He didn’t let me finish. “On your knees,” he growled, the words meant to sound intimate, meant for me, but pitched just loud enough for the Sidonians to hear. His gaze gleamed with vicious delight, as if daring anyone in the hall to intervene.
As if daring me.
My breath snagged in my throat painfully as I forced sound past my lips. “Menelaus. No,” I growled. The single syllable scraped out, thin and furious.
My refusal only made him laugh. He yanked hard, and I dropped to the floor before I could brace myself. My knees slammed into the stone, pain exploding upward and stealing my breath. Scattered gasps flared around us. Several Sidonians leaned forward, intrigued, as if this humiliation were a form of entertainment.
Menelaus bent low, his thumb dragging across my cheek in a mockery of tenderness. His smile was warm enough to fool the room, but his whisper slid sharp into my ear.
“You embarrassed me last night,” he murmured. “So why shouldn’t you be embarrassed tonight? You certainly wanted to use that cunt then.”
I could hear blood rushing in my ears, and my stomach twisted tighter and tighter with each word. His hand drifted lower and I struggled against him. I wanted to scream. To disappear. To die. Anything to not be in this body, at this moment.
Bang.
The great doors of the hall slammed open, and every head turned.
A group of warriors strode inside, their torsos bare beneath dark blue cloaks, arms painted in silver and black spirals, the symbol of Sidon’s war caste. Their faces were painted in white masks that split down the center.
The head Sidonian emissary stood from the table, his robe sweeping behind him, his hands folded as if nothing at all were amiss.
“A gift,” he announced, his voice cool and composed. “To honor your marriage, Your Majesty.”
Menelaus stiffened, his hand still hovering near me.
The emissary gestured, and the warriors stepped aside. From the gap, one man stepped forward, huge and broad-shouldered, his skin slick with oil that made him glisten like a beast delved from below. His head was half shaven, the remaining hair braided tight and matted, with beads of bone. A harsh scar split across his face, cleaving one brow and dragging his mouth so that every expression looked like hunger. In his fist he carried a crescent-shaped blade, its edge glinting wickedly. He watched me, there on my knees … and leered.
The emissary inclined his head. “A fight. Blood on a blood moon. A magnificent spectacle to match the magnificent beauty of your bride.”
Cheers split the air, crashing against the vaulted ceiling. Menelaus released me, his attention already drifting away, his grin widening at the Sidonian’s tribute and the promise of violence. “We shall fight!” he cried out, raising his goblet again.
The sudden release sent me sprawling forward. I crawled away from his throne to mine, my palms slick against the stone and my knees still aching where they’d hit the marble. My breath caught as I forced myself upright with unsteady legs and a face hot with blood I could not cool.
Relief slammed into me so violently my stomach lurched. I nearly doubled over as bile rose, the sour taste burning the back of my throat. It was too much, my terror giving way to reprieve, my humiliation curdling into something that made me want to retch.
I’d been saved, not by mercy, but by their lust for spectacle. I’d been saved,for now.
I pressed a hand to my ribs and drew in a shuddering breath. Gods, I didn’t know whether I wanted to collapse into sobs or rise screaming, raking my nails across the leering faces that had just watched their queen debased like a whore.
The emissary lifted a goblet, the torchlight catching on the fine embroidery of his robes. “Your Majesty,” he said, “tell me, whom will you choose to face our champion?”
Menelaus straightened, bloated pride puffing his chest. He looked down the line of Spartan guards, clearly debating between them like dogs in a pen. His finger hovered in the air, then started to descend toward a younger, muscular soldier near the wall.
But a voice cut through the tension, low and unwavering. “I will fight.”
Achilles stepped forward, not from the rank of soldiers, but from the shadows behind them, unbidden, unarmored, and unmistakable. My heart panged at the sight of him. Watching him, I felt the fragile mask I wore tilt, threatening to slip and let the whole room see the splintered thing beneath.
The emissary blinked, fear sparking across his face. “Captain—”
Achilles’s lips curved, not in mirth, but in something colder. “Surely your champion deserves more than a half-grown boy wet behind the ears,” he said to him, his tone edged with mockery. “Let me fight him,” he said, turning toward Menelaus, his voice ringing around the room. “Unless we’re worried about how short the show might be.”
The crowd buzzed like flies over meat.
Menelaus’s eyes narrowed as he took in his captain. The silence stretched. Then his mouth split wide, and he bellowed a laugh.
“Why not?” he said. “If Sparta’s lion wishes to show his teeth, let him. Our guests deserve a true spectacle.” He leaned forward, his grin feral. “Prove to them what it means to stand in a Spartan hall and why they should worship me.”
The nobles shouted their approval, a fevered roar that shook the torches in their sconces.
