Page 53 of Elysium

SHE TOOK HER PLACE to the side of the dais, sitting in the advisor’s seat that Odysseus had carved for them. Her son and her husband had a ritual on days where they held these forums. They would take breakfast together, Odysseus instilling as much wisdom and knowledge of ruling Ithaca as he could.

The pair weren’t far behind her. Telemachus entered first, with her husband trailing.

He wore a rascally grin, eyes finding hers almost immediately.

As their son took his new place in the center, Odysseus weaved his way to her.

Gripping her chin in one hand, he tilted her face up.

“I missed you, wife.” He leaned down, pressing his lips to hers in a brief, yet utterly improper kiss.

Penelope swatted at his wrist half heartedly, beating back the smile that tugged on her lips as he pulled away from her. He took his spot next to her, swinging his legs up so that his feet settled in her lap.

She scowled at the man she called husband, shoving his feet off of her.

All that did was widen his smile. Righting himself next to her, there was very little space between them.

She could feel the heat that radiated off of his body.

If she were to look, she would see each contour of his face, each defined curve of the muscles on his arm.

But that would be unbecoming of the former queen, so she kept her eyes trained carefully on her son.

In his defense, he had always been like this. Even at their first public meeting, the first time she stood before Ithaca as their queen, he was unruly. He had kissed her, in front of his entire kingdom, at least thrice that single day. He was insatiable.

She had never minded.

But now, as a senior member of her son’s leadership, the former queen of Ithaca, and the woman who waited, she had to stay composed. If only for Telemachus’ sake.

Unfortunately, her internal struggle against her husband’s wanton ways caused her to miss her son’s opening words to their people.

But with a quick look to the crowd, she could tell that the suitor’s families had dispersed, that those that challenged Telemachus’ rise to power were gone, and that those that remained were Ithacans, and the peace that came from that fluttered over her heart.

Odysseus’ hand crept its way to her thigh, squeezing gently.

Penelope frowned, grabbing his hand and returning it to his side.

Before she could pull away, he snatched her hand up, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“You are the most exquisite woman to ever walk the face of this earth.” He whispered against her skin.

She tried to tug her hand back, but his grip was firm. He pulled her hand closer to his mouth, parting his lips slightly, just enough to put her finger into his mouth, gently nipping at the skin.

She bit back a hiss as she tore her hand from his grip. She would do anything to wipe the arrogant smirk off of his face right this second. She could feel her cheeks flush as she clasped her hands in her lap.

She felt her skin heat. Felt her body react to his closeness, to his games. Penelope just prayed that he couldn’t feel it, too.

Telemachus’ eyes darted over to where they sat, but only for a moment, before returning to the conversation at hand. Once again, her feral husband had caused her attention to lapse.

Keeping her attention on her son, she felt a light tug on her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand twirling one of her curls around his fingers. “Odysseus,” she whispered harshly. “Pay attention to your son.”

“How can I?” He muttered, leaning closer. She felt his breath on her neck, warm and inviting. “When all I can think about is how you fell apart on my tongue this morning, wife.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, the flush on her cheeks deepening.

She was on fire. The equally feral part of her threatened to snap, to drag her husband out of this room by his shirt and let him have his way. But the decorum that had been drilled into her from a young age won out.

She pressed her hand to his chest and tried to put some space between them.

Once again, Odysseus was faster. She cursed under her breath as he took her hand in his, moving so that her hand was over his heart, so that she could feel the way his pulse raced underneath her touch. “I am undone, wife.” He whispered, his deep blue eyes piercing hers.

“Mother, Father, what are your thoughts?” Telemachus’ voice cut through the tension that radiated between them. His words were sharp, laced with irritation.

As she met her son’s eyes, she could see a layer of emotions across his face. Annoyance was the most prevalent. It was visible in the downturn of his mouth, and the way he narrowed his eyes. But there was also something deeper, something that might border on reverence that sparkled in his eyes.

She shifted in her seat, putting as much distance as she could between herself and her husband. “Penelope,” a low growl came from beside her. “If you walk away,” his fingers danced gently up her arm, “I will be forced to crawl to you, my queen.”

She scowled. “I’m sorry, my son,” she spoke with as much dignity as she could muster. As much dignity as anyone could muster with a wild man sitting next to them, slowly undressing her with his eyes. “What do you need our opinion on?”

A rumble of laughter coasted over the room. Telemachus shook his head. “Nothing, mother.” He turned to address the Ithacan people. “It seems my advisers find themselves preoccupied.”

With a mischievous glint in his eye that Penelope knew he inherited from his father, he continued speaking to the people.

“Did our son just attempt to embarrass us in front of our people?” Odysseus asked, ducking close to her.

“That was no attempt, you fool. He succeeded.”

Her husband did not lose his grin when he pulled back, slinging his arm over her shoulder. “I have half a mind to take you right here on this dais.” He murmured under his breath.

“Gods, Odysseus.” Penelope ran a hand down her face. “You are insatiable.”

“Say my name like that again and I will become undone in front of our people, wife. Show them how insatiable their mad king is. Come now, wife, you’ve had your fun.”

Odysseus stood, but not before shifting his weight slightly, his fingers dropping to his tunic in a barely concealed attempt to adjust himself.

Her insufferable husband made no effort to be discreet.

A muscle in his jaw flexed as he exhaled through his nose, as if steadying himself, but the look he shot Penelope was anything but composed.

Across the room, a few of the older men exchanged glances. Someone cleared their throat.

Penelope clenched her hands in her lap, determined to keep her own composure. Gods help her. Gods help them all.

She felt, rather than saw, the way Odysseus turned as he strode toward the exit, the way his shoulders squared, how his tunic still didn’t sit right.

A long sigh came from beside her.

“For the love of-” Telemachus dragged a hand through his hair.

A voice from the crowd, struggling not to laugh, hesitantly offered, “Shall we… reconvene when both your advisers are available?”

“No, there’s no need to postpone.” In another situation, one where she wasn’t feeling so wholly empty without her husband by her side, she would feel pride at how her son kept his composure.

“It seems that, even in his old age, my father has never stopped following his own whims. While we are used to that being war or wanderlust…” He let out a gentle laugh.

“It appears that we have to adjust to his sole whim, being my mother.”

She felt all the eyes in the room on her, felt the stares of over 50 of Ithaca’s men as she waited, as she struggled with what her heart and body wanted, and what etiquette told her to do.

“Fuck it.” She breathed, standing and smoothing out her dress. A murmur rippled through the gathered men. She felt the weight of their eyes, the unspoken understanding of what it meant for the queen to rise and follow her husband so soon after he left.

But she didn’t care. Let them talk. Let them know .

With a quick nod to her son, Penelope followed in her husband’s footsteps.

She barely made it past the threshold before hands seized her, before her back hit the cool stone of the palace wall, before heat crashed into her in the form of her husband’s body.

Odysseus. Her hands found his jaw, the curls of his beard rough against her fingertips. His lips found hers, desperate and searching.

A rumble started deep in his chest as his grip tightened on her waist. “Took you long enough.”