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Panic choked her. It wasn’t as potent as before, when she sensed Epimetheus was in danger, but insidious doubt simmered in her gut. This wasn’t really happening. She was still at that train station, probably convulsing, losing her life to the tumor that caused the hallucinations she’d mistaken for premonitions.
It made way more sense than being in her living room, in a Titan’s lap, conversing with an Ancient Greek god.
That, or she was crazy. The room looked spotless because there was never any damage, like there had never been a crack in the ceiling. She’d imagined both, and there was no guarantee she wasn’t imagining Eros as well. Epimetheus too. Bile rose up her throat. He couldn’t be a figment of her imagination. He was solid. Real. She’d touched him.
And he’d touched her, but not always. If she’d imagined him fingering her to orgasm, what else hadn’t been real?
She’d been losing her mind, bit by bit, since she was six and first mistook a case of déjà vu for having precognition. Yes, she’d foreseen and avoided hundreds of tiny mishaps since, but that could have been her subconscious, analyzing odds. It had been her subconscious. But she’d built herself a fantasy and lived in it and let it blow out of proportion, until... this. This was her mind, breaking down.
Elpida tried to stand, to put distance between herself and Epimetheus, because his palm on her thigh made her thoughts lean heavily toward the naughty instead of the sensible, and she needed to clear her head. She made it to her feet, but swayed and fell backward. Before she could smash her head on the floor, Epimetheus was next to her, lifting her in his arms and cradling her to him.
She looked up into his face, and her heart lurched at his concerned frown. He was so gorgeous, even with his brows furrowed and his mouth in this grim line. His eyes were pools of darkness, but she saw the emotion in them, clear as day. She saw it, because she felt it too.
She loved Epimetheus. How? How could she? They’d only made out a couple times. She barely knew him. They hadn’t even slept together, and half the time he was in her head more than in her pussy.
But she did. With all her heart and soul. Her body yearned for him even now, amid all the chaos and the divine revelations she might or might not be imagining. She burrowed closer, rubbing her cheek against his bare chest. The steady rhythm of his heart beating anchored her.
This was it—her dream, hallucination, premonition—come true. She loved him, and she’d die. In his arms, like he held her now, feeling his warmth seep inside her skin and wrap around her, binding them together until she didn’t know where she ended and he began.
She loved him. And if he was really real, she’d pay for it with her life.