The doors do not open for you—they recoil.

Bronze shrieks against bronze as you shove them wide, and Olympus itself seems to flinch at the force of your entrance. The torches gutter along the marble walls, flames bending low as if afraid to look at you. The air tastes of stormlight and betrayal.

He is there.

The King of the Gods lounges across your marriage bed as though it were nothing more than a couch in a banquet hall. His himation slips from one broad shoulder, careless, unashamed. The sheets—your sheets, woven by the Fates’ own blessing—are tangled around his hips. The scent of nectar and sweat hangs heavy in the chamber.

And beside the column, half-hidden in shadow, stands the women, the girl.

She is young—soft as new milk, trembling like a fawn separated from its mother. Mountain thyme clings to her loose hair. Her tunic is torn at the shoulder. Pale skin blooms unmistakable marks: golden bruises shaped like hands that were never meant to be mortal. Fingerprints that glow faintly, as if divinity has burned her instead of blessed her.

Her eyes—wide, wet, terrified—flick between you and him.

Innocence wrapped in ruin.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a ragged sound, not quite a scream, not quite a sob. The purple curtains whip and snap from the force of it, wind spiraling through the chamber though no window stands open. The clouds beyond the balcony blacken in answer to your pulse.

You do not look at her first.

You look at him.

At the silver threaded through his curls. At the beard that has brushed your collarbone in quieter centuries. At the mouth that once swore before altar and fire that you alone would sit beside his throne.

He lifts his hands slowly, palms outward, feigning surrender. The gesture is almost bored.

“Beloved,” he begins.

The word curdles.

“You are not a god,” you say, your voice low and shaking with contained thunder. “You are a rutting beast draped in lightning. A satyr who stole a crown.”

His eyes flash—not with shame, but irritation. He rises from the bed in one fluid movement, filling the chamber with his presence. Power hums off him in visible heat, pressing against your skin.

“Do mortals refuse their gods?” he replies coolly. “Would you have me deny what I am? Creation is hunger. Storm is desire. I exist because I take, because I shape, because I leave life in my wake.”

He steps closer.

“And even your fury sustains me.”

The girl whimpers softly, trying to cover herself. Her fingers shake so violently the fabric slips through them. You see it now—the confusion, the awe that must have turned to fear the moment divinity became weight.

For a heartbeat—one sharp, terrible heartbeat—you want to destroy her.

You want to scorch her name from mortal memory, to turn her bones to salt.

She is only what the storm uprooted.

Your hand lifts, not toward her throat, but toward the air itself. Wind answers instantly, coiling around her slight frame. It is not cruel. It is not gentle. It is final.

“Go,” you command.

The gust tears her from the chamber, spiraling her safely, mercifully, down the mountainside and back to the fragile world of men. The scent of thyme fades with her.

Silence crashes down.

Only you and he remain.

He stands tall, shoulders squared, not even bothering to retrieve his dignity in cloth. That grin curves his mouth again—that knowing, infuriating grin of a being who has never truly been denied.

You feel it then—the weight low in your abdomen. The slow, steady rhythm beneath your heart. A child formed from oath and eternity. Proof that even in betrayal, creation binds you together.

He notices your hand drift protectively to your belly.

And he dared to smile.

He steps into your space. His palm settles against the swell of you, warm and possessive. Not tender—never truly tender—but claiming.

“You know how this ends,” he murmurs. The skies seemed to shift, and the clouds let rumble: a storm is forming.

ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!!