Chapter 53
The bronze doors swung wide, and Achilles strode into the hall.
He had been gone a week on the king’s orders, and I soaked him in …
the dust on his sandals, the rigid set of his jaw, the weary strength in his shoulders.
The sight of him washed through me like water after thirst, a relief so intense it bordered on pain.
My chest loosened, a shaky breath slipping free, and for one foolish heartbeat, all I wanted was to reach for him, to close the space and let my hands prove he was real, that he’d come back to me.
Achilles dropped to one knee and pressed his fist against the gleaming marble floor as his head bowed. “My king. Our spymaster returned to camp this morning.”
Menelaus shifted on his throne and pursed his lips. To his left, standing in a place of trust with the ease of a man who belonged, stood Theron.
Behind us, the lion prowled in its cage, a growl breaking loose every few minutes. Menelaus had kept the beast there every day since the poisoning, as if its presence alone could ward off any invaders.
Achilles’s eyes sliced sideways, landing on Theron … and his teeth locked as he took in where the man stood.
Menelaus didn’t seem to notice the tension suddenly in the air. “And?”
Achilles rose to his full height, shoulders squared as he tore his gaze away from Theron and put it back on the king. “It was Sidon that poisoned the water,” he announced.
The room erupted in whispers.
Sidon.
My stomach contracted with a violent twist. The assassin I’d seen killed in the cells had named Sidon as well—though he’d spoken of a noble from there, not the kingdom itself.
Which meant the truth was far murkier than Menelaus would ever allow.
The king rose, a deliberate unfurling of robes and fury. “They came bearing tribute.” His voice slithered into a hiss. “They ate our food and drank our wine.” His tone swelled, rolling through the hall. “They dared to try and poison Sparta’s crown!”
He turned toward the great map hanging on one of the walls, the sea painted in red ochre and the lands edged in gold. His hand swept across it like a wave claiming shore. “We shall sail!”
The hall erupted and fists pounded against shields. Sandals hammered the marble as a roar rose up, a single word crashing again and again against the stone: “Sparta! Sparta! Sparta!”
Menelaus threw both arms wide, bellowing over them. “We will take their ships, their walls, their sons! Until the name of Sidon is ash in the mouths of men!”
The chant surged louder, and I sat straighter, my grip firm on the throne’s arms, not trembling, but bracing.
This was Sparta. The thunder of war had always lived in its marrow, and I had grown up with its echoes rattling the air.
Still, the sound pressed against me, the promise of fire and blood swelling through the hall until it seemed to shake the very air I breathed.
My pulse raced in my veins, but my chin stayed high.
As the roar crested, Achilles moved to the king’s side, pitching his voice carefully. “My king,” he said, quiet enough that only Menelaus and I could hear. “With our departure so soon … will you need to hunt?”
It was a simple question. A vague question. But I heard the meaning beneath it—almost pleading, almost warning.
Menelaus’s head snapped toward him and his eyes narrowed. The crowd was still chanting, but the king’s attention was fixed entirely on Achilles. “No,” Menelaus finally said, clipped and cold. “Not tonight.”
That uneasy silence that came up every time the topic of the hunt was broached, once again stretched between them.
Menelaus nodded at Theron. “We’ll let them see Sparta’s newest weapon instead.”
Achilles surged forward a step, distrust blazing in every line of him. “You’re trusting him?” he snapped loudly.
“You’re sounding jealous again, Captain,” Theron purred.
A growl rumbled low in Achilles’s throat, but Menelaus’s hand snapped up, his rings flashing. “I have already decided on this!”
The words carried through the hall, and silence followed. Achilles stood motionless before pressing his fist to his chest, his nod clipped and hard. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Theron reveled in the spectacle as he watched, and Achilles met his stare.
“You will come as well, my beauty.”
I blinked, stunned, the words stumbling through me. “I—pardon?” My voice rasped out, not because I hadn’t heard, but because I couldn’t comprehend.
Menelaus’s grin split wide at my shock. “Let Sidon look upon what they tried to destroy. Let them see Sparta’s queen, her unrivaled beauty, before they choke on their mistake.”
My mouth was dry. I stared at him, unable to summon words.
Achilles stepped forward, his voice barely leashed. “My king, with respect—surely the queen should remain here. She will be safer within Sparta’s walls. And beyond safety … her presence among the ranks will distract—”
Annoyance flickered through me. Distract? As if I were some trinket to be locked away so the men could keep their eyes forward.
Menelaus barked a laugh, loud enough to rattle the bronze sconces.
“Safer? There is no safety in Sparta outside of my presence. You would hide her away when she should be paraded as proof of our might? No, Achilles. She comes.” His grin widened, wolfish.
“And if her beauty distracts the men, all the better. Let them march harder with fire in their blood with how much they want her.”
“I agree with the king,” Theron said lightly. “Let Sidon see the prize they failed to take. Nothing unsettles an enemy faster than beauty they can’t touch.” His eyes slid to me as if he was daring me to enjoy the thought.
Achilles’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack, a scowl cutting across his face, but he said nothing more.
I sat rigid, shock colliding with something deeper. A pulse of longing. A secret thrill that curled in my chest. If Menelaus was truly going to take me, then I would be leaving the palace. At last, I would see beyond these suffocating walls, beyond Sparta itself.
Menelaus ignored them both. “You will come. You will be seen. I’ll have no more arguments.”
I bowed my head, trying not to look too eager in case he changed his mind. “As you command,” I said, the words tasting of victory.
The feeling was short-lived.
Menelaus grinned. “It is how I command,” he stated, reaching a hand out for me. “Now to my rooms. The thought of war makes my cock thicken.”
My insides lurched, heavy and sinking, as though the floor itself had given way beneath me, and heat scorched my face. Against all reason, I risked a glance at Theron—
He caught it and winked.
I let out a shaky breath, half praying his magic would work, half terrified it wouldn’t.
Achilles’s gaze burned into me. His lips curled into a frown at the look Theron and I had traded, and the shadow that crossed his face as I followed the king was darker than any battlefield cloud.
I forced my steps forward, every inch of me rigid. My sandals scuffed across the stone, the palace guards falling into line behind me until we reached the double doors of Menelaus’s chambers.
Inside, he sat heavily on the bed. His tongue dragged across his lips as his hand waved me closer.
“Undress, my beauty,” he ordered, his voice thick with arrogance and lust.
I stared at him, aversion creeping up my spine. My fingers twitched at the ties of my chiton—hating, loathing, bracing—as I slipped them loose one by one. The silk slithered down my shoulders, pooling at my feet. His eyes tracked the fall, heavy-lidded and greedy as he drank me in.
He didn’t look tired at all. Why wasn’t he going to sleep yet?
He leaned back against the cushions, a predator certain of the kill, and crooked a finger. “Come.”
My body moved though my soul resisted, each step dragging me closer until his hand closed around my wrist and tugged me down onto his lap.
He shifted me easily, positioning me astride him.
Panic rose, choking, in my throat as he reached for my breasts.
My heart thundered, terror and rage tangled together. Theron had lied.
Suddenly Menelaus’s weight shifted. His chin dropped and a grunt rumbled in his chest and his whole body sank beneath me.
“My king?” My voice cracked in disbelief as I stared down at him. He didn’t answer.
I bent close. His head lolled sideways, his mouth slack. A harsh, uneven snore rattled out of him. He was asleep.
I stared, unblinking, my lungs seized in suspense. Theron had said he would fall asleep every time he wanted me, but I … Theron had done it. He’d actually done it.
A wellspring of hope burst in my chest, so fierce it left me swaying. Mene laus—snoring, slack-jawed, powerless. For once, I was untouched. For once, I was free.
But even as the thought lifted me, a thread of dread wound through it. How long would it last? How long before Theron’s spell thinned, before the king’s eyes snapped open and the cage slammed shut again?
An hour? A night?
The thought of it ending clawed at me. And with it came another darker, more dangerous one … how much better it would be if this sleep were eternal. No spell. No waking. Just silence, forever.
He had passed out before, from wine or exhaustion, but I’d never dared then. His snores never meant safety. One shift, one stir, and he could wake in an instant. The risk had always been too great.
But this … this was different. This was no drunken stupor. This was magic, heavy and unnatural, wrapping him in chains stronger than iron. For once, I believed he would not wake for at least a few moments.
My gaze got caught on the sword at the bedpost, its hilt gleaming in the firelight as though it had been waiting for me. Before I could think better of it, I slipped off the bed and seized it, the weight solid and hot in my grip.
I stepped closer. My shadow spilled long over him, and I raised the blade high.
One push, I told myself. One strike, and I am free.
I braced my arms and shoved downward—
And it wouldn’t move.