Aphrodite lay back on the soft, perfumed silks of her bed, sunlight filtering through translucent curtains and bathing the chamber in a warm golden glow. The scent of roses and jasmine hung in the air, and the quiet murmur of fountains filled the silence. Yet her mind was anything but peaceful.
She had dismissed her attendants hours ago, needing solitude. Her eyes wandered across the ornate ceiling of her temple-palace, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere. No mortal, no divine admirer occupied her attention now. Only a name.
"Akhon," she whispered.
Not with the honeyed tone she usually used when speaking of a lover or a fleeting infatuation. Not with the amused sarcasm she reserved for the pompous gods of Olympus. No — she spoke it like a question. Like a prayer. Like a wound.
The memory wasn't clear. It gnawed at her, a thread she couldn't unravel.
She sat up, letting the silk slip from her bare shoulders. "Why can't I forget it?"
