Menelaus’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Ah,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my cheek as though in fondness. “Yes, I did hear that you spent the day giving away the palace’s supplies.”
The touch made my stomach knot. I saw in my mind his hands around my neck, tightening, cutting off my breath. I remembered the moment the world dimmed at the edges, the certainty that he would not stop. Even now, with hiseyes clear and human, with his voice smooth enough to charm a hall full of courtiers, I could not forget the thing I had seen inside him. I hated him for it. Hated the way he could wear gentleness like a mask and expect me to mistake it for mercy.
Before I could form a reply, he chuckled, the sound warm enough to fool anyone listening. “Sparta is fortunate,” he said almost lovingly, although it always felt more like a taunt whenever he praised my efforts to help his people, “to have a queen who cares so deeply.”
I forced a weak smile, hoping it masked the tightness in my chest, and the fury curling beneath my ribs. “It seems the Dread has been getting worse,” I said quietly. “Are you concerned?”
As the words left my mouth, I saw it—a flicker of strain tightening the skin around his eyes, a shadow slipping beneath the king’s carefully held calm. He leaned closer, his thumb still resting against my cheek like he owned every breath I drew. “No,” he said confidently. “The Dread will not reach us again. It will not make it past the palace gates.”
His confidence should have reassured me.
But all I felt was the edge of a promise I didn’t believe.
I reached for my cup to hide the tremor in my hand, and the wine burned down my throat.
Across the table, Achilles sat among some of his soldiers. He hadn’t looked at me all night, and yet … I felt him. Felt his presence like a current pulling under the surface.
“Are you sure you’re just tired, Helena?” Menelaus pressed. “I’ve noticed a difference in you as of late.” His gaze went to my stomach.
My stomach lurched as I thought aboutwhythere’d been a difference, and it had nothing to do with being with child. I forced stillness into my features. “Becoming a queen is an adjustment,” I said carefully, tilting my chin to meet his gaze. “That’s all.”
It was another truth that wasn’t a truth at the same time.
His eyes narrowed as he studied my face. “Just as long as you’re not forgetting yourself, my beauty. Don’t forget that every breath you draw, every glance you dare, belongs to me. Don’t forget that Amyklai’s welfare depends onme.”
My hand was shaking so much that wine spilled over the edge. We both stared at the puddle of liquid as if it was revealing all of my secrets.
Words finally formed on my tongue, although when they did, they came out soft, almost mocking. “How could I forget that? And how else can anyone butyouexist in my world?”
Menelaus’s eyes flashed, though luckily it was just their normal appearance. “I would hope my queen is too smart to forget that,” he finally said smoothly, though the warning in his voice was iron.
I forced myself not to recoil, not to give him the reaction he wanted. Menelaus’s grip tightened over mine, his voice booming through the hall. “Raise your goblets, Sparta,” he commanded, yanking my goblet upward. “To Sparta’s queen!”
The soldiers roared, cups sloshing, the noise crashing over me in a wave of heat and wine and blind loyalty. Across the table, Achilles lifted his cup as well, his posture like ice. His eyes flicked to the king’s hand wrapped around mine, blue striking bronze in a single, searing look.
Menelaus grinned wider, almost like he was sensing the tension. “Captain,” he called, “is she not the most exquisite queen you’ve ever seen?”
A hush shivered through the hall.
Achilles didn’t look away from the king. When he spoke, his tone was even … and unmistakably insolent. “The finest in all the realms, my king,” he said, lifting his cup a fraction higher. “Truly worthy of a god. I imagine evenyoustruggle to keep up.”
A few soldiers snorted into their wine. Menelaus’s grin faltered for a blink.
My pulse thudded. Because this, this sharp-edged familiarity, this thread of venom wrapped in loyalty, was exactly what confused me so much about their relationship.
Two men tied together by battle and blood. Two blades honed against each other.
Menelaus stared at Achilles with a narrowed gaze, as if deciding whether Achilles’s response had been friendly … or a challenge he couldn’t yet name.
“Drink,” Menelaus demanded, his fingers bruising into my skin as he watched Achilles lift his cup. The captain took a sip, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as if the entire display were nothing more than entertainment to him.
Menelaus finally leaned back, seemingly satisfied, but the ache lingered in my hand and my thigh, and a chill slid through me. For one terrible instant, I saw it all unraveling, his eyes finding the truth, his wrath burning through me, through Achilles, through everything. The vision of it clung like a foretelling, dark and inevitable, waiting only for the moment it would come to life.
The heavy bronze doors groaned open, and music swept into the hall. Flutes trilled. Drums throbbed, stirring the air as the concubines poured in, led by Hetairis as always.
Painted lips flashed, kohl-lined eyes glittered, and their gauze-thin chitons clung to every graceful step. I knew them now, knew their rhythms, their charms, the quiet arsenal hidden in every glance and gesture.
Leira with her seductive laugh that could draw a man’s gaze across a hall. Callianeira, who always moved like water catching sunlight, her touch lingering just long enough to make men ache. Melantha, bitter as pomegranate rind, who leaned too close and let her words cut even as her fingers soothed.
