15. Let Them Watch
“Don’t just stand there gawping like a startled deer,” Lazaros murmured at my side, his voice pitched low and threaded with something that was, for once, more encouragement than mischief.
“Show them, little soldier. Show them exactly who you are.” A pause, gentler still. “At least meet him halfway.”
Meet him halfway.
Such a small thing to ask. And yet, with the entire kingdom risen to its feet and every eye in that hall fixed on me, it felt like being asked to walk off a cliff.
But I had walked off worse, I reminded myself.
I had thrown myself into a Rift never meant to hold me. I had stared down a Gorgon King, and the Labyrinth that breathed, and driven a lightning-filled dagger into the heart of a war. I had done all of it terrified, yet I had done it anyway.
So, I lifted my chin, gathered every scrap of nerve I had left, and I stepped forward to meet my king.
The whole room seemed to hold its breath as I crossed that parted sea of nobles toward him, the silver in my gown catching the candlelight with every step. And Atlas, gods, the look on Atlas’s face as he watched me come to him was almost enough to undo all my hard-won bravery on the spot.
“You can do this… You can do this… Just keep your eyes on him, don’t look at anyone but him,” I whispered to myself like some secret mantra, one his smirk told me wasn’t as secret as I would have liked.
Finally, we met in the middle of the hall.
His dark eyes moved over the gown, the silver leaves in my hair, the flush already climbing my throat, as though he was committing every detail to memory.
Then he reached out, curved one hand around my waist, and drew me flush against him, close enough that his next words brushed warm against my ear, low enough that they were for me alone.
“You look… Gods, Alexandra,” he murmured, “You look like something a man would burn his entire kingdom down to keep.” His hand splayed possessively against the small of my back.
“It makes me want to claim you all over again, little bird. Right here. To peel you out of this gown and taste every single inch of you until you forget there was ever a room full of people watching.”
“Atlas,” I hissed his name, heat scorching up my face as my eyes darted to the hundreds of onlookers pressing close on every side.
“People are watching.”
He drew back just far enough to look at me, and the slow, wicked curve of his mouth told me I had said exactly the wrong thing.
“Then let them watch.”
And before I could so much as draw breath to argue, his hand slid up to cradle the back of my head, tipped my face up to his, and he kissed me.
Right there. In front of the entire kingdom of The?kós.
It wasn’t a chaste kiss either. Nor was it a careful one.
No, it was the kiss of a king claiming what was his before every lord and lady in his court.
One deep and unhurried and completely without shame, and for one dizzying moment, the hall, the crowd, the whole watching world simply ceased to exist. There was only his mouth on mine, and his arm banded around me.
That and the absurd, soaring certainty that he did not care one bit who saw.
A ripple of shocked gasps moved through the hall.
And then Lazaros, bless his shameless heart, threw an arm into the air and bellowed over the murmur, “Your King! And the woman who saved us all!”
At this, the hall erupted.
The gasps shattered into a roar of cheers, stamping, and ringing applause, glasses raised, voices climbing toward the chandeliers, until the whole vast room shook with the force of it.
When Atlas finally drew back, he was grinning down at me, breathless and entirely unrepentant.
As for me, I stood there with my face on fire and absolutely no idea what to do with my hands.
His knuckles brushed slowly down the curve of my burning cheek.
“This,” he murmured, eyes dancing, “is a rather beautiful colour on you.”
“I hate you,” I whispered, which was a lie, and we both knew it.
“No,” he said. “You don’t.”
Then he laced his fingers through mine and led me up onto the dais, past the long table, to the two thrones waiting side by side. He drew out the empty one himself, and after the smallest hesitation, beneath the weight of a thousand watching eyes, I sat.
In a throne.
Beside a king.
As though I had any right to it at all.
Atlas didn’t sit, however. Instead, he reached for a goblet from the table, and the moment he lifted it, the hall began to hush of its own accord, the cheers fading into an expectant quiet.
“These are dark times,” he began, and his voice carried effortlessly to the farthest corners of the hall, deep and steady and made for exactly this.
“And they will be remembered as such. There is not a soul in this room who has not lost someone to the darkness. Tonight, we honor them. We remember them.” He let that settle, let the grief breathe, before he went on.
“But tonight, we also remember that we are still here. That against every impossible odd, this kingdom did not fall.”
His gaze dropped to me then and stayed there.
“And it didn’t fall because of her.”
My breath caught.
“When my world was burning, when I had given myself up to the certainty that all was lost, a mortal woman crossed worlds she was never meant to cross to reach me. She walked through a labyrinth that has swallowed warriors whole. She bargained with kings and faced down monsters that would have broken lesser souls. And when the last of us had nothing left to give, she alone found a way to win a war I could not.” His voice roughened, just slightly, just enough.
“I owe her my crown. I owe her my brother’s life.
I owe her, quite simply… Everything.” The adoring way he said this brought tears to my eyes, and all I had it in me to do was whisper his name.
“Atlas.”
He raised the goblet higher, and every soul in that hall rose with him, hundreds of glasses lifted into the candlelight.
“To the woman who saved The?kós.” A pause, and then, softer, his eyes never leaving mine.
“To my queen!”
“To the queen!” the hall thundered back, and the cheer that followed was loud enough to rattle the windows in their frames. And in return, I was going to spontaneously combust. I was certain of it. Death by mortification, right here on a borrowed throne.
And then Lazaros, who had appeared at the foot of the dais with a glass of his own and a grin like a fox in a henhouse, lifted his voice over the din.
“And to hope!” he called. “Survival, victory, and…” he paused, milking it shamelessly, eyes sliding to me, “…soon enough, if the gods are kind, a royal wedding!”
The hall went absolutely feral.
“Lazaros,” I groaned, but it was swallowed entirely by the fresh wave of cheering that swept the room, by the stamping and the laughter and the goblets pounding against tabletops.
I grabbed a fistful of Atlas’s sleeve and tugged him down toward me, hissing through my fixed, panicking smile, “Right. That is quite enough of that, thank you.”
But Atlas only sank into his throne beside me, caught my hand, and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, entirely unbothered.
“I am being serious, you know,” he said quietly, just for me, all the teasing gone from his voice. “I want you here, Alexandra. I want you to stay.” My breath caught at this and somehow got lodged in my throat until I forced myself not to choke.
“Atlas.” His name came out as a warning and a plea, my heart lurching.
“I know.” He squeezed my hand. “Let us not speak of it here.” His mouth softened into something that made my chest ache. “Tonight, let us enjoy the evening. That is all.”
I let out a slow, grateful breath and nodded.
And mercifully, that was when the food arrived.
A procession of servants swept into the hall, moving in perfect, gliding formation, each one dressed in dark livery bearing the king’s crest. Each was carrying a tray aloft with such practiced grace that it looked rehearsed, and two brought a table to sit in front of our thrones as well as an extra chairs either side of us.
Silver platters gleamed beneath domed lids that released clouds of fragrant steam as the lids were lifted.
Roasted meats and fruit as bright as jewels, spiced root vegetables, miniature pastries dusted with sugar.
There were also bowls of steaming soup and baskets of warm bread, all of it placed with a small bow and a synchronicity so smooth it was very nearly a dance.
I had absolutely no idea where to start. Everything looked at once familiar and entirely foreign. It was like food from my world glimpsed through a dream, and it smelled so good my stomach actually growled.
As if he could read it straight off my face, Atlas reached for my plate.
“This,” he said, lifting a skewer of meat, “is lamb souvlaki, marinated in herbs from the castle gardens and citrus from its own trees. Best dipped in tzatziki…”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that one. I like that one,” I said, watching him spoon a generous amount onto my plate.
He gave me a slow smile and carried on. “These we call Star-bloom pastries. The crust is flaky and gets absolutely everywhere, but I assure you, it is worth it. Sheep’s cheese, Star-bloom herb, and wild greens.
” He picked one up, turning it over in his long fingers, putting it on my plate and then sucking a finger clean, making my mouth go dry for an entirely different reason.
One that might have brought back a particular memory of the last time I saw him sucking his fingers clean.
“And this is…” He stopped. “Are you even listening to me?”
I dragged my gaze up from his mouth to his eyes and felt my face go hot all over again. A low laugh from my other side told me Lazaros had seen the whole thing.
“Imagine,” he said dreamily, propping his chin on his hand.
“Imagine what?” I asked, already bracing.
“Imagine deciding not to stay here. Not being able to get hopelessly lost in your own naughty little thoughts every time you catch sight of your King’s mouth.” He sighed, the picture of tragedy. “A waste. A genuine tragedy.”