and stood as he lifted the shirt over his head. He’d removed his weapons before coming into the castle, as was protocol, so he didn’t have to worry about his parazonium or any of the other gizmos Titus was always cooking up. And he was glad. Fiddling with his weapons would mean more time in this room with her alone.
“Where do you want me?”
She turned away from the window without meeting his eyes, dropped her arms and pointed toward the end of the king’s now-empty desk. “There. Sit.”
He crossed the floor silently in bare feet and eased a hip onto the end of the king’s long desk. He tested the piece of furniture for stability, and when he was sure it wasn’t going to collapse under his weight, scooted back until his legs were hanging over the edge and his bare feet dangled inches above the floor.