Chapter 21 #2
Heat flooded my cheeks. I groaned quietly, dragging my hands over my face and resisting the urge to sprint straight toward the cliffs and swan dive onto the rocks below.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, the words slipping free before I could stop them. “About … about it all.”
He continued to stare out into the rain. His arms were rigid at his sides, hands clenched and dripping, breath shallow like he couldn’t quite pull enough air through the storm or through me.
“I shouldn’t have pulled you into the Trial.
You weren’t supposed to be … involved. Not like …
” I trailed off, flailing for words, for dignity, for a trapdoor to swallow me whole.
“I needed to get his attention and—” I gestured vaguely, the rain making ribbons down my arms, my skin slick and shivering.
A wretched excuse. A half apology for practically writhing for him in front of the entire court. For looking at him like I was starving.
He didn’t respond at first, the sound of rain filling the silence between us. His eyes moved instead, sliding down the length of me until I could almost feel the weight of them. My pulse throbbed, a slick ache gathering between my legs that had nothing to do with the herb this time.
I glanced down and saw what he was seeing—my tunic was like a second skin, the soaked fabric clinging obscenely, gone completely sheer.
Every curve of my body was on full display, the heavy swell of my breasts, the tight peaks of my nipples straining against the wet material, the dip of my waist flaring into my hips.
Lower still, the dark shadow between my thighs was unmistakable, the outline of my sex pressed flush against the translucent cloth.
Absolutely nothing left to the imagination. And from the way his gaze darkened, devouring me like he was already stripping the last barrier away, I knew he was imagining everything.
“Don’t be sorry,” he rasped, pulling his gaze back to my face with what looked like immense effort.
I blinked, my pulse pounding. “Pardon?”
“I said don’t be sorry.” His voice was strained, like the storm had frayed it. “You weren’t holding a leash to keep me there.”
His hair was soaked, curling in uneven waves around his temples, rain dripping from the tip of his nose, his chin, his lashes.
He looked ruined by the weather—and far too composed for it.
His tunic clung to every line of his chest, the fresh scar on his side visible now, pale against golden skin.
He shifted, and the muscles in his arms flexed with restrained tension.
The sight of him, furious and wet and utterly unreadable, tangled something deep in me.
My lips parted. Then closed. Then opened again before I could stop them. “So who does hold it, then?” I asked, my voice softer than I meant. “Who holds the leash on the great Achilles? Menelaus?”
It wasn’t teasing the way I’d intended. It came out wondering, edged with a need I couldn’t quite smother.
His gaze lingered on the outline of my body a beat longer, searing, before it climbed back up to my face. When his eyes found mine, wanting and endlessly blue, my spine straightened. I’d had enough stares today, but his … his burned.
“I don’t wear leashes,” he said. “Especially not Menelaus’s. I wield them.”
It wasn’t a threat, but it scorched just the same.
My pulse stuttered. “Noted,” I murmured, barely above the rain. “Captain Achilles.”
He scoffed, like I’d said something ridiculous instead of simply his name. His eyes didn’t leave mine.
Even with the rain hissing around us, even with the storm crashing against the stone just beyond our little alcove, it felt like everything had gone silent. Like the whole world had narrowed to the space between us, to wet fabric clinging to trembling limbs, to breath shared in the dark.
I swallowed hard and the sound felt loud.
He took a step closer.
Not much. Just enough to steal what little space remained between us. Just enough that I could feel the heat of his body despite the cold. Just enough that his presence became unbearable.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, quieter now, but no less intense. His gaze dropped to my breasts for a split second again and a tic in his jaw jumped. “You’re not safe.”
I almost laughed. “From what?” I asked. “From the guards? The storm? The king?”
His eyes found mine again. “From me.”
The breath caught in my chest. Not because I was afraid. Because I wasn’t. And that terrified me more than anything.
I should have stepped back. Should have run inside. Should have remembered who I was now—what was at stake. But I stood there, shaking and soaked, and I couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. How close it was. How still. How capable.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whispered.
He didn’t move. Not right away. But something changed in his expression, just slightly. Like the tension that had been holding him back shifted. Like he was deciding something and losing the battle at the same time.
His hand lifted slowly, fingers pausing just shy of my skin. He didn’t touch me. Just hovered close to my face, as if giving me time to pull away. As if waiting for permission he had no right to want.
His knuckles brushed my jaw. Not possessive. Not tender.
Testing.
And I didn’t move.
His fingers skimmed along the edge of my cheek, down to my throat, tracing the line where my pulse thundered. His eyes darkened at the feel of it.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“You’re not exactly steady either,” I murmured roughly.
His mouth twitched then, something hovering there without fully forming. And then the warmth of his palm cupped my jaw, holding me still—not forcefully. Just enough to make my knees want to give.
“You’re playing with fire, Helena.”
“I didn’t start it,” I breathed. “I was simply out for a run in the rain.”
Lightning cracked overhead, casting the sky in a jagged flash of white. He stepped in closer, until the wet front of his chest pressed lightly against mine. The warmth of him seared through the soaked linen. We both inhaled sharply.
Too close.
Too exposed.
Too forbidden.
We stood there, staring. Like if either of us blinked, the spell would break.
I swallowed hard. Something was crawling beneath my skin, stirring everything I’d tried to keep quiet. A heat that was decadent and dizzying, as if the damn herb had come purring back to life.
His hand dropped. He shook his head, exhaling.
“Go to your room, Helena,” he murmured. “And don’t come back out.”
I froze.
The words hung between us, too soft to be a command, too firm to ignore. His cheek twitched, a tight little tic that betrayed the tension he kept otherwise buried.
I didn’t move for a moment … I wasn’t sure I could.
Finally, I forced myself to turn. My steps were reluctant though, like my legs were waterlogged, every movement dragging through the weight of what had almost happened. Before I reached the edge of the garden, I glanced back.
There he was, standing just outside the alcove.
Rain still drenched his hair and dripped from his jaw, his tunic clinging to every cord of muscle like a second skin.
His sword was in his hand again—why, I didn’t know.
But he held it like it might save him, like he believed if he swung hard enough, he might cut through fate itself.
He stood like a man holding the line against something no one else could see.
And I … I walked away from him like I hadn’t just left a piece of myself behind.