Page 60 of Elysium

THE DOOR SHUT BEHIND THEM, the wood groaning under the pressure. Odysseus dropped her hand, watching as she took several steps into the room before pausing, before turning.

Penelope watched him carefully, as one would watch a wounded animal. “What, king?” Her voice was a whisper in the air around them. “Lost your voice?” The upturn of her lips about did him in.

“Penelope.” He stepped forward, reaching for her. He needed to feel her, to have her underneath him, to worship her. She was a goddess, and he would willingly fall to his knees for her every day. “My love,” he croaked as she stepped out of his grasp, mischief in her eyes.

“Come, wretched king,” she beckoned him forward with a single finger. “You cannot take me to bed covered in blood.” She turned away from him, but not before glancing over her shoulder. “No matter how much the sight of your skin, decorated with the blood of our enemies, fills my veins with desire.”

Heat traveled down his spine, settling in his core. Mindlessly, as if in a trance, he followed her. She could have led him off the edge of the world, and he would follow her.

Their bathing chamber was already warm, steam swirling around the private tub. He fumbled at the ties around his waist, fingers unable to clasp, to pull. “I’ll clean up.” He muttered, wholly unable to function.

“No, you won’t,” Penelope stepped closer, twisting the fabric pieces of his tunic around her fingers.

“You can hardly speak, king.” She untied his clothing, pushing it off of him in a single motion.

His mouth was dry, his head spinning. “In you go,” she tutted, rolling her eyes as she turned from him.

His heart sank as she walked away, ducking out of their bath. Still moving in slow motion, he sat on the edge of the pool, resting his hands on his knees. The warm water was a welcoming touch, but all he felt was his wife’s absence.

Odysseus knew she would wait for him, that he should make his way into the water and clean the gore off.

Everything seemed harder without her by his side, especially now. His eyes drifted shut, thoughts drifted to his wife.

Behind closed eyes, however, he was not greeted with the image of the woman he had built his life around.

Not quite.

He saw his throne, standing alone on the dais of Ithaca.

But in the seat was not his son, not his wife. In the leading seat of his island sat a man that caused his stomach to churn.

Zeus.

King of the gods.

The god king laughed, the sound haunting every inch of the agora.

But Odysseus’ eyes were not on the god king. They were on the woman, meek and chained, at his feet.

Penelope sat, clothed in a sheer chemise, every piece of her bared to the world. Golden chains ran from her wrists to her neck, then to an anchor on his throne.

The god’s hand was in her hair, yanking her back to him, against his spread legs. Her face was blank, her eyes lifeless.

Odysseus tried to shout, tried to run, to move, to scream. It was for naught. He was a statue, frozen in time.

“Come, woman,” The god’s voice was deep, possessive. “I have need of you.”

Odysseus would have sworn that Penelope’s face fell, but she obeyed.

He forced his eyes open, his heart pounding in his chest. His hands trembled by his sides, desperately searching. He was in the bathing chambers.

He was covered in blood. Alone.

Zeus did not have her.

Not yet.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and he heard the sound of moving water drawing him from his spiraling thoughts. “Well, husband?” He opened one eye, not convinced he wasn’t just still imagining what he needed to hear.

She came back.

The old man barely dared to believe it, but there she was… real. The water rippled as she stepped forward, the soft lilt of her voice wrapping around him like a siren’s call.

Real.

Safe.

Here.

"Are you just going to sit there all night, or do you need me to pull you in myself?"

His breath left him in a rush. She was teasing him, taunting him, but he was too far gone to care.

Slowly, he turned his head, his gaze dragging up from where her legs disappeared into the water, up to the smooth, bare skin of her shoulders, the damp tendrils of hair curling around her collarbone. His wife. His goddess .

The warmth of the bath was nothing compared to the heat curling in his chest.

"Penelope," he breathed, reverent, and finally, he slipped into the water.

She held a rag in her hand, just out of his reach. “Come, king, let us wash away the sins of yesterday.” Penelope held her hand out to him, coaxing him forward. He took it eagerly, willingly, allowing himself to be tugged to the center of the pool.

She brushed the cloth down his chest, wiping away remnants of the night prior.

He wasn’t watching her clean, no, he was watching her face.

Her slightly parted lips, her heavy breathing, the way her tongue darted out quickly, wetting her bottom lip.

“Odysseus?” She asked, looking up at him through hooded lashes.

He couldn’t speak. He reached out, cupping her face in his hand. “You’re everything to me.” He croaked out, voice cracking as he held her. “I thought… I could have lost you.”

“Did a number on you, didn’t he?” she whispered, copying his motions, ghosting her fingers across his cheek. “What do you need, heart?”

“You.” He groaned, hands clutching at her wet frame. “I just need you.” Desperate to clear his mind of the vision, to erase the sight of her under the god king’s control.

She hummed in response, passing the rag once more, cleaning his chest, his arms. “You’ll have me, king. But first, let me take care of you.” Her free hand drifted down his chest, over his stomach… lower.

“Penelope,” he growled as her hands drifted still, drawing her fingers across the length of him.

She dipped the dirty rag into the water. “Look what you did for me, husband,” she exhaled. The sound of her voice was breathy.

“Let me take care of you.” His beautiful wife continued to use the rag to cleanse him, but her free hand circled his growing erection, pulling a moan from his lips. “How much more would you do for me?”

Her fingers clenched around him, stealing the breath from his lungs. His eyes threatened to roll back. Just her touch alone was enough to send him over the edge.

Everything .

“Stop, stop, stop,” He breathed, grabbing at her wrist. “I don’t want that,”

She froze, quirking an eyebrow at him, smirking .

Odysseus laughed, “I don’t mean -” He grinned, shaking his head. “Not now, not tonight.” He pulled her close, tangling his hands in her wet curls. “I want all of you. Not your hands, not your mouth. I want every part of you.”

A wicked flame sparkled in Penelope’s eyes. “What was going through your mind when you killed him?” She asked, snaking her arms around his neck, securing her to him. There was a hunger to her words, an ache that threatened to consume him.

He stilled underneath her arms, eyes locked on hers. “You. The things he said about you… the way he spoke, as though you were some object to be claimed.” His fingers twitched against her hair, his voice still quiet in the air. “It took all my self control not to tear him into pieces.”

She shuddered under his touch, panting beneath his gaze. “Why didn’t you?” She raked one of her hands through his hair, her nails digging against his scalp.

He dipped his head, lips brushing hers. He felt his strength returning to him with each brush of her fingers.

With each dart of her tongue across her lips.

“I wanted him afraid. I wanted him to know that the minute he laid a hand on you, his life was forfeit.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, moving before she could turn her head into him.

His bloody hands framed her face, heart thrumming a wild rhythm against his chest. “You wanted him to suffer,” His wife’s voice was all but lost in the air around him, but Odysseus didn’t miss the burning in her eyes when she said it, the darkness that flickered across her face.

He didn’t answer her. He let the statement hang in the air between them as the blood from his hands dripped down her cheeks, down her neck. He bent, lips hovering over hers, their breaths mingling. “I did. Why do you want to know, wife?” He growled, fingers twitching against her cheeks.

Penelope smirked, drawing a finger over the shell of his ear and across his pulse. She shifted, nail scraping across his jaw, down his throat. “You killed that man, Odysseus,” Her eyes were blown wide. “For me.”

“I have killed a hundred men in your name, wife.” He snapped back, leaning towards her, tilting her chin up. His movements were not gentle. His hands twitched, his fingers claimed.

“Did you string them up?” She moved closer. He could feel every curve of her body flush against his. “Did you parade around Ithaca drenched in their blood?” She raked her nails down his chest, eliciting a hiss from him.

“Would you have fucked me covered in their blood, Odysseus?”

His heartbeat echoed in his ears. He moved without thought. The king grabbed her, pulling her to him. She yielded, swept up by his arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist, as if he were designed to carry her. She fit against him like she was molded to his form, they were two halves of a whole.

“Yes,” but his word was a growl.

“Yes,” but she swallowed his moan whole, lips sealing over his.

“Yes,” but he moved, backing her up against the wall of the bath, gripping at the ledge to steady himself.

Penelope bit his bottom lip, drawing both blood and a snarl from him. His skin felt too small for his body. His head pounded as she met his motions step for step. “When you fuck me, husband.” She purred against his lips. “Fuck me as the man that kills for me.” Her mouth ticked upwards.

“And I’ll fuck you as the woman who fights the gods.”