The moment she sees the guards, her head drops. A perfect bow, practiced and automatic. She steps aside without a word, never once lifting her eyes to look at me.
As if I’m not worth acknowledging. As if I’m already dead.
The thought sends panic through my veins.
We step inside, and the temperature drops. Cool stone floors stretch ahead, covered by rugs that probably cost more than I want to think about. Tapestries hang from the walls—rich blues and golds.
The guards know where they’re going. No hesitation, no need to ask directions. Down a wide hallway lined with more paintings, past doorways that offer glimpses of rooms filled with furniture that gleams like jewelry.
How does a person live in all this space? How do they walk through these halls without feeling lost, without feeling small?
My muscles coil tighter with each step. The villa seems to go on forever, room after room of polished surfaces and perfect arrangements.
The hallway opens onto a conservatory filled with plants I’ve never seen before. Massive leaves in impossible shades of green, flowers that look like they’re made of silk. The air here smells rich and humid. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the back of the property is visible—more gardens, moregreen, more proof of how much water they waste on beauty while people outside the wall die of thirst.
The guards push open glass doors that lead to a stone patio. Sunshine warms my face as we step outside, but I barely notice.
My eyes lock onto the table.
It’s a feast. A casual, everyday feast that would feed a dozen hungry islanders. Grapes hang in perfect purple clusters, their skin so taut it looks ready to burst with sweetness. Wheels of cheese sit open, revealing creamy white centers marbled with herbs. Fresh bread—actual bread, not the hard biscuits we lived on—lies sliced and waiting, the crust golden brownand crackling.
My mouth waters despite everything. When did I last eat real food? My stomach growls loud enough that I’m sure the guards can hear it, but I don’t care. The sight of that bread makes me dizzy with hunger.
A door opens across the patio.
Footsteps on stone.
I look up, and the world stops.
“You.”
The word catches in my throat, comes out as barely a whisper. I stumble backward, would have fallen if not for the guard’s steadying hand on my arm.
It’s him. It’shim.
Marco stands in the doorway like something carved from marble and brought to life. If I thought he was beautiful in the moonlight, outside the city walls, in full daylight he’s devastating. The morning sun catches the bronze of his skin, makes it glow like he’s lit from within. His hair falls in dark waves to his shoulders, catching highlights that shift from brown to black to gold.
He’s a marvel, yes. But it’s what he’s wearing that makes my breath falter.
Gone is yesterday’s simple black garment. Now he’s draped in flowing fabric that catches the breeze, deep purple silk that wraps around his torso before falling to mid-thigh. The neckline plunges low, revealing the carved perfection of his chest. Golden clasps hold the garment at his shoulders, and matching sandals lace up his wide calves.
He looks like an emperor. Like the statues of ancient gods we sometimes found washed up on Atrea’s shores—perfect and untouchable and absolutely, impossibly beautiful.
And absolutely, impossibly cruel.
The contradiction makes me sick. He’s magnificent, yes. But also murderous. Hateful. This is the man who ordered those executions yesterday without blinking. Who knocked me unconscious with a single blow.
My mouth falls open. I try to form words, try to make sense of what I’m seeing, but nothing comes out.
Marco’s eyes—those same hard, cold eyes I remember so clearly—meet mine across the patio. A chill spreads down my spine. Yesterday I spat in his face. Today he’s had me brought here, to this private place, this isolation where no one will hear me scream.
When he speaks, his voice carries the same harsh authority it held yesterday.
“Wait outside,” he tells the guards. “But leave his chains on.”
Chapter four
Marco: A Taste of Home
