Heph: Modern Descendants 3, page 3
If I were my brother Solis, I’d whisper something seductive to Phyre, leading her from the table with no questions asked. I’d have my way with her against the wall just outside this room and then step out to wash myself. But I wasn’t Solis, and he wasn’t like that any longer, not since he’d met my sister, Veva Matron.
“If you’ll excuse me?” I dipped a deferential nod to the table and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” The strangle to her tone was like glass shattering at the window. It cracked and scattered, and the room grew silent. “Is he staying here? In the house?”
“Phyre,” Hestia addressed her. “Of course not, honey. You know I don’t allow men to stay in my home. Heph is aware of the rules and makes a room for himself above the studio.”
Wide, bottle blue eyes stared at me, questioning her own outburst and holding me hostage. The room remained quiet.
“You have nothing to fear from Heph, Phyre. You’re safe with him.” Adara said, but I couldn’t read if her intent was reassurance or sarcasm.
My shoulders fell at the realization that Phyre’s question came not from a curiosity at my leaving, but in fear that I’d stay. My heart ricocheted through my body like a ping-pong ball. I didn’t want her to be frightened of me. Instead, I sensed I should be afraid of her.
phyre
I hated the quiver inside me blowing like a flame, warming me each time his eyes looked at me. I hated that I liked it when I should not have. My mouth got away from me, and I cursed myself for my outburst. I revealed too much when it came to him. The answer to my unwarranted question shouldn’t have mattered to me, but like a moth afraid a flame would extinguish before it reached the heat, I had a sense of losing Heph as he stood and excused himself from dinner. The twist of his body, the dip of his head, seemed so final, and I panicked. My level of fascination with him frightened me, even though I was perfectly safe. Yet with him here, I sensed a danger of a different sort.
Hestia asked me to take clean linens to the studio shortly after the dishes were cleared. I think this was her way of reassuring me that Heph was not attached to the house, and I could trust the distance placed between him and us, the girls. I couldn’t admit to her that I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t fear his nearness. I feared his exit. Riddled with confusion, I stomped across the darkened yard, walking the path to the large barn door spotlighted by the security light. I fumbled with the stack of sheets, blankets and towels that Hestia had provided for our guest. Climbing the stairs to the offset loft, I didn’t tread lightly, and my feet stomped up each step. It was rare that I entered the space. Two apartment rooms existed upstairs, but we were near-to-never with outside visitors. I’d been here a year, and I couldn’t recall the last man to grace our property other than deliveries of groceries and mail.
When I got to the first door, I paused, using my elbow to knock in an effort to balance my pile. When no answer came, I pressed awkwardly again. Banging my elbow hard enough, the door slid open.
“Hello?” I called out. The slip of hallway space provided ample lighting to the darker entry, and I used my foot to press the door further.
“Heph?” The sound of water running drew my attention. The space was no more than a living room with a kitchenette area. A door to the back hid the bedroom, but it stood wide open. I stepped forward, a strange pull tugging me toward the forbidden space. The bed stood covered in a thick duvet of rustic-barn door-red. Hestia didn’t keep sheets underneath, preferring to make it fresh. A bag on the floor near the door sat open and spilling forth with clothing. How did that get here? He must have gone back to his vehicle. He hadn’t carried a thing when he walked from the car. Jeans. Flannels. A pair of boxer briefs underwear –in red–peeked out from the case. Thoughts of his broad back, chopping wood earlier, exposed over the red waistband made my body tremble. The linens tumbled out of my hands on the bed. My eyes fixated on the Christmas color. I swallowed hard, and then heard the clatter of something dropped in the shower.
That magnetic force of a moth to a flame drew me toward the open bathroom door, inviting me forward as steam poured out the space. I walked slowly, breathing deeply, clenching my fingers so my short nails bit into my palms. What are you doing? I screamed at myself, but my will pulled me on. As I reached the open doorframe, my eyes could not look away. Encased in a box of steam, the glass structure did nothing to conceal the specimen inside. Large, toned muscles, rivaling that of David, the glorious statue, stood inside the shower. A grunt filled the space, echoing over the glass walls and reaching out for me, encircling me, and pressing me forward as if by a guiding hand. The thought forced my eyes to drift and notice the placement of his own hand. His hips rocked subtly forward, his profile reinforcing the artistic sculpture of his being. A free hand pressed flat on the steamy glass, his palm facing me. Slipping in his efforts as his body rolled forward, the slithering of soap slapping over the thundering sound of water, a gruff moan left his lips.
I braced my hands on either side of the doorjamb, unable to look away from the performance before me. I ached to fulfill his needs. My center pulsed, imagining the heat of his hard length filling me. I shouldn’t have watched, but gods forgive me, I could not look away. He was glorious as he pleasured himself, and my eyes would not release me. The ache clenched, pulsing a rapid rhythm on its own to match the slipping motion of his hand. A warm, shivery sensation trickled down my thighs and crawled up my lower belly. My hips thrust forward once as I fought for control. His arm worked faster, the free hand cascading down the glass, struggling for purchase. My pulse raced at my throat, and my fingers gripped the door frame. I encouraged the ache, matching the rhythm between my thighs with the strokes of his fist.
When he finally released a heavy grunt, his free hand banged once against the glass. Caught in the fantasy, a frustrated moan escaped me. Both hands instantly released the wood frame, covering one over the other against my mouth too late to suppress my response. One final jerk of his hand on himself and his head hung as he sighed in satisfaction, “My little spark.”
With that, I ran.
heph
I heard a bang and pressed open the shower door. Not bothering to turn off the spray, I called out. “Hello?”
A scrambling over the floor and a second bang followed. Not thinking of my nakedness, I walked out of the running shower and crossed to the open bathroom door. On the floor, my clothes lay scattered around my case. I charged the short distance to the front room, noticing the main door still in a state of swinging forward and back. Someone had been in here. In two large steps, I crossed the living space, and yanked at the wood barrier. The hall remained dark, but feet scrambling down the stairs clued me to the retreat of someone.
“Hey!” I yelled, naked and uninhibited, from the top of the stairs. A swish of cherry-rosebud hair slipped from my view as the staircase only partially revealed the working studio below. A light flicked off, and the lower floor went black. My brow pinched, and I spun back for my rooms. Crossing the threshold, I closed and locked the door without thought. I’d never had to worry about anything when I stayed here before. I had nothing to hide. But the newest member of Hestia’s girls was an utter mystery to me, and I didn’t trust myself with thoughts of her, as proven by my shower.
Stalking back to the bedroom, taking note of the scattered clothing, I also noticed a disheveled pile of bedding and thick towels. My shoulders dropped. Whoever was here—and I had a good hint as to whom—had brought me necessities. That same someone was the cause of my trekking back to my car in the dark and retrieving my bag for fresh clothing. I’d slept in the same dregs for a week, once upon a time, but I didn’t wish to repeat the experience. Daily showering was necessary, clean clothes a must.
When you worked with fire and metal as I did, the warmth of a refreshing shower soothed away the heat and hard work of the day. As water trickled down my bare skin, I reached for one of the plush towels left behind and inhaled the scent of Hestia’s home. A hint of something fruity lingered. Just along the edge of the terrycloth, a fragrant hint of peaches, plums and pears combined. Phyre.
“Just what I thought,” I muttered. She’d be a virtual display of succulent sweets, and I hardened again. Then another thought occurred to me. She wouldn’t have, I wondered, curious if she’d seen me. The toppled pile proved she’d gotten close enough. If she hadn’t seen me, she’d heard me.
“My little spark is full of fire,” I spoke to myself and drew the fresh towel to my nose again, inhaling deeply.
+ + +
After satisfying myself a second time, I showered again. Still on edge and knowing I couldn’t sleep, I wandered back to the main house. I saw a light in the side window and I entered to find Hestia sitting in her usual spot, a rocking chair, staring into the embers of the withering hearth fire. She looked up at me as if she knew everything and I scratched the scruff on my neck sheepishly.
“Coffee?” she offered.
“Got anything stronger?” She smiled slowly, pointing to her coffee mug and then nodding to a glass container on the mantel. The whiskey was slightly warm, being so close to the fire, and I poured myself a generous dose into another ceramic cup on the table. Items lay out for the come-and-go-as-you-please presence of breakfast hours ahead in the next day. Hestia was a planner.
“Sit,” she commanded softly, although she knew I would. I curled onto the floor, folding my good leg and letting the weight of the other rest over my ankle.
“How are you?” A troubled expression crossed her face. Her lips pressed upward and her brow wrinkled. Her soft blue eyes focused on my jean-covered knees.
I scrubbed my face with a thick hand before I spoke. “I’m tired.”
“What did Zeke do?” Hestia asked, knowing my source of exhaustion.
“He forced an engagement.”
With the answer, Hestia stopped rocking. The slipper covered foot crossed over her leg slid to the floor with a gentle thump. “He what?”
I exhaled, hanging my head.
“He betrothed me to Lovie, Aphrodite’s daughter.” Aphrodite was the daughter of one of my father’s many lovers. As a promise to Aphrodite, he tried to give me her daughter, but Lovie hadn’t chosen me. She wanted someone else.
“Why?” Hestia’s startled eyes questioned me, softening as she spoke. I shrugged and took a sip of the warm alcohol.
“I guess he wanted to poke fun at the cripple,” I mocked, looking down at my leg, hidden under my jeans.
“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” my surrogate mother admonished. When my own mother had rejected me, Hestia stepped in to raise me. “You know that isn’t true.”
“I know it’s impossible for a beautiful woman to love an ugly man.”
“Hephaestus,” she warned, her face falling in sympathy to the many scars on my body, those marking my face and the metal leg under my jeans. I didn’t like that look from her, of all people. She taught me not to pity myself, so pity from her was the last thing I wanted. “You know I believe beauty glows from within us, reaching outward to show others our worth,” she added, ever the wise parent. I tipped up my mug, changing the course of the discussion.
“Even with that, I’m not a prize,” I muttered. “I find it difficult to commit. With Zeke as my role model, it’s no wonder why. He wants me to return and take Lovie back. I don’t see the point.” Lovie, sleek and lively, raven-haired and wild, her flirtatious personality didn’t match my more somber one. Vibrant compared to my brooding, we were not a good match. But I couldn’t deny I jumped at the suggestion—she was beautiful, and hope sprang that someone like her might still find something in me to love. How very wrong I was, when I found her on her knees with War.
My attempts to drown Lovie’s rejection came at the expense of Callie. A sweet girl, larger and curvier, our body types matched, but our hearts didn’t. She was eager to please, and taking her came without difficulty, but not without risk. She wanted me to pick her, and I couldn’t. The idea of me marrying someone else heightened her interest in me for a month or two. She wanted to know what could attract the lovely Lovie. Little did she know, nothing I did had pleased Lovie. Everyone learned the truth when her affair with War was exposed.
I had left two women in my wake when I ran from Olympic Oil, my father’s estate. Oh, irony, again, that I’d come here, surrounded with more of the female gender, to face another woman who I failed.
“That special woman is out there for you, Hephaestus.” Hestia liked to say my full name. Rolling it off her tongue, it sounded motherly, lovingly spoken, and reminding me of another female heartache from my home.
“I met my mother.”
Hestia’s hand covered her mouth. She nodded once, exhaled slowly and smiled weakly.
“What did Hera have to say?”
“She wanted me to visit her farm. She’d like to get to know me.”
Hestia’s lips tightened. Estranged from a woman I’d only met once, Hestia disapproved of her younger sister’s rejection of me.
“I see.” The pause allowed for the unspoken question. Would I go?
“I told her I wasn’t interested.” I answered without being asked. “I think it’s a little too late for a mother-son bonding experience.”
“Heph…” Her voice was too weak to scold me.
“I mean, it’s been, what, hundreds of years? I think there is a limit to how long a son can live with that kind of rejection.”
“Damn her,” Hestia growled into her coffee mug, taking a heavy pull of the alcohol hidden inside.
“I don’t need her, Hestia. I have you.” She smiled back at me, warming me with her tender eyes. As Hera was my true mother, making Hestia my aunt, we shared a bloodline. But family was more than blood, as Hestia’s Home proved daily, and Hestia was the woman I considered my mother.
“Maybe…”
I raised a hand to stop her. “No. I have nothing to say. She tried to apologize, reaffirming again it wasn’t me. It was Zeke.” My father, Zeke Cronus, and my mother had a lifelong love-hate relationship. In their love, they created me. In their hatred, my mother rejected me to spite him and his multiple affairs. I was the link between the daughters of Titus and the sons of Cronus. This did not win me favor among my other siblings. Silent and secluded, my brother Solis was the one to draw me out of my shell. He was my best friend, as well as my brother, and now the lover of my sister.
“I met Veva.” My voice rose with pleasure at the thought, hoping to change the subject once again. “It’s strange to finally acknowledge her as my sister.”
“How did you find her?” Hestia’s question spoke of fondness for one of her two nieces. As the daughter of Hera from another father, I knew of Veva’s existence, but she never knew of me.
“She loves me,” I laughed, trying to lighten the tone, but finding no irony in my words. Veva was very forthcoming in expressing how she felt. She told me she adored me, and that meant the world to me.
“And why would she not?” Hestia chuckled in return.
“Actually, she fell in love with Solis.”
“Oh my, that must be a feisty tale.” Her laughter carried and I smiled in response.
“It was certainly a long and winding road before they found true happiness.”
“And what about Persephone? Did you meet her as well?” Hestia asked fondly.
“I did.” My tone lowered. The beautiful blonde princess, filled with life despite heartache, had befriended me without question. Both she and Veva’s attention encouraged me to take the risk and hope for the best with Lovie. If those two women could love me unconditionally, why couldn’t Lovie? But in matters of the heart, I knew better. Friendship and sisterhood were not the same as a passionate, all-consuming love. My thoughts flicked to Phyre and my heart yearned with a need I never felt before.
“I see you have a new girl.” I commented gingerly, hoping not to sound obvious in my interest.
“Phyre? She’s been here a bit. You’ve just been away too long.” One eyebrow rose, but no bite filled her words. “She’s something special.”
“A little spark,” I chuckled, and we heard the clatter of a glass in the other room. Hestia raised a hand.
“Hello?”
No one answered, and Hestia tilted her head.
“Whoever is out there should be in bed.” Her voice rang like the mother she was, teasing in warning to her errant toddler child. Only, whoever she spoke to was a grown woman. She shook her head, chuckling into her coffee mug.
“Girls,” she muttered.
Yeah, girls, I thought.
phyre
Watching Heph had been the craziest thing I’d ever done. With his suitcase in my path, I stumbled over it, entangling my foot in those stupid, sexy, red boxers. So entangled, that the second I had them untwined from my foot, I ran with them in my hand. Not wanting to toss them aside, I slipped them in my puffy vest pocket. The material taunted me, calling out to me, to do something masochist like rub my hands over the super-soft cottony fabric or worse, run my nose over them. I forced myself to leave the room before I did the outrageous, which was turn back and face Heph.
My ankle throbbed as I hobbled back to the safety of the main house. After making my way to my room, I returned to the kitchen through the dark hallways. I wanted a large glass of water and some ibuprofen tablets, which Hestia kept by the kitchen sink. Maybe I needed ice, too, I thought, as I was about to open the freezer. Then I heard the gentle mutter of voices.
Nearing the doorway between the kitchen and the breakfast room, the rugged voice of Heph spoke of a variety of women. His engagement. His mother. His sister. Her friend. He hadn’t mentioned if the engagement was over, only that it was troubling. My shoulders fell at his sense of inadequacy. I could say unequivocally that Heph was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. His broad body, short beard and white teeth did things to me. At the mention of my name, and “a little spark,” I had confirmation that I did things to him, too. Things I probably shouldn’t do for him, because if I ever acted on the attraction, I could hurt him. Hurt him beyond repair.
