I stepped away from the table, letting the hall breathe with me, letting curiosity build like a drawn bow. As I approached the musicians gathered near the dais, their strings quiet between songs, I leaned in and murmured a few words, soft enough that only they could hear.
A new rhythm began, slow and sinuous. A pulse meant to pull attention.
I stepped into the open space before the table, and the room hushed, breath by breath, as I let my hips sway with the first sweeping note. My hands lifted, tracing the air, drawing invisible patterns that curved and beckoned.
My gaze found Menelaus … and held.
It was much easier to get his attention without a veil. There was no gauze between us, no barrier softening the effect of my face. His eyes caught on me like hooks as I moved with purpose, just as Hetairis had taught me, each roll of my shoulders, each turn of my waist, a controlled lure.
Heat climbed Menelaus’s throat, flushing the skin beneath his beard. He leaned forward, wine forgotten, lips parted …enthralled.
His pupils blew wide. His chest rose unevenly. His hand twitched on the table, as though resisting the urge to reach for me.
My arms lifted, wrists circling as though stirring embers, drawing a glowing line from my fingertips down the length of my chest.
Menelaus’s breath hitched and his knees spread slightly as he angled his entire body toward me.
I drifted closer, letting the sway of my hips sharpen, letting my movements grow more intimate, more dangerous. My foot slid forward, toes kissing the marble. My thigh brushed the hem of my gown. I exposed the long line of my back to him, then I glanced over my shoulder, just once.
His hands were digging into the wood of the table.
The music deepened, and I let it guide me into a low bend, palms skimming the air close to my knees before rising … rising … every inch aimed directly at him.
By the time I stood fully again, Menelaus wasn’t blinking.
I let the final notes twist around my ankles, climbing up my legs, unraveling in time with my last slow turn. In that suspended breath, I let my gaze drift to Hetairis.
She had frozen mid-gesture, her hand still resting on the advisor’s shoulder. Her eyes were wide, gleaming, her lips parted not in coy invitation but in startled awe. Shock … and something like admiration flickered over her face.
A knowing smile curved her mouth as our gazes locked. My pulse steadied.
I turned back to Menelaus, stepping close enough that the heat from his body brushed mine. My fingertips skimmed the front of his robe, light and teasing, a touch meant to unravel him further. His breath hitched, and he leaned in, greed and adoration warring in his eyes. “What can I do,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire, “to reward you for that?”
“I want Nikandros’s head,” I murmured, my voice soft but carrying as I continued to touch his chest.
“My queen is just as bloodthirsty as her king.” He laughed with glazed eyes, his pupils blown. Menelaus was nodding before I’d even finished my request. “Yes,” he said instantly, the word thick with lust and oath all at once.
CRASH.
A chair slammed to the ground across from us.
I jerked my head toward the sound.
Achilles was stalking across the hall, his expression pure, murderous intent. Nikandros’s eyes bulged as he scrambled backward, squealing, tripping over the hem of his own robes.
“Wait—wait—WAIT—!”
Achilles didn’t.
He seized a fistful of Nikandros’s hair and wrenched him upright. Steel flashed and Achilles drew the blade across his throat in one clean, devastating stroke.
Blood erupted in a hot, arterial spray. Nikandros gurgled, hands flying to his throat, crimson pouring through his fingers as he collapsed to his knees. He toppled sideways, body twitching, bleeding out in a widening, glistening pool that crept across the stone.
Screams erupted as wine spilled and someone fainted. Menelaus’s eyes went wide, not with horror, but with stunned, blinking disbelief. His gaze slid from the dripping blade … to Achilles … to the dying man writhing at a noble’s feet, blood pulsing in rhythmic spurts across the floor.
And then … to me.
Suspicion narrowed his eyes, pulling his mouth into a thin, assessing line. The haze of lust burned off him like steam.
