His expression shifted, pain, hunger, and regret all vying for a place there at once. He leaned in, until his shadow swallowed mine, until the scent of leather and steel and faint salt was all I could breathe.
“Then close your eyes,” he said.
I obeyed, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of his breath mingling with mine. He pressed his forehead against mine. It wasn’t a kiss. Just the barest press, centering and unbearable all at once. His hand tightened fractionally against my neck.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “With me.”
And I did. Inhale, exhale, our chests rising and falling together in a rhythm older than war, older than kings. For those breaths, the memory of Anysa’s blood faded, the marble throne disappeared, the weight of the crown and the king’s hand on my skin dissolved into something softer.
But it wouldn’t last. I knew it, and so did he.
Because when his lips finally brushed the corner of mine, a touch so fleeting it could have been imagined, his whole body went still, like he’d just remembered the cost.
He drew back, his hand lingering one last heartbeat before falling away. “That’s all I can give you,” he said in a breaking voice.
Emotion swelled in my chest so violently I thought I might come apart from it—the heat, the ache, the sheer wrongness of what lived between us … and the impossible, holy truth of it all the same.
“Thank you, Captain,” I whispered raggedly.
His jaw clenched and something in his eyes darkened … but not with anger.
With need.
With pain.
“Achilles,” he said softly, correcting me. Not an order, or a demand. Just … an offering.
I stared at him, my throat thick. The word burned in my mouth before I let it go. “Achilles.”
He exhaled as if I had struck him or saved him, and blinked hard, tearing himself back as though it cost him something vital. Every line of him strained toward me, like he was aching to linger in the pull between us, to surrender to what was already unraveling. But he fought it. Fought me. He staggered a half step, his hand flexing like he could shove the desire back into his ribs and lock it there.
The air where his fingers had touched me was still full of him, charged, and aching with his shape. He turned fast, like if he hesitated even a second longer, he’d fall to my bed and ruin us both.
And then he was gone, the door closing behind him like the final note of a song I already knew I’d never hear again.
I lay in the dark, the echo of his touch burning against my skin, and tried to remember how to breathe … because by tomorrow’s end, I would go to sleep no longer just as myself, but as the bride of Sparta’s king.
Chapter33
The king was gone.
Gone hunting, as though today weren’t our wedding day at all.
At first light this morning, Menelaus had vanished into the woods with a hunting party, leaving the entire palace suspended in a baffled, breathless hush.
I paced the length of my chamber in irritation, my silk hem snapping around my ankles with every turn. The priestesses had painted me hours ago. Swirls of red glitter traced my collarbones and arms, black sigils curled at my throat and wrists … but all their careful work felt like a costume I’d been forced into too soon.
The lamps glowed warm and amber behind my reflection, catching on the gold filigree of my mirror, on the flower crown braided into my hair, on the necklace and earrings meant to mark me as queen.
If the king ever returned and allowed me to become one.
Why would the king go hunting the morning of his wedding … right after the Dread had breached the palace gates for the first time?
It made no sense.
A loud knock broke through my thoughts.
I froze. “Yes?”
