13. Perseus #2
Perseus blinked, then let out a short breath of amusement. “Right. God of love and desire. Forgot that bit.”
“No,” Eros said, lips curving wryly, “you just rubbed your chest.”
Perseus glanced down, caught in the act—his palm flat over his heart. “Oh.”
Eros stood and stepped around the table. “Come on, then.”
A pair of glasses materialized in Eros’s outstretched hand. Perseus eyed them suspiciously.
“You’re going to need these.”
“What are those for?”
“Hephaestus made them,” Eros said, giving them a gentle shake. “We’re going to Serpentara . ”
“They don’t wear the glasses there?”
“Nope. It’s one of the only places in the world where they don’t have to,” Eros said. “Magic wards, divine agreements, a whole lot of trust. You’ll be safe, but I wouldn’t stare too long. You might turn into something poetic.”
Perseus smirked and took the glasses. “You always this dramatic before breakfast?”
“Only when love’s involved.” Eros grinned as he slid on his own pair of glasses, the lenses catching the early morning light.
Eros placed a firm hand on Perseus’s shoulder. There was a sharp tug—like being hooked behind the navel and yanked through a tunnel of wind and light—and then, just as quickly, it stopped.
They were standing in a cave, though the word hardly did it justice.
It was warm and lived-in, walls carved smooth by time and care, faintly glowing with veins of mineral light that traced through the stone.
Perseus blinked, adjusting. He remembered Medusa once mentioning their ancient homes nestled in the mountains, hidden from the world. This had to be one of them.
Eros knocked lightly on a wooden door embedded in the rock. A beat later, a voice called from inside, calm and unmistakably hers. “Come in.”
The moment Perseus heard it, his wolf surged beneath his skin. The pressure was immediate, intense, as if it were clawing to get out, to reach her. Not yet, he told it silently, taking a steadying breath.
Eros placed his hand on the rough-hewn door handle, and they stepped into the room.
“Lord Eros, what are you—” Medusa started, her eyes widening as they landed on Perseus.
They stared at each other, and the world dropped away. Her snakes had stilled, and her lips parted slightly in shock. His chest constricted, but it wasn’t pain this time. It was hope, raw and sharp and undeniable.
Eros, now grinning like a cat who’d just tipped over a bowl of cream, stepped back. “I should probably get going.”
And just like that, he vanished, leaving only the scent of ozone and tension in his wake.
Perseus didn’t move at first.
He just stood there, drinking her in like a man who’d been lost in a desert and finally found water.
His gaze trailed over her, starting with the familiar tilt of her mouth, that faint scar near her brow she always forgot she had.
The wild mass of snakes crowning her head had gone still, as if holding their breath.
She wasn’t wearing the gorgon glasses, and her eyes, brilliant and strange and beautiful, searched his face.
She looked the same. And completely different.
Softer somehow, or maybe that was just how he saw her now, bathed in the cave’s golden light, dressed in a dark wrap that clung to her frame, bare feet brushing the stone floor.
There was strength in her posture, the kind only those who’ve endured heartbreak carry.
And gods, he’d missed her. Missed the sound of her voice and how her presence made the world fall into place.
He stepped forward once. “Medusa.”
It was all he could say.
Because what he wanted to say was too big for the space between them. That he still dreamed about Nepal. That he woke up every morning with the ghost of her touch on his skin. That his wolf—his wild, relentless wolf—had been aching without her.
And now, standing before her, the ache sharpened into something raw and real.
Emotions pulled at every part of him, tightened in his chest like a rope drawn too taut, clawed behind his ribs with something hot and restless. It lived in the pit of his stomach, curled like a fist, aching with everything he hadn’t said and everything he still wanted.
His hands itched to reach for her, to close the distance, to make sure she was real and not another dream his wolf conjured on sleepless nights.
Even his breath felt uneven, like his body was remembering how to be near hers again.
Every instinct hummed with need, not just desire, but the deeper, bone-deep pull of someone who belonged to him.
And he to her.
And the only thing keeping him from crossing the room was the fear that maybe, after everything, she didn’t feel the same.
Perseus stood, his arms at his sides but tense, like holding still was the only thing keeping him from shattering. His wolf was clawing, pacing beneath his skin, desperate to close the space between them. But he didn’t move.
“The last time I sss aw you, I thought you were going to die,” Medusa said, her voice raw around the edges.
“So did I,” he answered quietly.
Her eyes glistened. “And it was because of me.”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t, though.”
But then she faltered. Her gaze dropped, her lips trembling before she pressed them together, as if trying to hold back the dam. “I didn’t think they would hurt you like that,” she whispered. “I was just trying to get the girl sss back. I didn’t know who else to turn to. I didn’t think?—”
Her voice cracked, and Perseus felt something crack in him too.
“I’ve been overwhelmed with guilt,” she said, voice barely above a breath. “It hasn’t been ea sss y, Perseus. Thinking that you hated me. That you’d want nothing to do with me.”
Each word hit him with precision, threading through his ribs like barbed wire. He clenched his hands at his sides, fingers twitching, aching to reach for her—but he didn’t.
Not yet.
He just looked at her, really looked. At the way her shoulders curled inward like she was bracing for rejection. At the way her eyes held too much emotion for someone so strong. The space between them felt unbearable, but he didn’t cross it.
Because she needed to finish, and he needed to hear it.
Medusa drew in a shaky breath, her arms folding around herself like armor. “I told myself I did the right thing, that I had no choice. But that night… sss eeing you lying there—I’ve never felt fear like that before.”
She looked up, her voice growing rougher. “I’m not used to caring that much. Not letting anyone in. But you—” her voice wavered again, “you got under my skin. And then you were gone. And I thought I’d destroyed the one person who didn’t look at me like a weapon.”
Her jaw trembled, and she stepped back like she needed distance from her own confession. “It was never a game, Per sss eus. I never meant to lose you.”
Perseus took a step forward, the weight of everything he hadn’t said tightening in his chest. “You hurt me,” he said quietly.
“More than I thought possible. I didn’t even know I could be hurt like that.
” His voice wasn’t angry, just raw, steady as he inched closer.
“But that doesn’t mean I stopped wanting you. ”
Medusa stepped back again, and it was like a shard of cold slipped between them. He stilled.
“I told my family,” Perseus said after a moment. “About being a demigod. About Zeus. About everything.” He huffed a bitter laugh. “Didn’t exactly have a choice. You can only keep a secret that big for so long.”
She didn’t answer, so he added, “Eros told me what happened. What you were trying to do. Calliope filled in the rest.”
Medusa snorted faintly. “Calliope’s meddling finally did something useful.”
Perseus looked at her, his hand slowly lifting toward her. “Medusa. Come here.”
“No, I can’t.” She shook her head, her arms tight across her body again. “What if…”
“Medusa,” he said again, firmer now, his hand still held out to her. “Get over here. Stop being so stubborn.”
Her lower lip trembled. She didn’t move—not yet—but her eyes flicked to his hand like she was fighting every instinct not to take it.
Perseus cocked his head. “You know,” he said, voice casual but his eyes locked on hers, “your snakelets keep trying to reach for me. Maybe you should take a hint from them.”
A startled laugh escaped her, involuntary and breathy, and for a second, she looked like the woman he remembered before everything broke apart. “They do like you,” she admitted, eyes softening. “Little traitors.”
And then, before he could say anything else, she ran to him.
She crossed the space between them in a blur, colliding against his chest as though the distance had been unbearable.
Perseus caught her instantly, his arms wrapping around her, one hand splayed against her back, the other on her neck as if anchoring them both.
She buried her face in his shoulder, trembling slightly, and he held her closer, breathing her in, his wolf finally settling in his chest like it had found its home again.
They didn’t speak right away—there was nothing that needed saying. Not yet. Just the warmth of being whole again. Just the quiet, undeniable rightness of being in each other’s arms.
Perseus held her for as long as she needed, his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek. When she finally moved, pulling back just enough to look at him, he let her. His hands stayed at her waist, grounding them both.
And then—he saw her eyes.
Really saw them.
Golden, yes, but flecked with something deeper, something ancient and unknowable and achingly beautiful. Power and sorrow and strength, all swirling in that impossible gaze. It hit him like a punch to the chest, stealing the air from his lungs.
“Is this the first time you’re actually speechless?” she tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips.
His lips twitched, but his voice came out hushed, reverent. “Why wouldn’t I be…while staring into the eyes of a legend?”
Medusa’s smile softened, and the joke faded into something tender between them. “You’re ridiculous.”