The words struck clean and deep, like a lance to the gut. She didn’t even look at me.
She didn’t need to.
The wound was open, and she let it bleed.
I sucked in a breath, forced the pain down, and coerced my face into a crooked smile. I even laughed—light and hollow—but her words had already spread through me like poison.
Still, I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“The gods will it,” I said, my voice strained, thin—empty armor spoken aloud.
She watched me from beneath her lashes, her gaze slow, syrup-slick. Every inch of her was a performance. A goddess of grief—lips as red as bloodied silk, eyes rimmed in kohl, skin kissed by flame. Draped in shadow and perfume, crowned in warpaint and ashes.
She was a battlefield.
And I was already losing.
I dragged a hand over my face, trying to scrape the weariness from my bones as I rose. The red-dyed tunic from the night before lay crumpled on the floor, twisted beside my woven leather belt. I shook it out, its embroidered hem rough against my fingers. The woolen cloak fared no better, half-hung on a stool, its edge brushing a toppled goblet—wine bleeding across the floor in a sticky pool, as dark as old blood.
“Why do you look so glum?” Helena asked sweetly. “Was it something I said?”
She padded across the chamber, as bare as sin, pressing herself against my face—half comfort, half conquest, smothering me in warmth and perfume. She smelled of sweat and myrrh, of the night still clinging to her skin.
I pushed her away.
Not hard.
But enough.
The linen tunic slid over my head, cool fabric dragging across my skin like a restraint barely holding. I cinched the belt at my waist, my fingers moving fast, mechanical, as though armor could hide the cracks inside me. Morning light slashed through the windows, cutting across the chaos of the room—silks like shed skins, jewels scattered like baited snares, wine-dark sheets clinging to the floor like sin refusing to be washed away.
I reached for my rings, sliding them onto my fingers one by one. Their weight was familiar—gilded heirlooms heavy with a legacy I could never escape. My sandals, stiff with dust and sticky wine, scraped as I forced them on.
“Salvatore…” Helena’s voice slid over me like silk dragged across raw skin—soft, smoky, dangerous.
I heard the whisper of oil as she poured cedar-scented heat into her palms. Then the slow, slick sound of her rubbing them together, as methodical as a priestess preparing for sacrifice.
Her hands were in my hair a moment later, fingers gliding through the dark strands with a reverence that felt like worship—and damnation. Her scent—wild, spiced, unforgettable—wrapped around me like a net I had no hope of tearing free from.
“You’re better at pleasing me,” she breathed, lips grazing my ear, “than you’ll ever be on some battlefield.”
Her nails raked lightly against my scalp, coaxing the beast inside me to the surface.
I snapped.
I caught her wrists before they could wander further—hard, punishing, the bones beneath my grip shifting under the force. I spun her to face me, eyes blazing, chest heaving.
This wasn’t just desire.
This was possession.
“You listen to me,” I growled, my voice shredded with hunger and rage. “While, I’m gone, no other man fucking touches you. No one. You’re mine. Mine to take. Mine to keep. Mine until the gods themselves choke on the sight of us.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
Her lips curved—half smirk, half surrender, the kind of smile that made me want to both worship and destroy her.
The silence between us cracked like a whip—charged, violent. It hummed with possession, with lust, with something too twisted to be love and too brutal to be anything else.
