The moon hung silver over Ithaca, and from Olympus, Athena watched. She had been watching him all day—just as she had for weeks now. Odysseus. Her Odysseus. The boy she had molded into a man, sharpened like a blade until he could outwit any mortal, any god. The boy who once listened to every word she said like it was divine law—because it was. Now he stood on his balcony, arms crossed, staring into the distance like a restless wolf. The candlelight caught in his hair, made his bronze skin glow.

Athena hated that he looked so far away. Hated that he wasn’t looking at her, thinking of her. That damn mortal wife of his had her head on his shoulder. Athena’s jaw tensed, fingers curling around the edge of the marble railing where she stood. She could feel the weight of the spear that leaned against her thigh, begging to be used. She had to remind herself—this was not war.

But gods, she wished it was.

Athena had told herself over and over she was above this. Above mortal attachment, above jealousy. And yet here she was, standing on Olympus with her heart hammering, watching the man she had trained, guided, made, live a life without her. Watching him laugh at some joke from his wife, watching him play the dutiful king. She had walked away after their last argument, after his words had cut sharper than any blade, but she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Not for one damn moment.

She had been patient. She had given him time. But patience had never been her strongest virtue.

Tonight, she would take what was hers.

With a thought, she was gone from Olympus, her body dissolving into shadow and moonlight. She appeared at the foot of Odysseus’ bedchamber, silent as a stalking lioness. The guards outside never stirred—no mortal could resist her will. Inside, Odysseus slept sprawled on his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. His wife lay on the far edge, back turned to him, already in dreams of her own.

Athena’s lip curled in a quiet, dangerous smile.

She moved to his side of the bed, brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He twitched in his sleep, scowling even in his dreams. Gods, he was infuriating. Gods, he was perfect.

“Mine,” she whispered, her voice low, a vow.

With a wave of her hand, the room dissolved into gold mist. The mortal bed was gone, the wife gone, the palace gone. When the mist cleared, Odysseus lay exactly where he had been—but now on a bed carved from white marble, draped in deep blue silks. The glow of Olympus bathed everything in a soft light, the night sky stretching endlessly beyond the balcony outside Athena’s chambers.

And there he was, right where she wanted him—her Odysseus, her king, her brat, her prize—sleeping in her bed.

Athena sat on the edge of the mattress, leaning over him, watching him breathe. He’d wake soon. She could almost see the exact moment he’d open those clever, infuriating eyes and start cursing her name, threatening to throw himself from Olympus if she didn’t send him home.

The thought made her smirk.