Ares didn’t know when it had first started, the strange coil of anticipation that tightened in his chest whenever Astra turned to look at him. He couldn’t help it: he would stare at her so intently that it frightened her. He knew she was frightened. He saw it there on her face, in her eyes, in the way she would send him sidelong glances to ascertain his dark moods.
He had thought before that it was better that way, if she hated and feared him. There would be no misunderstandings then, no accidental, fleeting touches and stares, no temptations, no tangling of the clear divide between old and new god. This way, it would be easier when she met her inevitable demise. He couldn’t miss what he never had.
And then Circe had happened to them.
After that, he had learned only too well the taste o
