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“Your shoulders feel like concrete.”

“I do not know what concrete is.”

“Trust me. It’s accurate.”

She steps closer.

Her knees brush mine.

I can smell the faint sweetness of flowers on her skin.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks.

The question nearly destroys me.

A mortal woman.

Asking permission.

From a god who once commanded armies.

“Yes.”

She smiles.

“Good.”

Then she bends and presses her lips to mine.

Soft.

Warm.

Impossible.

The world stops.

For three thousand years, I believed I understood pleasure because I had witnessed it in others.

I understood nothing.

Wren’s mouth moves gently against mine, and something fierce awakens beneath my skin.

I lift my hands to her face.

They tremble.

My hands have never trembled.

Not before armies.

Not before Nemesis.

Not even as stone consumed my body.

But now, with this delicate woman kissing me, I am afraid of doing something wrong.

She draws back slightly.