“But I won’t.”
His hands dropped away, leaving me weightless. The abrupt absence of his touch was worse than his grip. He stepped back, smoothed the front of his suit, and in the same measured tone said. “Get ready. My guests are here.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I ran from there to our room, panting and sobbing. When I reached the room, I locked the door and stood alone in the middle of the room. Why hadn’t he punished me? Why had he spared me, when cruelty would have been easier? The absence of wrath felt more terrifying than its presence.
My hands shook as I pressed them against my chest. Trying to hold myself together. Hyperventilation tore through me, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
Why had he let me go? Why did mercy feel so much sharper than violence?
And why, despite everything I had seen, did the hollow ache in me only grow deeper?
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Selene
It is a terrible thing to dress oneself for strangers while the mind begins to unravel, as if I’d lose mine any moment. The mirror held no kindness whatsoever, only a fractured reflection of myself and a woman draped in a gown of deep crimson, her throat burdened with jewels that glimmered like small, merciless eyes. My hands shook when I fastened the necklace, they betrayed me when I reached for the anklet I wanted to take off. That cursed trinket clung more to my skin as though it was fused with my flesh. I tugged until the skin burned red, until my breath rasped short and shallow. Still it did not move, as if the metal knew something I didn’t.
I laughed in disbelief. I was losing my mind, wasn't I?
My lungs tightened, air refusing to stay. For a heartbeat, I thought I might claw the dress off my body and run barefoot into the day.
But the knock on the door startled me. Dragged me back from wherever I was heading.
“Mrs. Vitale?” It was Elena.
I swallowed. “I’ll be there in a minute.” I hoped she heard my voice because even to my own ears it sounded distant.
I heard footsteps retreating and took a deep breath. I needed to go downstairs. If not, someone would come again.
Gathering myself, though I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing, I opened the door and headed to the stairs. I could already hear the soft violin music and chattering. I wondered how many people were there.
Just as I reached the stairs, my throat clogged. The hall was no longer a hall but a theatre where I was the main event. Murmurs clung to the air, laughter too brittle to be honest. Men with eyes like predators. Women adorned in silks that whispered of concealed arsenals. None of them was familiar, and yet… two faces sliced through the fog of unknowing.
Isadora. The woman who claimed to be my mother’s sister. She stood in deep emerald satin, posture erect, smile unfaltering as though she owned not only the room but my very breath. And beside her, her daughter looked radiant, a polished and younger version of her mother, standing with a wine glass. Too perfect, so much so that it made me swallow hard. My blood recoiled as if it recognised her before my mind did.
Every step down the staircase felt heavier than the last. Their eyes clawed over me, weighing and measuring. Whispering to themselves. My arms folded over my chest. Suddenly feeling too exposed and uncomfortable.
Why was I even here? Why did he tell me this was happening? That there would be so many people?
I hated the thought that followed. Where was he? Zagreus. My reluctant anchor, my shadow and torment. My eyes hunted the crowd, desperate for the sharp outline of his presence. I despised myself for needing it.
The clink of glass startled me. And I looked to my left to see a man in his mid-twenties approaching me.
He lifted his glass and winked. “Well,” he said, lips curving into a snake’s smile. “If it isn’t the dead.”
My body stiffened as the room rippled with stifled laughter. I couldn’t decipher anything. This place was too crowded. My mind caught the single word.Dead.
He stood taller than most, shoulders broad but not brutish, his frame honed, and his hair was dark, swept back with the casual arrogance of someone who knew he needn’t try. A faint scar cut through his brow, lending him a charm that was as cruel as it was deliberate. And those eyes were filled with mischief and cunning, yet swept in something that smelled of rot, of secrets and burials of truths.
I forced my voice out. “What do you mean?”
He tilted his head, feigning innocence, his smile deepening. “Mean? I don’t know. What did I mean, Selene?”
“I’m not Selene. My name is Celestine.”
He chuckled at that. “Is it now?”
I swallowed. “Who…” my voice cracked, but I forced it to steady. “Who is Selene?”
