Before I knew I was moving, I stepped forward, far enough that the firelight caught the gold of my diadem, far enough that every soldier in the circle quieted.
“Enough,” I hissed, hoping that the word landed like a command they would respect.
The warrior’s fingers froze on the girl’s jaw. He looked up at me, uncertainty flickering beneath the wine haze.
“Release her,” I demanded.
A long beat passed, tense as a drawn bowstring, then, reluctantly, he let her go. The girl jerked back, scrambling away on her hands and knees with shuddering breaths, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“My queen.” Two guards appeared at my sides so quickly it nearly jolted me. Their armor brushed my sleeves as they formed a wall, angled subtly but unmistakably between me and the soldiers.
“Please come back to your tent,” one murmured, trying to sound deferential.
It wasn’t.
Heat climbed up my neck, humiliation pricking beneath my skin. They weren’t protecting me. They were reminding every man watching that I could step forward, speak, command …
… but nothing I said carried the weight of the king.
The soldiers understood it instantly. Their tension snapped and someone barked a laugh. Another lifted a goblet and the moment shattered.
By the time the guards steered me two steps back from the firelight, the celebrating was already roaring to life again—cheers rising, meat tearing, the girl’s terror swallowed whole by wine and war cries as though I had never spoken at all.
I looked down at the cup in my hands, the wine dark and heavy, and I couldn’t help but think of Anysa again, and what she would have thought.
She would have been so disappointed in me.
The flames spat fat into the air, and I glanced up, my gaze catching on where Theron sat apart from the worst of it, stretched long on a rough bench with a cup dangling loosely in his hand. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t jeering like the others. His eyes moved instead—steady and watchful—tracking each soldier, each bark of laughter, every cruel tug at the Sidonian women as though he were mapping the shape of the men who claimed to rule this war.
I found myself staring at him, trying to read what game he played, when his gaze slid to mine. A knowing smile curved his mouth and he winked again.
Heat rose in my cheeks and my lips hitched upward into a snarl as I tore my eyes away.
A shout snapped my attention back to the fire. One of the Sidonian women tried to pull free from a soldier’s grip, her arm jerking like a trapped bird. Laughter roared as he hauled her onto his lap, his hand clamping hard around her throat as he tipped his cup to her mouth. She choked on the wine he forced between her lips, red liquid cascading down her chin and staining her dress as his companions erupted in cruel delight.
The cup slipped from my hand. I took a step forward, my voice already rising, the words burning in my throat like the lesson I’d just learned hadn’t happened.
Before I could yell out again, a hand seized my arm. In a rush I was yanked back, the canvas of the tent closing over me, the firelight vanishing. I turned, a scream balanced on the edge of my tongue … only to find Achilles. His chest heaved like a man still in the grip of battle, and his eyes were wild … bright with a ruthless exhilaration forged from blood and hard-won victory.
I parted my lips to speak, but the words never made it past my throat. His mouth claimed mine with bruising insistence, as though he were still on the sand conquering. The taste of wine and salt pressed into me, his hands locking at my waist, pulling me against the heat of his body.
I gasped against him, my fingers clutching at the hard planes of his shoulders. His tongue pushed past my lips, stealing the air from my lungs. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through me, as if the taste of me only stoked the fire raging in his blood. The world tilted with it—soldiers shouting outside, the stench of smoke and roasted flesh—all of it drowned beneath the heat of him, the sheer want pressing against me.
His hand slid higher, tangling in the fabric of my cloak, fist tightening until the cloth strained. He wrenched me closer, crushing me against the line of his body, like he could fuse us together, burn away the distance with his hunger. His mouth moved harder against mine, feverish, desperate, as though he’d claim me the way he had claimed the battlefield. Utterly and without question.
Suddenly, his body shuddered. His breath faltered and his lips slackened against mine as the firm grip on my waist loosened.
“Achilles?” I whispered, trying to hold him upright as he sagged into me.
He slumped harder, dragging me back a step, his head lolling against my shoulder. I staggered beneath him, my cloak slipping from my shoulders as I strained to catch him. He was all muscle and bronze, his bulk pressing the air from my chest.
“Gods,” I muttered through clenched teeth, though it was to myself as much as to him. Inch by inch, I lowered him down, easing his body until his back met the sand-strewn furs. Strands of hair slipped over his brow, his lips parted like they had been left mid-breath on my name.
Theron had struck again, his spell catching Achilles in the grip of his hunger and pulling him under.
Rage burned through me and my hands balled into fists. How dare he? How dare he use his power on Achilles as though he were a pawn, a beast to be muzzled?
How dare thisstrangertry and control my life like this … and for what? His own amusement?
