Anger
By the time Thalia finally led me through the last set of doors, my nerves had returned in full force.
The corridors had seemed endless, twisting through towers and galleries lined with towering windows and ancient paintings whose subjects watched silently as we passed.
Every step had brought me closer to Atlas, and despite everything we had survived to reach this moment, I suddenly found myself wondering whether I should have chosen a different dress.
Whether I should have let Thalia brush my hair.
Whether I looked ridiculous. Whether it was all too much or not enough.
The thoughts were absurd, especially after everything that had happened, yet they clung stubbornly to me all the same.
Then the doors opened, and the strength of my thoughts flared even brighter.
As now there was Atlas, standing alone beside the long table dominating the center of the circular room, and for a moment I could only stare.
At some point, while I was bathing and trying not to strangle myself with ribbons, he had managed to clean himself up as well.
Gone were the bloodstained armor and signs of battle that had clung to him since I arrived in The?kós.
In their place, he wore a fitted black tunic embroidered with silver thread that caught the light whenever he moved.
The intricate patterns climbed across the cuffs and collar like twisting vines.
A dark, tailored coat fell to his knees, its silver fastenings gleaming softly against the fabric, while the crest of The?kós had been stitched onto one shoulder with such understated craftsmanship that it somehow made him look even more powerful.
The clothes themselves weren’t particularly extravagant. There were no crowns or jewels, no obvious displays of wealth or status. Yet somehow that only made the effect more intimidating.
Because standing there amongst the towering bookshelves and painted constellations, Atlas looked every inch the king.
Not the warrior or general who had once hunted me in my own world. Nor the man who had held me while I cried. Not the man who had kissed my forehead and promised he wouldn’t be gone long.
This was the ruler of The?kós.
The man armies followed into battle.
The man an entire kingdom looked to for protection. And suddenly, despite everything we had survived together, I felt strangely intimidated.
Perhaps it was the castle.
Perhaps it was the kingdom.
Or perhaps it was simply because being here made Atlas look more like the king, I knew him to be. Back in my world, it had only ever been a title spoken, but here it came with a castle and a throne, and grand guest rooms filled with princess dresses.
The thoughts were absurd, especially after everything that had happened, yet they clung stubbornly to me all the same.
He must have heard us enter because he turned immediately, and the moment his eyes landed on me, he froze.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
His gaze travelled slowly over me, taking in the dress, my hair, and the fact that I was no longer covered in dirt, ash, and blood. The intensity of it made warmth creep into my cheeks almost immediately. I suddenly felt painfully aware of every inch of unfamiliar fabric wrapped around me.
I shifted awkwardly beneath his stare and glanced down at the skirt gathered nervously between my fingers.
“Say something.”
The whispered words slipped out before I could stop them, yet Atlas remained silent as if he was incapable of speaking. My embarrassment deepened, and my insecurities doubled.
“I know it’s silly,” I muttered, tugging at the fabric. “It’s not exactly fatigues and combat boots.”
The moment the words left my mouth, something changed in his expression. Then, a heartbeat later, he was moving.
One second, he stood on the opposite side of the room.
The next, he was standing directly in front of me, crossing the distance so quickly that my breath caught in my throat.
One hand immediately buried itself in my hair while the other rose to cradle the side of my neck, careful of the wound there.
His touch was impossibly gentle, yet there was nothing gentle about the look in his eyes as he tilted my face upward.
The way it burned into me like a heated flame made my pulse stumble.
“Atlas...”
His jaw tightened.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” The growled words unraveled something inside me. But before I could think of a response, before I could find a clever remark to hide behind, his mouth crashed against mine.
All those days of separation vanished in an instant.
Endless hours of wondering whether we would ever find our way back to each other. Every second of it seemed to pour into that kiss.
My hands found his tunic immediately, clutching the fabric as though letting go might somehow make him disappear again.
The familiar warmth of him, the feel of his body against mine, the simple reality that he was here and alive and holding me, shattered whatever composure I had been clinging to.
I melted into him completely, my heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might break through my ribs.
Christ, I had missed him.
The thought echoed through me as his hand tightened in my hair and his forehead pressed briefly against mine before he kissed me again, slower this time but no less desperate. The room faded around us. The war faded. Everything faded. For a few precious moments, there was only Atlas.
Eventually, the need for oxygen forced us apart, though barely. His forehead settled against mine as we both struggled to catch our breath, and a low groan escaped him.
“By the gods, woman, I missed you.”
A breathless laugh escaped me despite the tears threatening to gather in my eyes.
“I missed you too.”
His gaze remained fixed on mine, searching my face as though trying to memorize every detail all over again. Then his knuckles brushed slowly across my cheek before drifting lower towards my throat, and the moment his fingers found the fading cut, the warmth in his expression vanished.
“This never should have happened.”
I covered his hand with mine.
“It’s okay.”
The growl that rumbled through his chest was immediate.
“No. It’s. Not.” Each stern word said stopped me from arguing.
“Seeing you bleed is never okay, and it never will be. Do you understand?”
The fierce protectiveness in his voice tightened something inside my chest, and despite the seriousness of the moment, I found myself nodding.
Only then did some of the tension leave his shoulders.
His gaze lingered on the cut at my throat for another moment before he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket.
Then he withdrew a small glass bottle filled with a familiar, shimmering liquid.
The sight of it instantly pulled a smile from me.
Back in his office. Back to a bruised hip. Back to a very different version of us. So much had happened since then that it almost felt impossible to believe that moment had ever existed, and yet the memory remained as clear as though it had happened yesterday.
“Well,” I murmured on a breath, unable to help myself. “Looks like we’ve been here before.”
Atlas followed my gaze to the bottle before his jaw tightened.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “And if I have anything to do with it, never again.”
The words should have sounded possessive, but instead they made my chest ache. Because beneath the gruffness and irritation was something far more dangerous… He genuinely hated seeing me hurt.
He uncapped the bottle and poured a small amount of the shimmering liquid into his palm.
I watched it coat his skin exactly as I remembered, refusing to soak in as though it possessed a will of its own.
The familiarity of the sight settled something restless inside me, and I felt some of the remaining tension begin to ease.
Atlas stepped closer and raised his hand to my neck.
The gesture should have felt routine after everything we had been through together, yet it didn’t.
Not when he touched me with such impossible care.
His palm curved gently against the side of my throat while his thumb brushed across the cut, and the expression on his face made it look as though the injury physically pained him.
It was the same look he had worn back then, the same focus, the same determination to erase any trace of harm.
A familiar warmth immediately began spreading beneath his touch.
It seeped slowly through my skin, soothing rather than burning, and I found myself relaxing into the sensation despite my best efforts not to.
The sting left by Lazaros’s blade gradually faded in the heat, while Atlas remained completely focused on what he was doing.
His thumb continued its slow, absent strokes against my neck, each movement somehow managing to feel both protective and intimate at the same time.
The silence that settled between us felt strangely comfortable.
Perhaps it was because neither of us needed to explain what we were remembering.
So much had changed since that first healing.
Entire worlds stood between who we had been then and who we were now.
Yet standing here beneath his touch made it feel as though some things had remained exactly the same.
Gradually, the sting disappeared, followed by the lingering ache, until there was nothing left except the warmth of his hand.
That and the steady rhythm of my heartbeat thundering far too loudly in my chest. When the healing was finally complete, Atlas didn’t immediately pull away.
Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across the place where the wound had been, as though reassuring himself that it was truly gone.
It felt like the cut had vanished completely.
The darkness in his eyes, however, remained.
If anything, it seemed worse, as though healing the injury did nothing to erase the fact that it had happened in the first place.
Neither of us seemed particularly eager to move away.