Page 87 of Blood of Olympus

And there, the token of my mother’s love at her shoulder — a dagger she’d taken when Hera sought to save herself from Nyssa’s wrath — because my heart had intercepted the one intended for her own.

And there, just above her left breast, at the soft junction between shoulder and chest, a thick, jagged scar lay — courtesy of Kronos’ bone sword. A permanent reminder of the precise moment her ferryman had been stolen from her.

Never more than in the spaces between those heartbeats had I wished that her skin be flawless and free of pain — in all its forms. I wished that she had never suffered — but she had suffered more than most. I wished that she had not known loss — yet she had lost almost everything she’d ever loved. And I wished that love could show scars, too — so that I could cover her with evidence of my complete and eternal devotion, erasing the proof of her torments.

“Come here,” she called softly — less of an order than a request. Like she did not understand the depths I would sink to for her. Like she did not know that I would tarnish every ounce of my soul if it spared her own; that I would willingly throw myself into Tartarus if she asked it of me.

I rushed to obey, freezing abruptly when one dainty, wet hand struck out. Nyssa held me captive — quite literally in the palm of her hand — braced against the centre of my cuirass, halting me.

“I did not say you could touch me yet,” she murmured, emerald eyes flashing with mischief.

“Wicked woman,” I murmured, allowing the floodgate of pent up emotion to crack open.

I shoved it all down our bond — all the love, desire, and blatant need coursing through my veins, through every fibre of my being. A self-satisfied grin twisted my lips as she stuttered a rasping inhale. Her palm slipped off my armoured chest and the sound of her thighs slapping together followed right after.

But it did nothing to smother the rich raspberry scent of her arousal engulfing the air like an avalanche shrouds a mountain.

She bit her lip, tempted… but ultimately remained steady in her resolve.

For the moment, at least.

With renewed purpose, Nyssa reached out and grasped my left hand with both of hers. For a minute, I was captured by the simple feeling of her hands in mine. Mesmerised by the way my scarred fingers dwarfed hers. Enamoured by the startling differences between us — skin like moonlight, skin like sunlight; cold like winter, warm like summer.

There were so many opposing factors between us that should have dictated we were too dissimilar to ever coalesce — that we were too contradictory to ever last.

But I would never again let anything come between us, much less something as tempestuous as Fate.

Her fingers traced the path lightning had etched across my hand, flipping it over to expose my battleworn palm. She tsked, indicating the black grime left behind from war — or rather, from my hurried attempt at washing it away — and unlaced the leather vambrace in such a way that I would never be able to remove them myself without first imagining her doing it — naked, and dripping wet.

The guard fell to the tiles with a dull thump, and the second followed soon thereafter.

“What now?” I queried, my voice betraying the raw hunger I felt for her.

In answer, she slid her hand beneath my bicep, earning a static zap for her efforts. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care as the lower buckle to my pauldron slid free, and then the upper, freeing them from my cuirass.

Two more solid thunks echoed off the tiles as both shoulder guards joined the vambraces.

“What now, my queen?” I whispered, throwing the gates wide open. The scent of caramel flooded the room, mixing enticingly with her raspberry. It took every ounce of my willpower to remain still — to follow her infuriating order.

“Turn around,” she murmured.

When I did not immediately move, one side of her lips tugged up into a smirk.

“Please.”

Grinning darkly, I pivoted on my heel.

“Lift your arms.”

I did that too, wondering how far she’d let this continue.

Flecks of water fell on my boots with tiny taps as she unlatched my cuirass by the buckles at my ribs. We worked in tandem to lift the armour over my head — me, careful not to brush against her skin even though evidence of just how badly I wanted to was but a few stitches away from driving through my breeches; her, touching anywhere she pleased, and driving me all the madder for it.

When it, too, joined the pile of leather on the floor, I spun — no fucks given that she could see just how hard I was breathing, just how tightly my muscles were coiled — just how fucking much I wanted her, conveyed through my eyes and the lightning illuminating my skin.

Toeing her invisible boundary, I lifted a hand and cupped her face — with half an inch of air between us.

“You undo me, Nightshade.”