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Chapter Sixteen

Prometheus

“I think she fell asleep on me,” I whisper, not sure what to do with my arm pinned beneath her.

“Let her lie,” Atum calls helpfully from the other side of the fire. “She won’t bite. At least, not asleep, she won’t.”

I glance down at her nervously. “ Do mortals bite?”

“Not ordinarily. Just when they are especially vexed.”

“What?”

Atum doesn’t respond. Instead, he sets two slabs of lion meat and a waterskin next to me. Then he settles next to the lion’s carcass.

“Do you think she has any injuries of her own after everything?” I ask. What if, despite her capability and my own attempts to protect her, I lose her anyway? Mortals are like blades of grass— here one day and gone the next. It was not always like that, but when we Primordials were made to swore on the River Styx, the mortals were ordered to drink from it. Their lifespans are much shorter now, so they cannot be perpetually wicked like they were before.

Yet, despite the fact that her lifespan might have been cut even shorter, Hebe charged at the lion. She treated my life as more precious than her own— and I do not think it had anything to do with the fact that I will live longer. Hebe just seems to view life as precious, no matter whose it is— except her own, anyway.

“There is no need to fret over your new bride,” Atum says. “They may seem fragile, but mortals are resilient. They cling to their mortality and sometimes not even Death can pry it away from them.”

“Mmm.” I gaze down at Hebe. The shadows soften the sharper edges of her fierce face and paint it with a strange sort of beauty.

“There’s something she’s not telling you.”

I glance up, my free hand fiddling with my amber necklace. “Who?”

“Aphrodite.” Atum rolls his eyes. “You know who I’m talking about.”

“I think you’ve spent too much time around me; my sarcasm is rubbing off on you.” I fight a smile and glance back down at the mortal woman lying on my arm. Now that she has slipped into sleep, her expression is serene, like she didn’t fell a lion earlier today.

Her lips are pursed. Is she smiling in her dream or scowling? I only know what Atum tells me about dreams since I cannot have them myself. He says they can be pleasant or terrifying.

Whatever Hebe is dreaming of, she has curled into me. Which means that her filthy gown is now irritating my skin. However, it also means her strangely soft physique is also pressed against me. If I had the strength to pull away, I’m not sure I would. “What is she not telling me?”

“Apparently, there’s a physical aspect to the mortal bonding process.”

I frown. “Well, she’s already lying on top of me. How much more physical can one get?”

Atum stabs his meat with a small blade he must have recovered after a storm. “According to Dionysus, there is a mortal tradition to press their lips against their loved one as a show of affection.”

“But you said they only bite when they’re vexed!”

“I don’t think it’s with teeth. It’s called ‘kissing.’ Dionysus says it’s a pleasant activity. But I’m not sure how he knows since he hasn’t bonded with any of them.”

Frowning, my gaze returns to those pursed lips. What would it be like to have them pressed against me? Where do mortals prefer to kiss? Where would I want Hebe’s lips on me? “I’m not sure I’ve made her happy enough for her to desire kissing me.” If I was aware of this tradition before, that might have been how I expressed my gratitude for her saving me from the lion. However . . . “Apparently, my saving her life wasn’t enough.”

Atum snorts. “It might have been if you hadn’t threatened to abandon her.”

I purse my lips. As much as I don’t want to risk being bitten, this tradition intrigues me. I’ll have to coax Hebe into teaching it to me soon. What was it she said mortals like besides protection? Saying what pleases you in them? I’ll have to do better at finding things to compliment.

Hebe inhales sharply, making a strange sniffling sound that grates on me.

If only complimenting her was not so difficult . . .

Atum evidently finishes eating and curls up on the grass. “Wake me if there’s danger.”

I snort. “I think I’ll just wake her, actually. Hebe has a better spear arm than you.” There, that’s one compliment. I’ll have to remember that when she wakes.

“That she does.” Atum’s words are slurred, indicating sleep is about to overtake him. It’s one of his more glaringly annoying habits.

But he’s the one who’s spoken to Dionysus about mortal women, so I need him awake for a moment longer. “How about gifts? Do mortal women enjoy gifts?” Primordials exchange gifts often when forging bargains. Mayhap Hebe will accept them in lieu of compliments?

“I think . . . everyone enjoys gifts. It’s one thing . . . that unites us.” Atum’s breathing grows heavier. Every now and then he makes a sound like Hebe did— but it’s even more annoying coming from him.

My gaze returns to my sleeping bride, though my ears continue to listen for danger.

I rack my mind, trying to think of more compliments to use. “You smell better after you bathe.” That probably won’t work . . . “I like when you’re silent— until I actually need to hear from you.” This is proving more difficult than I thought; I really hope compliments can be substituted with gifts.

Hebe makes a mewling sound as she curls closer against me.

I sigh. “I find your subtle softness strangely pleasant.” There. The perfect compliment. Hebe will be teaching me about this strange mortal tradition of kissing before sunset tomorrow.