I would not let it strip me hollow.
I would go and fight.
And I would crawl back from whatever hell awaited me.
For her.
For my blood.
For the fragile future clawing to exist—etched in stone, sealed in blood, carried in a heart that refused to die.
Chapter3
Salvatore
Iwas woken by the smoke of frankincense and myrrh, clinging heavy to the air like a priest’s prayer turned sour. And by the warmth of Helena’s body pressed against my chest.
The linen sheets were cool, foreign, soft against sweat-slick skin. Beneath us, the cedar bed groaned, its lion-pawed legs protesting, as if it too knew the weight we forced upon it was heavier than flesh.
A bronze lamp guttered on the table, its flame sputtering as though afraid to witness. The frescoed walls came alive in their glow—painted gods and beasts, their bright eyes fixed on me, silent judges of the blasphemy I’d wrapped myself in.
The ivory chest yawned open, silks spilling across the floor in jeweled cascades—garnet, lapis, gold. Among them, bracelets and rings glittered, gems throwing sparks of light like a thousand tiny, mocking lies.
Helena had collected them the way she collected men. Not for love. Not even for beauty. For conquest. Spoils, not treasures. Trophies she could discard once her hunger dulled.
I rubbed at my face, my skin still sheened with oil—the same she had poured into her palms last night, smoothing it across my chest, my throat, her fingers slow and deliberate, before she straddled me. She moved with a priestess’ certainty, hips swaying, hair spilling over her shoulders like black silk, her breath heavy with wine and want. She touched me with exquisite care, but it was not tenderness—it was ownership. She took me the way she took everything else—languid, practiced, indulgent.
Her mouth had been sweet with pomegranate when it closed over mine. Her nails left trails across my ribs, sharp enough to sting, shallow enough to tease. She made me gasp, curse, beg—then silenced me with her body, pressing me under her like a tide that knew no mercy.
And when she was finished, she rolled away.
She always did and I hated it.
And still—I stayed.
On the table, a bronze mirror leaned against scattered kohl jars and toppled perfume bottles. I turned my head and caught its reflection.
A stranger looked back.
Not a man.
Not a brother.
A shadow with my face.
Salvatore,the silence whispered.You do not belong here.
But I smothered the voice beneath the perfume, beneath the warmth of her skin still lingering against mine.
Ah, the fruits of war.
I was lying in my brother’s bed.
With his wife.
Or rather—his widow.
A smile curved my lips—crooked, venomous.
