Goddess (Starcrossed)

was found sneaking around the beach and captured,” Telamon informed him. “I would have sent her back to her House, only . . . it’s her , Master.”
    “It’s all right,” Matt said, nodding his head. “Bring her in.”
    Ariadne was led into the tent, held on either side by a Myrmidon. Her hair was tangled, and her face was red with exertion. She’d obviously put up a fight, but she was no match for even one of Matt’s soldiers, let alone a full company of them.
    “Let her go. Then leave us.” The guards obeyed silently. He turned to Ariadne. “How did you find us?”
    “I followed my father. He was acting weird tonight,” she whispered. Ariadne stood as far away from Matt as she could and rubbed her arms where the guards had held her.
    “Did they hurt you?” he asked quietly. She ignored his question.
    “How can you be him ? You’re not a Scion.”
    “Neither was Achilles.”
    She dropped her face into her palms and rubbed her eyes roughly. “No,” she said, lifting her head suddenly. “No, I don’t believe any of this. I can’t.”
    She ran for the exit, but Matt moved faster than she ever could and was there before her. He caught her wrist to stop her from leaving. She stared at him in shock.
    “Believe it.” Her skin felt soft and warm in his hand. He let her go and turned away. He knew it was better this way, even though it didn’t feel like it. “Go home. My men won’t stop you.”
    She didn’t leave.
    Matt heard her crossing the space to him and turned, already shaking his head. “Don’t.”
    She kissed him, anyway. He knew he was supposed to stop this. She might know the story word for word, but she didn’t actually remember the ending the way he did. He was just about to pull away and send her home to her brothers when she pressed her thumb into that U-shaped hollow under his Adam’s apple while she kissed him. Just like she used to a hundred lifetimes ago.
    As Matt picked her up and carried her over to his bed, he marveled at how simple a gesture it was. Really—it was a silly habit she had of touching his throat with her thumb. But once she did that, Matt didn’t care who he had to kill.
     
    “Sing for me,” Helen pleaded. She lifted her head off Lucas’s chest and stared down at him.
    “Right now? With no accompaniment?” Lucas asked. Lying on his back, he looked up at the ceiling of their little cabin in the woods and blushed a bit.
    “Yes. Please? I really want to listen to music, but I want it to be something from you, not from my imagination.”
    She rolled off of him. The stones in front of the fireplace were nice and toasty under their blanket, despite the snowstorm that swirled outside their cabin. Helen grabbed her mug of tea off the hot flagstones in front of the fire and offered it to Lucas.
    “For your throat, if it’s hoarse and you think you might sing badly,” she said with a challenging grin.
    “My throat’s fine,” he said, nudging her playfully with his foot. He sat up suddenly. “I’ll make you music. But I’m a much better guitar player than a singer.”
    “Really?” Helen took his hands and held them up, looking at them. They were hardened, like a fighter’s, but still sensitive, like an artist’s. Just like everything else about him, his hands were the perfect blend of opposites. She ran her finger across the calluses on his finger pads, noticing them for the first time. “Why didn’t you ever play for me before?”
    “Why haven’t I ever taken you on a date before?” he said through a bittersweet smile. “There are a lot of things I’ve meant to do with you that I haven’t.”
    Helen swayed closer to him. Just to breathe his air, or feel his body heat . . . anything to get another dose of him without actually kissing him and breaking the gentle understanding they’d come to.
    “How’d you learn?” she asked quietly, a little ashamed that she didn’t know this already.
    “My dad taught me.” Lucas paused, a serene but sad look on his face. “He taught me classical Spanish guitar, because we lived in Spain for so long, and American finger picking. I actually haven’t played at all since we left Cádiz.” Again, that slightly sad look stole over his face. “He’s better than me . . . but I’m still pretty good.”
    For a long time now, Helen had taken for granted that she and Lucas were as close as skin was to bones, that there was nothing about him that she didn’t know. But here she was, learning