Within seconds, the white silk clinging to my body bloomed with drops of water. Streaks spread across the fabric, soaking it through in wild, uneven lines, the cloth plastering itself to my skin as if it meant to slow me. Still I kept going, sprinting across slick flagstones into the drenched rose garden.
Thunder cracked across the sky like a warning shot, like the heavens themselves had decided to scream. A jagged bolt of lightning was a silver vein through the clouds, and for a moment the whole world lit up with a violent, ethereal flash.
The rain fell hard and fast, each drop a needling shock against my skin. Wind tore through the garden, dragging at my saturated gown and whipping my hair into a wild, wet tangle. It all felt right.
This, this storm, this fury, this ruin … it was all truth in its most base form. I finally stopped, tilting my face up into the torrent.
Let it come. Let it drown me. Let it strip me clean.
My tears now mingled with the rain, indistinguishable from the sky’s grief. And I let myself unravel, quietly, fiercely, beneath the cloak of the storm.
“What are you doing?” Achilles’s voice tore through the rain like the lightning flashing overhead.
I turned just in time to see him striding through the downpour, soaked to the bone, eyes blazing.
Before I could speak, he was on me. His hands gripped my arms, hard and shaking. Then suddenly, he lifted me.
I gasped, legs kicking as he hauled me up against his chest like I weighed nothing. Rain streamed down both of us, soaking his tunic, slicking his hair to his skull, but his grip didn’t falter. He moved fast, cutting through the storm with long, furious strides, his jaw clenched like he might break it from holding something back.
He ducked into a narrow alcove half hidden behind an ivy-covered archway, stone walls pressing in close. The moment we were out of the rain, he set me down—not gently. His hands dropped away like my skin burned him.
“What were you thinking?” he snarled, chest heaving, his voice furious. “Out of the wing. Without a veil.Anyonecould’ve seen you.”
I gaped at him, lips parting, but nothing came out.
His eyes were wild in the low light, rain still dripping from his lashes, his hair curling at the edges from the storm. He looked like something torn from the earth—feral, furious,real.
My mouth opened again, trying to form words, to explain the chaos roaring inside me, but they wouldn’t come. Just a breath. Just a tremble.
Finally, I whispered, “I needed air after …”
But the words crumbled. My voice faded off, swallowed by the sound of rain still pounding just beyond the stone. I looked down, water sliding from my lashes to my chin, my chest still heaving.
His gaze pinned me, unrelenting.
“You needed air,” he echoed in a voice like flint. “So you ran out into a storm? Veil gone. Dress clinging to you. Out of the chosen’s wing—alone? For the second time?”
I flinched, but he didn’t stop.
“Why would you go through all of this,” he growled, stepping closer, his breath sharp between his teeth, “only to throw it all away? I could dismiss you for this!”
I’d had men and women stare at me with lust my whole life … hungry, devouring, false. But with Achilles, his stare seemed different. Like I wasn’t just being seen for my face. Like he was seeing something deeper.
A flash slammed through me. The memory of how my hands had moved over my own skin, how I’d arched and moaned and offered myself, all while my gaze had locked on his.
Worshipful. Needy.
Gods.
My head fell back against the stone wall, eyes squeezing shut in shame. Rainwater still clung to my lashes. I wanted to blame the herb. I wanted to.
But if I were honest—truly, brutally honest—I wasn’t sure I could.
The heat had come from the herb.
But the direction of my desire? That had been all me.
And I’d pointed it at him. Even if I’d told myself it was for the king.
