Agamemnon roared, releasing me. I scrambled to get away, but his giant arm shot out, blocking my path to the door. Then he threw me down onto the bed, his bloodied hand closing around my throat again. I thrashed against him, kicking my legs wildly, but Agamemnon remained unfazed, pinning me down with brutal efficiency.
“I had heard this was how you take your women—screaming and injured,” I hissed as he towered over me, rage and fear making my tongue reckless. “Because nobody will fuck you willingly.”
Agamemnon only laughed at that. “Ah. So youhaveheard of me.”
“Yes. And you know what?” I panted. “I find it surprising how much people have to say about something so little.”
I flicked my eyes pointedly to his crotch, finding satisfaction in the ripple of fury that fractured his cold composure. Agamemnon then tightened his grip around my throat, and a horrible pressure began building inside my temples, as if my head were about to explode.
“I can see why Castor likes you,” he murmured as he calmly watched me choke. “The bold ones are always the most satisfying to break.”
As darkness began to creep in at the edges of my vision, I saw him slip a hand beneath his robes, touching himself as he watched me suffer. He slackened his hold just enough to let me take a breath before applying the pressure once again, letting me dance on the blurry fringes of consciousness.
“What’s the matter, girl? Nothing more to say?”
Every vile insult I had ever thought of clogged in my throat as I glared at him, hoping my eyes would scream the hatred I could not voice. But Agamemnon only smiled and continued working himself.
Finally, he released my neck as he positioned himself over me, and I knew that now was my only chance.
In my hand, the one I had hidden beneath the sheets, I gripped a shard of the broken wine jug tighter. I could feel its jagged edges biting into my flesh as I reaffirmed my grip, ensuring the sharpest edge was exposed.
As Agamemnon pushed my tunic up to my waist, I launchedmyself forward, throwing all my strength into slamming the shard into his thigh, burying it deep in his flesh. Agamemnon let out a howl of agony, and I twisted the fragment deeper, pain lancing through my palm.
The king of Mycenae reeled backward, his face riven with rage. It was the kind of rage I had only heard stories about: of soldiers gripped in the throes of bloodlust, ready to slaughter entire armies.
I ignored the fear ripping through me as I scrambled over the bed and bolted toward the door. Agamemnon threw himself in front of me, and I recoiled, narrowly missing his grasp.
A silence held its breath as we stared at each other. Blood streamed down Agamemnon’s thigh in crimson rivulets. He reached down and ripped out the shard with a grunt before tossing it across the room.
“You’ve got balls, slave, I’ll give you that,” he said, voice ragged. He tried to laugh, but the sound came out strangled. “You’ll pay for this, you know. Nobody makes a king bleed.”
A thought stole through me like an icy winter breeze… I was about to die.
As if sensing my fear, Agamemnon smiled and took a heavy step toward me. I could see his wrath coiling inside him, tighter and tighter, preparing to unleash itself.
“King Agamemnon, I have an urgent message.” A voice sounded from behind the door.
“Leave!” he barked.
“I’m told the message is urgent. It’s from King Tyndareus. He wishes to discuss Helen’s betrothal.”
This caught Agamemnon’s attention. I remained frozen, watching his fury slowly disperse as a new focus took root. He threw me a warning glare before limping toward the door. When he opened it, two gray eyes met mine.
Penelope.
But it was not the Penelope I knew. She was wearing a plain, ragged tunic and a faded scarf around her head to hide her hair. Herface was smeared with dirt, her feet clad in worn sandals. Only her eyes were the same—those bright, clever orbs that darted around the room, calmly assessing the scene.
“King Tyndareus wants you in his throne room, sir, says it’s urgent,” Penelope said in an accent that was not her own.
Agamemnon let out a rush of air through flared nostrils.
“Listen here.” He jammed a finger in Penelope’s face, seemingly oblivious to her identity. “I want this girl here punished. Do you understand me, slave?”
“This one?” Penelope nodded to me. “I don’t have control of that, sir.”
“This slaveattackedme. Do you see?”
Penelope regarded his bloody thigh, brows twitching. “So you want me to tell the others you were attacked…by a slave girl?” She tilted her head. “I know it’s not my place to say, sir, but word spreads pretty fast around here.”
