Her brows furrowed, the smallest crack in her armor appearing, but her stance didn’t waver. He took the moment anyway, drinking in the sight of her. Courageous. Wild. Unyielding.
Menelaus and Agamemnon’s jeers echoed faintly in his memory, mocking his choice. They’d pointed out other women - daughters of wealthier kings, women with larger dowries or softer temperaments. Prizes, they had called them.
They never understood. They never saw what he had seen in the Spartan princess. Her fire, her sharp wit, the way she matched him at every turn, even all those years ago. She wasn’t a prize. She was a storm, and storms didn’t yield.
Delight danced across his skin as he took in the sight of his wife. Brows knitted, arms crossed. The scowl on her face was enough to bring him to his knees. No other woman would have stood up to their king the way this woman did now.
It didn’t matter that he had just returned home, just reclaimed his throne. She was ready to challenge him, and gods - Odysseus couldn’t love her more if he tried.
Odysseus rose slowly, mimicking her earlier poise, though he knew it would pale in comparison. He stood taller, but it was her spirit that loomed. Her expression hardened the moment he moved closer, the evenness of her facade giving way to a scowl.
“Odysseus,” she started, her tone now a warning.
He grinned, roguish and deliberate, before moving swiftly. With an ease that made her gasp, he lifted her, setting her down onto the sturdy table between them. His hands lingered at her waist as he stepped between her legs, crowding into her space as only he was allowed.
“Penelope…” he murmured, his voice dropping low, coaxing, teasing. He tipped her chin upward with gentle fingers, forcing her eyes to meet his. Her sharp gaze cut at him, but pride swelled in his chest when he saw her breath hitch.
His eyes flicked to her mouth, the faintest curve of satisfaction tugging at his lips as her body betrayed her resolve. To know that even after everything - after years, after distance, after gods and trials - he could still undo her was a victory sweeter than any war he had ever won.
“You can’t charm me into submission, Odysseus,” she said, though her voice had lost some of its earlier venom.
“Charm you?” he echoed, leaning in closer, his lips barely brushing her ear. “I wouldn’t dream of it, queen.” His hand moved to cradle the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the delicate line of her jaw. “I’d only ever remind you… We make a better team when we are together.”
Her lips quirked upward, the faintest glimmer of amusement mingling with her stubborn resolve. “You forget,” she whispered, her fingers grazing the collar of his tunic, toying with the fabric. “I’ve grown old with memories of your silver tongue, husband. I will not be easily tricked as the goddesses.”
Odysseus chuckled, low and rich, the sound reverberating through the air between them. “Not a trick,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers. “A plea.”
Her brows lifted, and though her lips remained pressed in a line, her voice softened. “A plea?”
“Stay with me,” he said, his voice a bare whisper. “Let us fight this battle side by side, from the safety of our palace. Let me carry you as you have carried me.”
Penelope’s breath caught again, and for a moment, the air between them was charged with something that couldn’t be put into words. But the fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed; it merely shifted, steadier and unyielding.
“You’ll come to Sparta,” she finally said, tilting her chin defiantly. “But don’t think for a moment I’ll let you carry this, Odysseus.” Her hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You’ll only slow me down.”
The grin that split his face was dazzling, irreverent, and utterly disarming. “I wouldn’t dare.”
For all her strength, she let him pull her closer, let him steal another moment between the war and the weight of gods. His lips brushed hers, and though the battle wasn’t won, it didn’t matter.
“We’ll have to arrange our travel plans.” He whispered, kissing the curve of her jaw.
“I chartered a boat last night,” she replied, breathless. “Sent word to Helen while you were sleeping.”
“You’ve just taken care of everything, haven’t you, wife?” He laughed, nipping gently.
“No, not everything,” she pulled back from him, unease flushing her features as her smile faltered.
He frowned, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “What is it?”
“We’ll need to tell your son.”
25
“NO, ABSOLUTELY NOT,” Telemachus’ voice was firm. Penelope could have laughed at the way he perfectly mirrored his father’s stance, his words, even his tone from only hours before.
“You just returned home from your own voyage, Telemachus. Please rest before we talk more about this,” Penelope coaxed, rubbing her son’s shoulder. He had sailed to a kingdom southwesterly of them to ensure good trades and fair relations, something he had been doing for the last several years.
Much of Ithaca’s continued success while Odysseus was away fell to Penelope, but she would never shy away from the fact that her son was the linchpin. Without him, many of their allies would have fallen off, would have never agreed to do business and trade with a widowed queen.
