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“I do not think my answer will satisfy you. In your world, you speak of the thin places—places where borders between the realms are more permeable.”

I’ve heard that. At home, they say there are parts of the forest—deep caves, or deeper lakes—where we may glimpse theUnderworld.

“We are no longer in the mortal realm, Psyche. This is an enchanted place. A protected place.”

My throat dries up.

“We’ve left the mortal world?”

He pauses. “We are not outside it, but beyond it. The mortal world overlaps with us, as two footprints might overlap each other in the sand.”

I frown, struggling to understand the analogy, and what it means for me. “But you—you can move freely between them?”

“Ican. Mortals cannot.”

His voice is easy, its timbre rich and low. It is not how the voice of a demon should be. It is the kind of voice Father used to adopt when he would tell us stories, back when Dimitra and I were small children and sat at his knee. A voice for heroes and their great deeds.

But those days are long gone. I’m no longer a child, and I know that voices lie, just as faces do.

“I don’t remember getting here,” I blurt. “I remember the peach”—I blush, just thinking of it—“and then nothing. You lifted me from the cliff, and then…everything is blank.”

“Yes,” he says. “I did not wish you to see which way we flew. So I bade you sleep.” I remember the single word he intoned, and the darkness that came over my senses then.

“You magicked me, you mean.” An angry shiver goes through me. “You put a spell on me.”

And if he can do that, what else can he do?Can he command anything he likes? If he wished to, could he command now that I eat, and my hand would take the food and my mouth would open for it, against my will?

“I do not force mortals to act against their desires,” he says quietly.

I don’t let him see me scoff, but it is as though he hears mythoughts.

“Not,” he amends, “unless it is absolutely necessary.”

His confession only reminds me of what I already know: I must not trust this man. Although he is not amanat all, is he?

“What happened when you took me here?” I say. “I woke up in that bed wearing strange clothes, that’s all I know. What happened before that?”

He stops chewing.

“It is a short story. You were asleep. I told Aletheia to find you a sleeping-gown, and some clothing for the morning, and to put you to bed.” He takes another sip of wine; I hear the swish of liquid and the deep swallow.

“That is all?” I say, forcing my voice to be steady; remembering the rumpled sheets, the scent on my skin.

“That is all,” he confirms.

“Your smell was there,” I flush. “When I woke.”

There’s amusement in his voice.

“I carried you here in my arms, Psyche. If my smell on your skin offends you, there is a remedy for that. Or don’t they bathe in Sikyon?”

To my horror, I feel a rush of heat gathering suddenly behind my eyes. I will it back down. I will not rise to his bait.

“I have already told you, Psyche,” he goes on, when I say nothing, “I will take nothing from you that you do not freely give.”

Except for my obedience.My obedience, in exchange for his help. That was no small bargain.

“So what does it mean, then,” I keep my voice in check. “That we are…bound, this way?” Whatcanthis senseless “marriage” mean to him? It certainly does not seem to mean what it means in my world. He does not intend to make a slave of me, nor a courtesan.