“Don’t you know?” he leaned closer, his breath warm against the rim of his glass. “Or did he never tell you?”
A silence fell between us, and the crowd leaned in, though pretended not to. My palms dampened, my pulse thundered against my ribs. My throat ached with the intensity of all those watching eyes.
I wanted to run. I wanted Zagreus to appear and rip this man apart. But all I had was the sound of his laughter echoing inside me.
Who was he? Who was this stranger who spoke my name, or not my name, but something close, something foreign to my tongue yet familiar in its rhythm, as if he were plucking threads from a tapestry I did not remember weaving?
“Who are you?” The words left me dry, sandpaper against the roof of my mouth, betraying my trembling hands even though I tried to steady them against the railing.
The man smiled. Not kindly, but it was a smile that did not stretch to the eyes, a predator’s curve carved onto his lips, the kind of smile that made the air curdle in my lungs. His hair was dark, a lustre of coal under the candlelight, combed back too neatly to be trusted. His suit was severe, every line tailored to perfection, but it was his gaze, sharp, cutting, laced with mockery, that seemed to make me uncomfortable without touch.
“Who am I?” He tilted his glass, the amber liquid within it catching the light like trapped fire. “Maybe a friend.” His voice was velvet, but woven through with barbs, as if each syllable was meant to pierce.
“I don’t know you.” My voice cracked. “And you… you called me…” My throat locked. “Selene.”
His smile widened. “Did I?” He feigned thoughtfulness, sipping lazily from his glass, his eyes never leaving my face. “Perhaps it was a slip of the tongue. Or perhaps not. Names are peculiar things, don’t you think, tesoro? They can be both prisons and keys.”
The words crawled into my ears, lodging there like parasites. Prison. Key. Selene.
Who was Selene? Why did it feel as though the sound of it stirred something in me, something faint and buried, a whisper pressing against locked doors?
“You’re mistaken,” I forced out, clutching at the folds of my crimson dress, as though its fabric might ground me. “That is not my name.”
“Ah,” he said smoothly, stepping closer until the space between us shrank, the scent of his cologne wrapping itself around me. “Then what is your name? Celestine?” He said it with a kind of cruel emphasis, as though he were testing its shape on his tongue. “Do you even know?”
My stomach plunged. His words were not mere taunts; they were needles, pulling at seams I did not even know existed within me.
“Why are you saying these things?” I whispered. My voice shook, desperate and defensive.
His grin widened, wicked, triumphant. “Because truth has a way of finding you, tesoro. You can bury it, you can smother it, but it does not die. It waits. And when it resurfaces, oh, it devours.”
My knees weakened. I staggered back a step, every nerve screaming, every breath tangled in panic. “Stay away from me.”
He chuckled, low and insidious, as if my fear delighted him. “Oh, but why would I? You’re the most fascinating ghost I’ve ever seen. A woman is dead, yet breathing. A bride, yet not a wife. A name, yet not a self.” His head tilted, his eyes glinting. “Tell me, do you bleed the same? Or did he strip even that from you?”
I froze, unable to breathe, the words splintering into me until I thought my bones would crack beneath them.
A shadow fell across me, taller, darker, heavier than any I had known. The stranger’s smirk faltered for the barest fraction of a second, his eyes cutting past me.
“Step away from her.”
Zagreus’s voice. Low, lethal, the kind of tone that promised ruin. His presence consumed the room before my eyes even lifted to him. He moved through the crowd like a storm made flesh, every line of his frame coiled with restraint and fury. He did not look at me, but at the man before me, as though his entire being narrowed into one singular, merciless focus.
Strong arms wrapped around me before I could even react, pulling me flush against him. His cologne, dark and grounding,drowned out the stench of fear that had clung to me. The world shrank into the circle of his grip, and shame burned through me for how much I leaned into it—for how much I had longed for him to appear, to anchor me, to remind me I was not alone in this nightmare.
“Stay away from her.” His words came again, sharpened steel now. His chin lifted slightly, his scar catching the light, his eyes burning with unspoken violence.
The stranger only smirked, unfazed, swirling his drink in lazy defiance. “Ah, Zagreus. Always so possessive.” His eyes darted to me, wicked amusement dancing there. “But tell me… does she even know what she is to you? Or who she was?”
Zagreus’s jaw flexed, a silent warning, a promise of blood. His grip on me tightened.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The walls closed in, the voices of the guests drowned into muffled static, and all I could hear was the echo of that name—Selene, Selene, Selene—hammering at the inside of my skull.
And I hated myself most of all for the tremor of relief that coursed through me at his touch, at his protection, even though I did not understand what I needed protection from.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
First Wife
