Chapter 4 Ares and Aphrodite
Chapter 4: Ares and Aphrodite
"Portia! Portia! If you’re still in here, answer me!" I shouted in the echoing silence of my own mind, desperately trying to contact the original owner of the body I’d somehow hijacked.
Nothing. Absolute silence. Portia’s soul never answered, no matter how hard I tried to reach her. Had the real Portia actually died from that venomous snake bite? Was my soul completely alone now, trapped behind the steering wheel of a dead girl's body?
I let out a heavy sigh. By now, Ares’s divine entourage had left the stone walls of Sparta far behind. Even though I hadn’t slept a single wink during the journey, I barely noticed when our carriage plunged into a dense, oppressive forest. The ancient trees grew so thick that the canopy swallowed almost every drop of sunlight, plunging us into a cool, eerie twilight.
The carriage moved with an impossible, ghostly speed. Even as we tore over jagged, rocky terrain, I didn't feel a single bump or vibration. Back in my world, if you drove a million-dollar sports car over a pebble on freshly paved asphalt, you’d still feel it in your teeth. This was definitely magic.
No mortals had been allowed to accompany me. I’d parted ways with Portia’s weeping family carrying practically nothing but the clothes on my back. Alastair, the brooding demigod, had informed me that we were heading straight for the Palace of Ares, nestled high in the treacherous peaks of Mount Olympus.
According to him, the gods had erected a massive, invisible barrier. Only immortals, ancient Titans, demigods, and mythical creatures—like satyrs, centaurs, and nymphs—could pass through. It wasn't the entire mountain range that was restricted, just the elite, divine real estate where the gods actually lived.
“If mortals could reach the gods too easily, they’d constantly bother us with their endless, petty requests,” Alastair had deadpanned when I’d asked about the magical border control.
Fair enough. Humans could be pretty greedy and exhausting. The gods couldn't exactly play a 24/7 wishing well for millions of prayers. Alastair had explained that the Olympians usually offered their divine intervention from a comfortable distance.
For instance, if a circle of priests sacrificed enough to beg for rain, Zeus might secretly manipulate the weather fronts to send a storm. If an army prayed for victory on the battlefield, Ares or Athena would typically deploy their mortal followers or demigods to tip the scales, rather than getting their own divine hands dirty.
The Olympians acted more like untouchable VIPs. They didn’t hear every single prayer, and they only granted the ones that entertained them or served their political agendas. Listening to him, I quickly realized that the power of these gods had actual limits. They weren't omnipotent; it wasn’t just a matter of snapping their fingers and yelling abracadabra.
“Tell me, Alastair, what is Ares actually like? How am I supposed to act when I finally meet him?” I asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.
“He is a fierce, unyielding warrior, but a remarkably generous lord,” Alastair replied without a second of hesitation. It was obvious the guy totally hero-worshipped his boss.
“And what kind of women is he into? Does he prefer the quiet, obedient type, or someone with a pulse who actually talks back?” I probed. If I wanted to survive this insane arranged marriage, I needed to figure out how to play my part flawlessly.
“He likes beautiful women,” Alastair stated dryly.
“And do you think I’m beautiful?” I teased, flashing him a slow, perfectly calculated Hollywood smile, just to test his reaction.
“Of course you are, Princess of Sparta. You are the most beautiful woman in all of Greece,” Alastair said with absolute, unwavering certainty.
I let out a soft, breathy chuckle.
“So Ares won’t be disappointed when he unwraps his new toy? Since this is our first time meeting, I’m feeling just a little bit nervous,” I said, keeping my tone light.
“Hmm… not quite,” Alastair corrected smoothly. “Ares has met you before.”
When? I scoured through the fractured shards of Portia’s residual memories, but there was absolutely zero trace of an encounter with the God of War. Had the sheltered Spartan princess secretly crossed paths with a murderous Olympian, or was Alastair just terribly misinformed?
“Ares… you truly are my greatest lover,” Aphrodite purred, pressing her impossibly flawless body against the hard, muscular expanse of Ares’s chest.
The Goddess of Love and Beauty trailed her slender, delicate fingers along the thick cords of his neck, her every movement dripping with calculated seduction.
The divine lovers had spent the entire night tangled in the sheets. As was her habit, Aphrodite had slipped away to Ares’s luxurious palace while her lawful husband, Hephaestus, remained isolated in his sweltering workshop, obsessively forging tools and weapons of war.
Their scandalous affair was the worst-kept secret on Olympus. Aphrodite felt absolutely no shame in flaunting her numerous conquests. Ares wasn't her only distraction; she frequently entertained tragically handsome mortal lovers, like Adonis. To her, her lame, soot-stained husband was virtually nonexistent—a bitter consequence of a marriage forced upon her by the King of the Gods.
Zeus, terrified that the other gods would tear Olympus apart warring over her beauty, had tied her down. He had forced her into an eternity with Hephaestus, the crippled god of the forge.
It was a cruel irony. Why Hephaestus? Why not bind her to one of his stronger sons, like Ares? Even though the Lord of Battle was widely considered a brutal outcast among the heavenly elite, he was infinitely more desirable than the blacksmith.
That seething resentment fueled her chronic infidelity. She was the Goddess of Love and Beauty; it was her divine right to share her affections and her body with whomever she pleased. No man—mortal or immortal—had the right to cage her or claim exclusive ownership of her perfection.
Aphrodite arched her elegant back with a feline stretch, flicking her heavy waves of blonde hair—strands as soft and luminescent as spun gold. She ran her fingers through the silky locks before gracefully smoothing down her sheer gown, intricately embroidered with celestial silver thread. The goddess was preparing to slip back to her own palace, back to the dreary existence with her gloomy husband.
“I am taking a wife, Aphrodite,” Ares announced. His massive, scarred, and nearly naked body lay sprawled lazily across the rumpled bedsheets. A single, faint beam of moonlight sliced through the high arched window, casting severe shadows over his perfectly sculpted, lethally powerful physique.
“Excuse me?” Aphrodite gasped, spinning around in sheer shock.
Her perfect features twisted into a mask of ugly displeasure. “Who is it?”
“The Princess of Sparta,” Ares replied, his deep voice maddeningly flat and unbothered.
“You mean the mortal rumored to be the most beautiful woman in Greece?” Aphrodite’s eyes flashed with a dangerous, volatile fury.
“Yes. And consider this a warning, Aphrodite,” Ares growled, the lazy demeanor vanishing as he sat up. His burning, dark gaze locked onto his lover’s eyes. “Do not even entertain the thought of tormenting her the way you did Psyche. I chose this union.” He knew her temper well; her past jealousy over Psyche’s legendary beauty had driven her to concoct a series of vicious, deadly trials to ruin the poor mortal.
“Why on earth are you playing these pathetic, romantic games with a fragile human?” Aphrodite snapped, her voice trembling with raw emotion. “Just take her to your bed! Sleep with her until the novelty wears off, and then throw her away, exactly as you’ve done with all your other mortal playthings!”
“That is my business, Aphrodite. Not yours,” Ares countered, his tone as hard and unyielding as iron.
The Goddess of Beauty looked utterly unglued, her flawless face flushing with a mix of rage and genuine insult. She didn't actually love Ares, not in the truest sense, but she had always relished the absolute certainty that—despite his other dalliances—he belonged to her. He worshipped her. Realizing that the God of War was willfully defying her for a mortal bride stung her colossal ego.
Seeing the wounded distress cracking her perfect facade, the rough edge in Ares softened. He reached out, gently wrapping his massive hand around her slender arm, and drew her close. He pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to the back of her hand.
“My beloved Aphrodite…” Ares coaxed, his deep, rumbling voice dropping to a hypnotic, masculine purr. “I am marrying the girl because she may prove highly useful to my plans. Circumstances have forced my hand in taking her as a wife. But you must believe me—as it has always been, you will remain my greatest desire. My primary lover.”
Instantly melted by his rough, possessive reassurances, Aphrodite sighed, abandoning her jealousy as she threw herself back into the God of War’s muscular embrace.
“Just promise me one thing,” Aphrodite whispered softly against his ear, her tone laced with a lingering, poisonous edge. “Do not fall in love with her.”
Ares remained silent for a long moment, his heavy hand slowly stroking his mistress’s bare spine. “I do not know, Aphrodite,” he finally murmured, his gaze drifting back to the moonlit window. “No one can truly know the future.”
