Chapter 15 - Rumors of a King
I lie there longer than I should.
Not asleep.
Not awake.
Suspended in that strange, fragile space between the two where my body feels too heavy to belong to me, as if the bed has claimed me and I have not yet decided to fight it. The exhaustion, deep and persistent, settled into my bones in a way that still feels unfamiliar.
There is a faint shift of fabric. The subtle scrape of something against wood. The soft movement of someone who knows exactly how much noise they are making and chooses not to make more.
When i finally open my eyes.
The Light spills into the room in muted gold, filtered through the curtains, softening everything it touches. It is later than I expected. The warmth of the evening sun stretches across the bed and across my skin.
I turn my head.
And find him.
Achilles stands near the table by the window, broad shoulders half-turned, his presence filling the space without effort.
There is a tray in his hands, and even something as simple as setting it down carries intention.
Every movement is precise. Controlled and measured in a way that feels almost unnatural for something so small.
Nothing he does is careless.
Nothing ever is.
"You're awake."
His voice reaches me before I can speak.
Low.
Steady.
Certain.
I push myself up slowly, brushing my hair back as I sit there for a moment, letting my body catch up to the fact that I am no longer dreaming.
"...you brought food?" I ask, my voice still touched with sleep as I slide off the bed.
"Yes."
I move toward the table, drawn by something that has nothing to do with hunger at first. The tray is filled far more than I expected. Warm bread. Fresh fruit. Something steaming faintly in a small bowl. A drink is already poured.
Prepared.
Thought out.
As if he knew exactly when I would wake.
"Sorry if I woke you," he adds, glancing at me briefly. "I assumed you would be hungry."
I reach the table, fingers brushing lightly against the edge as I take in the details, a faint smile pulling at my lips before I turn toward him.
And stop.
Completely.
"...what happened to your face?"
The words leave me sharper than I intend.
Because now that I'm close.
I see it.
The bruise beneath his eye was dark against his skin. The split across his knuckles. The marks of something that was not gentle.
My stomach tightens.
I step closer without thinking.
"What happened?" I ask again, my hand lifting instinctively.
My fingers brush his skin.
And he recoils.
Pain flashes across his face.
But leaves just as quickly as it came.
"Don't," he mutters.
I pull my hand back immediately.
"You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"It has already stopped."
"That doesn't..."
"Ophelia."
My name cuts through me.
Low.
Firm.
Final.
"...what happened?" I ask again. There's a pause.
"Elias."
I blink.
"...Elias?"
"We had a disagreement."
"That looks like more than a disagreement."
"It escalated."
"How?"
"I was trying to hit him," Achilles says flatly. "He kept running." I stare at him."He is fast for an old man, scary fast."
I sigh.
"...what did he do?"
"...he called me impotent."
I laugh. Unable to stop it.
"You find that amusing?"
"A little," I admit, pressing my lips together. "I'm just surprised he said it to your face. Most people say it behind your back."
His expression stills.
"...what."
"...you know the rumor."
His gaze sharpens.
"...what rumor?"
I take a step back.
"You... don't know?"
His voice lowers.
"...know what?"
I sigh.
"You're not going to like it."
"I do not care."
"You say that now."
"Tell me."
I hesitate.
"...there's a rumor," I say carefully, "that there might be an issue... with you."
"With what?"
"With you," I repeat, gesturing vaguely. "In the bedroom."
"...what."
"...people are discussing my abilities," he says slowly.
"Yes."
"And you did not think to tell me."
"I thought you knew."
"...well, clearly i didn't, or they would all be dead."
"Well," I say lightly, "it's not that bad. The women feel very bad for me."
His head turns sharply.
Too sharply.
"They're very sympathetic," I continue, watching him now, studying the way his jaw tightens, the way something dangerous flickers behind his eyes. "Some people... men especially... have even offered to help."
"I hope," he says slowly, each word measured, controlled, "for their sake... You are joking."
"I'm not."
That is all it takes.
He moves.
One step.
And suddenly there is no space left between us.
"And for your sake," he continues, his voice lowering into something colder, something that feels like a warning wrapped in devotion, "you said no."
"I did."
"Good."
The word lands like a promise.
Not reassurance.
Something far more final.
His hand lifts.
It wraps around my throat, firm, tilting my head just enough that I have no choice but to meet his gaze fully.
"Because if I ever walk in," he says, calm in a way that makes it worse, "and find you willingly in another man's bed..." His thumb presses faintly against my pulse, slow, deliberate.
"I will remove every piece of skin he touched."
My breath catches not from fear, but from the intensity of him, the way his presence consumes everything around it.
"And then," he continues, his voice dropping further, "I will remove him."
There is no doubt in it.
No hesitation.
Just truth.
"...what about women?" I ask softly, because I cannot help myself.
Because I like the way he reacts.
His grip tightens slightly.
"Do not test me."
"I may love you," he continues, quieter now, something rougher slipping into his voice, "but I will not hesitate to kill you if you betray me."
My heart stutters.
From the dangerous, intoxicating certainty of being loved by a man who does not know how to love halfway.
"You are mine," he says.
The words settle between us, heavy and absolute.
"The only name that will ever leave your lips like that... is mine."
My breath falters.
"The only man who will ever make you beg..."
His thumb drags slowly along my throat.
"...is me."
"The only one you will ever kneel for," he adds, his gaze never leaving mine, "is me."
"You are my queen," he finishes, quieter now, but no less certain. "And anyone who touches what belongs to me..."
His voice lowers into something final.
"They will not die quickly."
The words should terrify me.
They don't.
Instead
I step closer.
Closing the distance his grip created.
My fingers slide up his chest, slow, deliberate, until they find his collar.
And I pull.
Hard.
He doesn't resist.
He doesn't even hesitate.
His body moves with mine as I drag him down into a kiss.
It's hungry.
Demanding.
He answers.
Immediately.
His grip leaves my throat only to tighten at my waist, pulling me flush against him, grounding me in a way that feels less like control and more like inevitability.
Like this was always going to happen.
Like it always does.
I don't give him time to recover.
I don't give him time to take back control.
Instead, I push.
My hands press against his chest, forcing him back step by step until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he drops onto it, eyes never leaving mine, dark and focused, watching me like something dangerous.
Like something he wants.
And I let him look.
I let him see exactly what his...
My fingers move to the front of my nightgown, unfastening it slowly, deliberately, under his gaze. Not rushed. Not shy. Each movement intentional, each second stretched just enough to make him feel it.
To make him wait.
His breathing shifts.
Subtle.
But I hear it.
I always do.
Because I've learned from him.
The same way he's taught me.
The fabric loosens, slipping from my shoulders, dropping at my feet as I step closer, climbing over him, my weight settling against him as my hands press into his chest, grounding myself in him.
His hands move immediately, gripping, anchoring, pulling me closer in a way that makes it clear he has no intention of letting me take control for long.
He never does.
But he lets me try.
That's the difference.
That's the part no one else would ever understand.
That he enjoys the fight.
That he wants it.
His restraint slips in pieces I can feel in the way his grip tightens, in the way his breath breaks, in the low sound that escapes him when I push just a little further, just enough to make him lose that perfect control he carries everywhere else.
This is the only place it breaks.
The only place he lets it.
And I love it.
I love the way he reacts.
The way his composure cracks under my hands.
The way his control falters when I refuse to be gentle.
Because this...