Odysseus exhaled shakily, running a trembling hand through his hair. The room was silent, save for the soft crackling of the dying fire and the faintest rustling of a blanket beside him.
He turned.
Penelope.
She lay on her side, her breathing deep, steady. The moonlight traced the lines of her bare shoulder, the curve of her spine beneath the linen sheets. He swallowed hard, his throat tight.
My wife has a fondness for broken things.
Odysseus clenched his jaw. He would not allow it.
Slowly, carefully, he reached for her. His hand ghosted over her skin, fingers trembling as he brushed the inside of her wrist, feeling the steady thrum of her pulse. Alive.Here.
She stirred beneath his touch, brow knitting slightly before her lashes fluttered. “Odysseus?” Her voice was drowsy, thick with sleep, but instinctively, she turned toward him.
His breath faltered.
She was real. Warm. Not lost to the gods. Not yet.
He could not stop himself. He gathered her against him, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his arms locking tightly around her as if she might slip through his grasp.
Penelope inhaled sharply, startled at first, but then, without hesitation, she softened. Her fingers wove into his hair, her other hand resting over his racing heart. “You’re shaking,” she whispered.
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, to the delicate line of her throat, but he said nothing. He couldn’t.
She shifted, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her eyes searched his in the dim light, her touch now gentle against his cheek. “What did they do to you this time?”
Odysseus closed his eyes briefly, leaning into her palm. He would not tell her. Not tonight. Not when the gods had already stolen too much from them.
Instead, he exhaled and pressed his forehead to hers, his voice barely audible in the quiet of their chamber.
"I’m here."
Penelope’s fingers curled around the back of his neck. “Of course you are,” she murmured, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
And for now, that was enough.
Odysseus prayed that by the time his tears had begun to fall, his wife had already slipped back into sleep.
37
HE WASN’T HIDING HER, wasn’t keeping her a secret from his courts and his people.
He was selfish.
The minute he crowned her, wed her, presented her before the Ithacan people, she would be swept away by them. She had so much to offer to their island, she would be instantly and utterly revered.
He wasn’t avoiding the crown, and he certainly wasn’t afraid of the backlash from recklessly choosing, and perhaps kidnapping, a queen. He just didn’t want to share her. He wanted to keep her locked away in his bedroom forever, their little slice of secret.
A place they were untouchable.
Invincible.
Penelope slept soundly, curled against his side. Her dark hair splayed out around her, cheek pressed against his chest. As the sunlight filtered through the window of the old palace, the subtle redness in her hair seemed to glow.
Even asleep, she was an ember, the spark that set his entire being alight.
Odysseus had been avoiding many of his duties. He would not admit to anything different. They had only returned fromSparta a few days prior. After convincing the men on the docks to stay quiet about the woman he snuck into the castle; he had feigned sickness from the Spartan food, and holed up with the wild, intoxicating woman he brought back.
