And even if the weight felt heavier than I imagined—even if the dreams of Amyklai didn’t match the truth of what this throne would feel like—I would hold steady.
Because I was no longer waiting.
I was chosen.
I was Helena of Sparta.
Chapter31
The dancers moved like river currents in front of our thrones, unpredictable, untamed, each step warping the air around them. Silk clung to their sweat-slick skin as hips rolled and ribbons flew.
A silver tray had been placed before me, piled with roasted lamb, honeyed dates, glistening pomegranate seeds, and saffron-soaked rice. Sweet. Spiced. Divine. I picked at it, careful to pace myself. It was strange having an appetite … actually enjoying my food.
I’d spent so long with a stomach knotted by worry that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to want something.
It was easier though to enjoy food when I knew my village would be able to eat tonight.
It also helped that Achilles had disappeared, and I didn’t have to worry about heated glances every time our gazes crossed.
An aulos shrieked a high, trembling note as the tempo surged. Fingers danced over lyre strings as laughter burst from a nobleman just left of the throne. He tipped his goblet mid-chuckle, crimson wine spilling down his sleeve like blood.
The dancers spun harder.
Anklets clinked as silks snapped in time, their bare feet striking the marble in a driving rhythm. Bodies twisted and arms cut through the air, elegant and merciless all at once. Their frenzy built with the music, beauty unraveling into something wild.
Nomiki had said yesterday there would be a feast. A night meant to show the kingdom the magnificence of their queen, one who could wear a crown and smile and revel like the rest of them. And for a fleeting moment … I let myself pretend. Pretend that I lived in a Sparta that could afford to celebrate like this.
A male grunt cut through the music, and I turned instinctively, my eyes widening.
Pinned between two columns in the shadows was Hetairis. Her palms were pressed flat to the marble, her body braced and her knees spread as one of Menelaus’s advisors, Damos, with his gold-trimmed robes and eagle tattoo, thrust into her, hard and careless. His tunic was bunched at his waist, and his teeth were bared in some mockery of a smile as he gripped her hips like reins.
His hand slid up and fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so her face tilted toward the ceiling. He said something I couldn’t hear, something that made his shoulders shake with laughter.
Hetairis arched for him, lips parting on a breathy laugh of her own. Her hands braced against his thighs, guiding him deeper, her body meeting every brutal thrust with eagerness. She tossed her hair back like a performer stepping into the spotlight.
For a moment, it was almost convincing. Almost.
But then I caught the truth in her eyes, how they were flat beneath the painted glamour, reflecting torchlight instead of pleasure. Her movements were practiced, not passionate; a routine, not a hunger.
My stomach tightened.
Where was the power she’d promised me? Why wasn’t she wielding it, turning the room to her will? If this was mastery, it looked too much like survival.
Was that what waited for me … survival?No, I tried to assure myself. Being queen was far different than being a concubine.
As if sensing the shift in me, Hetairis’s gaze snapped up and our eyes locked.
She straightened, rolling her hips with exaggerated enthusiasm, baring her teeth in what might have passed for a seductive smirk to anyone else. A mocking little lift of her chin followed, as if to say,See? I choose this. I command this.
But it was all wrong.
Her smirk faltered almost as soon as it formed, slipping like a mask that no longer fit.
My throat tightened. I jerked back toward my food, not wanting to watch her shame. I forced another bite of fig past my tongue, but the honey had turned bitter. Ashy. Dead.
“A vision,” King Menelaus announced, his gaze briefly flicking over to Hetairis before focusing on me. “How can anyone else exist anymore now that I’ve found you?”
I turned, startled, and met his gaze. His eyes were dragging over me like wine down a goblet’s curve, savoring … sure.
