Page 23 of His Eternal Claim

My thighs are trembling, and the dampness between them is reminding me of the dream.

I touch my throat, half-expecting to feel the phantom heat of his palm, but there is only skin.

A sharp, blinding pain lances through my skull.

Was that a dream? It felt like one, though. As if it has happened, but I have no memory of it.

Zagreus has taken me several times; his ruthlessness knows no bounds. But this… it feels like a memory of mine, but from another chapter of my life, one I have no knowledge about.

Am I insane?

My fingers tremble against my throat, pressing harder as if I can summon the ghost of his grip. But there’s nothing. No bruises. No marks.

Just skin.

Just lies.

More fucking lies.

Or worse… just forgotten truths.

Another sharp pulse slices through my head, forcing a broken gasp from my lips. I clutch my temples, squeezing my eyes shut as something flickers behind them…a fragment.

A whisper of touch. Of heat. Of him. My stomach churns.

“No…” The word falls apart as it leaves me.

Because if that wasn’t a dream… then what does that make me?

What does that make him?

Even his name feels all wrong on my tongue.

Zagreus. Zagreus. Zagreus.

My body betrays me again as a shiver crawls down my spine, settling low, and I hate it. I hate how something inside me recognizes him. Not as fear, but as something far more dangerous. More like ownership.

“No,” I repeat, dragging myself out of bed. My legs almost give out beneath me.

The lavender scent suffocates me. I hate it. It feels wrong. All wrong. Everything in this room screams of her control. Her version of peace. Her version of reality.

What if she’s lying? What if she isn’t? What if the gaps in my memory… aren’t accidents?

Always yours.

My breath hitches. I never said that.

Did I?

Cold dread pools in my veins when the door creaks open before I can spiral further. Instantly, I freeze.

“There you are.” Her voice is soft and gentle. Liar. Liar. Liar.

I turn slowly, my heart pounding as my Mother steps inside, dressed in white. Her gaze moves over me, then settles into that warmth. I hate it. Don’t look at me with those eyes; all I see are those vials. Memory suppression. Protocol. Hatred is all I feel. But there is something else, too.

It’s fear. Fear of knowing how well she hides herself. How well she makes me believe her lies.

“You shouldn’t strain yourself, Stina,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “You’re fragile.”