As I came to the end of the third circle, the chariot lurched to its final halt, wheels grinding against stone, and my stomach turned with it. I stared up at the high arched doors of the private wing … theanaktoron. The king’s chamber.
The horses stamped and snorted, each strike of their hooves echoing in my chest.
“The rite is complete. May your union be fruitful. May your womb bear the strength of Sparta,” called the High Priestess, her voice cutting clear across the courtyard.
The words had barely left her mouth before the crowd erupted. Cheers suddenly rose like a breaking wave, their voices colliding in a thunderous swell. Fists punched the air and women resumed tossing handfuls of dried fruit, figs pelting the ground like offerings and rattling against the wheels of the chariot.
My body stayed rigid from my growing anxiousness, while their joy poured over me. Menelaus’s hands found my waist, lowering me from the chariot with a softness that surprised me. I glanced up at him, lips parted. He gave me a gentle smile, making something in me relax the tiniest bit. “You did well, my bride,” he murmured, and my eyes widened.
The cheering ebbed, giving way to a marriage hymn, and my chest cinched tighter with every note. My legs dragged and the red paint streaked across my skin burned and itched like chains as he pulled me forward toward his rooms. No one but a royal was permitted to cross into them. And once I stepped over the threshold, I would not step out the same.
And still I walked. My sandals struck the marble, each step reverberating among the cheers.
We are saved,I whispered to myself as theanaktorondoors sealed shut behind us.
The cheers outside faded to a muffled roar, leaving only the sound of Mene laus’s breaths.
And I knew then that while my village had been saved … my own journey was just beginning.
I stood in the chamber, the air clinging close with the faint sweetness of wine. My pulse fluttered, nerves and a fragile thread of hope tangling in my chest as I forced myself to keep my eyes forward—not to the bed, not to the walls that had swallowed countless secrets before me.
I kept my eyes on him.
Menelaus was standing in front of me and for a moment, his gaze was simply his own. Dark, sharp … and utterly mortal.
But then it shifted again. In the space of a blink, something else looked out at me, hollow and watchful, as if another pair of eyes pressed against the inside of his. The change was so quick I would’ve doubted myself … if it hadn’t happened again.
Normal. Then not.
Human. Then something far older wearing the shape of a man.
The two impressions flickered back and forth, not smoothly, but like they were wrestling for dominance, neither willing to release its hold on him.
A cold tremor feathered through my spine. Still, I met his gaze. I refused to look away.
His mouth curved in a knowing twist that made my skin tighten. “Good,”Menelaus said, his gaze sliding over me possessively. “A queen with fire. I’ve always wondered how long fire lasts when held in a god’s hand.”
A god’s hand.
The implication hit like a blow. Was that what had happened to his last queen? Had he tried to shape her into something no mortal could survive? Was that what he saw in me—something to test, to bend, to scorch until nothing recognizable remained?
Fear churned in my stomach … but I locked my jaw refusing to let him see me shrink.
He lifted a hand, and his ringed fingers slid into the roses braided through my hair. One by one, he plucked them loose. Petals drifted down like red ash. “I’ve never handled something this beautiful before,” he murmured, almost wonderingly. “Let’s see how well you endure.”
The word struck me harder than his touch ever could.Endure.As if he were another Trial. A test of strength. A shiver shot through me, and I prayed he hadn’t felt it.
But of course he did. His smile deepened and my unease grew.
He tugged the gold pins loose until my hair tumbled down my back. His hands were relentless, dragging at my dress in rough jerks and tugs, baring me one inch at a time. The silk fell like it meant nothing. LikeImeant nothing. It pooled at my feet in a soft sigh, the last boundary between him and my building terror.
Menelaus stilled, his greedy hands gone slack at his sides. His eyes drank me in, consuming but also arrested, as though even he was not immune to the sight he had uncovered. His chest rose once, hard and fast. “Truly,” he murmured roughly, “there is no woman in all the lands as beautiful as my queen.”
Terror still raced like fire through my veins, but his words struck something else within me. A reminder. My beauty was the weapon I’d been born with, the only blade I could still wield. He might think to break me, but so long as he desired me, I held power.
I forced my lips to curve seductively, to make my voice a sensual purr that masked the quiver in my throat. I remembered Hetairis’s lessons. “And here I thought Sparta’s king bowed to no one. Yet look at you—already undone.”
For a breath, silence reigned. Then his laugh broke free in a harsh, splintering burst, the echo of stone cracking in a sculptor’s hands.
