He falls like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
I move deeper, heart hammering a rhythm that is nothing but murder and fear.
Cecilia.
Her name beats inside my skull like a war drum.
Cecilia.
Her scent—sweet citrus and warmth—lingers faintly in the hall. With it there’s the coppery tang of fear and blood, and my stomach twists.
CECILIA.
Her heartbeat is the only sound I want to hear.
Then, I hear a cry.
Soft. Pained. Choked.
I sprint.
I slam open the heavy double doors to my uncle’s royal chamber—his pathetic imitation of the throne room he always imagined he deserved.
And time stops.
She’s there. So close, but too far.
Cecilia is tied to a chair.
Arms bound.
Face bruised.
Blood drying at her temple, her nose, her lip, her hand.
Her bottom lip is split.
Her dress is dirty and torn.
“CECILIA!” I roar.
My entire body is trembling with rage, but before I give into it, she twitches.
Just a flicker. A breath of movement.
The smallest shift of her bound hands.
The faintest lift of her chin.
Like her soul is refusing to give up even when her body is screaming in pain.
Her head rises slowly, as if gravity itself is fighting her, as if every bruised muscle protests. It looks like it costs her everything.
But still, she does it.
Because she’s Cecilia fucking Stavros.
Her dark green eyes—so fucking beautiful, like pine forests after a snowfall, ancient and stubborn and alive—drag upward until they find mine.
