POUNDING RAIN AND rough seas delay the Adrestia from arriving before dusk, but when they dock, Barnabas gives the men a night to themselves. Many of the crew are at the porneion for the night and Kassandra returns to the Akrokorinth to have more time with the orphan girl, Phoibe after their awry talk. Lesya spends her last night in Korinth beneath the awning on top of Anthousa's villa alone, listening to the rain and watching lightning streak against the dark sky. A bright flash illuminates a dark figure pulling itself up onto the roof. "What are you doing here?" Lesya asks. The outline of his physique is unmistakable.
Deimos nears the lanterns lining the perimeter of the pallet of pillows —he is soaked. Water drips from his matted hair, his dark grey chiton is almost black. His lack of armor is surprising. "I–" he starts, but then shakes his head. "Heard you and my sister were giving the Monger trouble." They'd sent him across the Gulf of Korinth shortly after the Monger had left Phokis after hearing rumors —insurance Kassandra and their estranged weapon would be dispatched.
"He's dead," Leysa informs him, though he likely already knows that. Korinth may be free of the Monger's terror, but Cult spies still crawl over the streets. Fitting for a city with no morals, to begin with. He'd report back with the news and tell them his sister had already fled.
"A knife in the dark?" He asks, having seen his sister and Lesya's handiwork on display in the theater while making his way to the villa. A public execution would not have been as clean, and the streets would likely still be in an uproar.
Wish I coulda been there to watch Deimos break your neck, he'd told the Eagle Bearer and watch him smite this traitorous whore. Lesya's expression hardens as she nods. "Kassandra's choice." Kass had sided with the Spartan, Brasidas, over Anthousa. "I wanted him strung up in the theatre." That earns her a dry laugh from Deimos as he shakes the water from his hands. It did not matter if she called herself Leysa now, a streak of cruelty would also lay within.
She and the Monger had never gotten along —not since he threatened to bring her to his andron to teach her a lesson and she'd broken his nose. Deimos almost had the man's head after he struck her across the face. Lesya shudders, the things he had done to some of the hetaerae still makes her skin crawl. She tosses Deimos a linen blanket and he pats his arms and legs dry then tousles it through his ornamented hair.
He lays the wet linen aside and moves closer to Lesya, eyes blazing with warmth. "I killed Chrysis too," she says, tone flat, emotionless. The Cult already received word of that too —Deimos had been there when the masked man stormed across the center of the chamber and hurled down a bloody and torn scrap of fabric. Chrysis was found in the woods, the Cultist announced, the wolves ripped most the meat from her bones. They hadn't been able to say how she died, but Lesya wears a grim smile. "Slit her throat, the bitch deserved it."
Deimos lips twist into a smile, his eyes tracing the lines of her face —softened by the firelight. "She did, didn't she?" Chrysis had fed them lies for ages, warped their worldview, and helped forge them both into weapons. There is a scratch on her cheek from the Monger's warehouse and Deimos cannot stop himself from reaching out and running his thumb over the slim, bumpy line. His thumb drops down, tracing over her lips.
Lesya's eyes slip shut —she leans toward him. Months could pass but it never felt that way when they were back together. "Deimos," she murmurs. Soft and warm breaths dance over her parted lips, his nose brushing against hers. She wants him, but her heart is so tired. Lesya presses her hand against his chest but does not push him away. "We can't keep playing this game." Eventually, they will get caught. Either by the Cult or Kassandra, and Lesya dreads losing the small budding friendship between her and the Eagle Bearer. And yet, this is Deimos, he knows her better than anyone in the Hellas.
"Why not?" He challenges, eyes darting over her face. Lesya does not have a good enough reason and he knows it. The hand on his chest twists into the linen of his chiton and she hauls him forward, lips crashing against his. Deimos shoves the hand resting on her cheek back into her hair —destroying the few coppery strands clinging to the remnants of a sloppy, damp braid.
Pillows cushion her head when he shoves Lesya back and shifts, pressing his knee between her thighs —lips never parting from hers until she pushes back on his broad shoulders. He looks feral against the backdrop of a stormy night. Deimos gathers both her hands in one of his, pinning them above her head. "I hate you," she gasps as his mouth moves across her neck and his free hand slips beneath the peplos. His lips kink into a smile as he busies himself with stroking one of her breasts, bringing her nipple to a taut peak. It's a lie and they know it.
"Try again," Deimos whispers at her ear before biting down on her shoulder. Lesya yelps, but the cry is muffled by a clap of thunder. She wiggles her wrists, trying to break them free from the cage of his hand —his grip tightens, and his other hand drags up the long lilac hem of her dress.
"You're cruel and unfair," she whispers, but her body's reaction to his touch betrays her as does the longing in her eyes. She wants this more than words can say, needs this.
Cruel, Deimos will not deny that, but he stalls at the rest of her description and frees her hands. "Unfair?" There's dark amusement in his voice despite his feigned look of hurt. I'll show you unfair. He moves over her like a wave, taking over all her senses. The hand trailing up her thigh pauses, expecting to find a barrier of fabric between him and the apex of her supple thighs —there isn't one. He trails a finger along her slit, collecting the wetness gathered there before delving in. He watches her face contort and listens to her sharp breath.
Deimos loosens the fibulae at her shoulders and pulls the diaphanous lilac material from her body, two fingers still toying with her. He's seen Enyo bare before many times —dressing wounds and bathing, that night on the beach— but this feels different somehow. Blood is rushing in his ears, his pulse quickens. Her brows furrow and lips part in a silent cry. He devours the soft moans passing through her lips, slipping his tongue into her mouth. In the back of his mind, he hears Elpenor's voice —I know you care for her— the merchant had been right, but this goes beyond that.
She reaches for the hem of his soaked chiton and begins tugging the dark fabric up and over his head —tossing it aside. Deimos does not give her the chance to look him over before he's kissing her again and planting warm, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach and to the inside of her thighs. "Please." Her voice is broken. Lesya never begs, but by the fates, she has waited so long to feel this again.
Smiling, she slides one of her legs over his shoulder. Deimos takes it as an invitation and dips his head forward, scraping the stubble of his jaw against her thigh. A sharp breath escapes Lesya's parted lips when his mouth descends upon her. Her soft moans and ragged gasps sink into him, seared into his memory like an indelible brand. Between his fingers and mouth, it all becomes too much. He smiles against her heat when her hands slip into his hair —heels pressing into his back.
She's so close, but then everything fades to emptiness. Lesya glances down to find his tawny-gold eyes staring up at her —his lips glistening in the lantern light. He looks like a starved man who'd been set down at a banquet. "If I leave you wanting, that's unfair," Deimos rasps, leaning in to drag his teeth over the inside of her thigh. She jerks, hips bucking, but he draws back and crawls over her until she can feel the bared head of his hard and heavy cock slipping into her. "But I'm merciful," he says, pressing his lips against hers again.
Lesya grips onto his shoulders and twists, breaking the kiss. He lands on his back —grunts with eyes burning like pits of molten gold. "So am I," she hisses, sinking down on his length until her hips are seated against his. Deimos hisses behind clenched teeth and will give her the satisfaction of control for only a moment more. He watches her hips rock —feels her take him in over-and-over again— and the sway of his breasts, it is almost enough to make him surrender.
Growling, Deimos grips onto her hips and turns sharply, keeping himself sheathed inside her. Lesya is quick to grip onto his shoulders, drawing her legs up against his sides as he begins thrusting —long, smooth, and deep strokes. He presses his face into her neck, lips and teeth finding purchase there. She clings to him, the muscles in his back contracting beneath her palms, knowing this moment cannot last much longer. "Deimos." His name rolls off her tongue like a hushed and hallowed prayer.
His fingertips press harder into her thighs, shifting her hips up as his pace becomes quicker, harder. Deimos pants and groans at her neck as he ruts into her. Lesya threads her fingers into his hair, tugging until he raises his head to look upon her —lips parted, face contorted in bliss. His kiss is rough and sloppy, just like his erratic thrusts.
With her fingers tangled in his matted hair, Lesya keeps him in place —forehead pressed tightly against her. Deimos moves one of his hands from her lips, slipping it between their connected bodies and rubs the sensitive bud at the apex of her thighs. He swallows the soft moan that escapes her lips, though when her muscles spasm and clench around him, Deimos cannot help but let out a string of curses. A torrent of warmth feels her and after several slow thrusts, Deimos collapses atop her —panting.
He braces his weight on shaking forearms —sweat beading on his brow. Lesya brushes the matted locks falling before his face aside, the small knot holding up half his hair had been undone. "Deimos," she breathes and his gaze flits up to her face —flushed and glistening like Aphrodite. "I've missed you." A smile crosses her lips and is reflected in her eyes.
Deimos rolls to the side, taking her with him. "So have I," he admits, fingertips grazing over Lesya's scarred back —following the length of her spine. It feels strange to say it aloud, but he had missed her, more than words could say. She was his equal, his other half, and his strength, and his only weakness. "But we're together again." Even if were only for a night —that was all they had ever been guaranteed in this life anyway.
With his face illuminated by the warm glow of dying lanterns, Lesya can see the dark shadows around his eyes and just how tired he is. "You haven't been sleeping, have you?" Deimos does not reply, but his silence is as good as any answer. She follows the scar on his cheek with a finger and moves closer —his arms slip around her waist and tighten. "Sleep," Lesya whispers, softly kissing him, "I'll protect you."
BY MORNING, THE rain has ceased, but dark clouds linger over Korinth. Lesya rolls over and collides with something warm. An arm tightens around her waist. "Stop moving," comes a rough voice, muffled by pillows. She shifts again, brushing matted locks from his face. Deimos turns onto his side and stares at her —she's a glorious sight to behold. Copper hair tangled, nipples red and peaked, his seed dried on her thighs. There are two purple marks at the base of her neck she won't be able to hide.
He runs the back of his hand over her cheek, sighing. It'd been so long since he woke up next to her, so long since they'd both had a night's sleep uninterrupted by memories of the past. She scoots closer and Deimos wraps his arms around her, rolling so that she lay atop him. Leaning forward, she kisses him —her hands splayed over the flat planes of his chest marred with scars. This is yet another moment she could live in forever, but the breeze calls her name. "I have to go," Lesya mumbles. The Adrestia is scheduled to depart at dawn, but her heart will stay with him.
Sunlight breaks through the dissipating storm clouds. The sea is calm with a gentle breeze filling the sails. They sail for Keos now. Kassandra leans against the helm of the ship, arms crossed —she can tell there's something wrong with her friend. Truthfully, she had been surprised to see Lesya on deck with Barnabas, straightening out knots in a spare rope. "What is it?" The Eagle Bearer asks, eyeing the deep purple marks at the base of Lesya's neck.
Lesya looks away and swallows the lump in her throat —there was no sense in lying. "Deimos came to me last night," she answers in a shaky voice. Her cheeks turn a soft shade a pink. Kass has never seen the disgraced champion flushed or at a loss of words.
"Did he say anything?" Part of her hopes there will be another clue, another letter to lead them closer to her mother or another Cultist. Judging by Lesya's odd behavior, she imagines not much was spoken between them. Kass shakes her head, ridding the thoughts from her mind —she does not care about what transpires between her brother and friend in the dark of night, only finding her mother.
Lesya shakes her head. "Nothing that aids in our search," she answers. There is something else reflecting in her laurel eyes —melancholy and longing. It is a look Kassandra has seen before when wives send their husbands to war, fearing they will never see their beloved again.
She did not wish to leave him, Kass realizes. "You love him," she notes quietly so others would not hear. Lesya turns to the misthios —her expression hollow like she does not know what Kass is talking about. Love is weakness Chrysis said, indoctrinating the belief through pain to all her children. Love will make you weak.
Tears prick at the corner of her eyes and slip down her cheeks. Lesya steps to the side of the Adrestia and watches Korinthia fade into the horizon. Splinters dig into her palms when she grips onto the railing, hoping the fleeting pain will be enough to distract her from the sinking feeling in her chest that Kassandra is right. "I don't know that I'm capable of love," Lesya breathes, but deep down she knows there is no other way to describe her feelings for Deimos. I love him.