Chapter 34 - The Beast She Married
The first thing I realize is that my husband is enjoying himself far too much.
The second is that everyone else realizes it, too.
The throne room has dissolved into chaos around him, steel ringing sharply against steel while nobles stumble backward to escape the violence unfolding at the center of the court.
Guards have moved instinctively toward the edges of the room, forming barriers between the fight and the spectators, but no one dares interfere.
No one is stupid enough to step between Achilles and a challenge.
Especially not now.
Especially not when he looks like this.
Williams is quite tall for a man from Kyrian .
Before meeting Elias, I used to think men like that were rare, existing mainly in exaggerated stories told to frighten children. Then I met Elias and realized some men really are built to make ordinary people nervous.
Then I met my husband.
Elias and Achilles are nearly the same height, though Elias carries himself with the relaxed arrogance of someone who knows he is attractive.
At the same time, Achilles moves like violence wearing expensive clothing.
But there is something about the way Achilles occupies space that makes everyone around him seem smaller.
More fragile.
More temporary.
William lunges toward him with enough force to crack marble beneath his boots.
Achilles sidesteps lazily.
Lazily.
Like he is avoiding spilled wine at dinner instead of a blade large enough to split a man in half.
The court gasps.
I stare.
Because that is the terrifying thing about him.
He never looks rushed.
Even when he is using enough strength to kill someone, he still somehow appears relaxed. Calm. Casual. Like this is not a battle at all, but a mildly entertaining inconvenience that interrupts his evening.
Williams swings again.
Achilles catches the blade with his own.
The sound explodes through the throne room.
For one sharp moment, the two men stand locked together, muscle against muscle, power against power, and I hear nobles behind me whispering in shock because they expected Achilles to struggle.
He doesn't.
He doesn't even move.
His black hair falls loosely over his forehead as he tilts his head slightly, examining the man in front of him with almost bored curiosity.
Then he smiles.
And pushes.
Williams stumbles backward.
The entire room goes silent.
I should probably be horrified.
Instead...
heat curls low in my stomach.
Which honestly feels deeply inappropriate considering there are currently two bodies on the floor.
The torchlight catches the sharp line of his jaw while blood streaks across the scarred side of his face in violent red smears that somehow make him look even more beautiful instead of less.
Sweat glistens faintly against his throat beneath the open collar of his shirt, and every movement pulls tightly against muscle earned through years of war.
I notice several noblewomen staring openly.
One servant near the wall looks seconds away from fainting.
Honestly?
I cannot blame them.
Before marriage, I used to think women exaggerated when they spoke about dangerous men being attractive.
Now I know they were underselling it.
I've always been on the taller side, so i never imagined I would find a man taller than me to live out the fantasy those women talk about, the talk of a fearsome towering figure.
Most men in my father's kingdom were the same height as me, maybe a few inches taller.
My stepmother used to warn me constantly that men dislike women who appear "too large.
" Too loud. Too visible. She hated it when I wore shoes that made me taller, and once spent nearly an hour explaining how intimidating men found height in women.
So I shrunk myself.
Smaller shoes.
Smaller posture.
Smaller presence.
Then I came here, and suddenly i went from a tall, imposing figure to a rabbit in a land of wolves. Maybe people in this land were just tall, or maybe people in Kyrian were just small.
I watch as my husband ducks beneath the incoming strike before driving his elbow sharply into the man's ribs hard enough to make the entire room wince at the crack that follows.
The man stumbles.
Achilles follows smoothly, almost gracefully, his movements fluid despite his size.
That surprises people, too.
He is broad-shouldered and heavily built, in a way that makes strangers assume he must move slowly.
Then they watch him fight and realize something horrifying:
He moves like a predator.
Fast.
Precise.
Effortless.
William swings wildly again.
Achille catches the man's wrist mid-strike with one hand.
One hand.
My breath catches.
The veins in his forearm flex beneath scarred skin as he twists sharply enough to force the larger man downward before driving his knee directly into the man's stomach.
The impact echoes.
William coughs violently.
Achille grins wider.
Gods help me.
That smile.
Part of me still fears it.
I think part of me always will.
Because I know what that smile looks like covered in blood.
I know what his eyes look like when he stops seeing people as people and starts seeing them as obstacles standing between him and what belongs to him.
And somehow
that fear only makes the attraction worse.
Which honestly feels like a personal failing.
My mind drifts traitorously toward nights spent beside him in bed.
Toward the embarrassing little problem I accidentally developed after marriage.
Because Achille sleeps unfairly fast .
I discovered that very quickly.
The man falls asleep like someone dropping dead. One second awake, the next entirely unconscious.
I use to think he was pretending so that i would feel comfortable to fall asleep without fear but when i realised he wasn't I became bold it was the only time i could be near him touch him without the fear of him killing me i tried to stop myself but that only a few weeks .
Eventually curiosity won.
Then curiosity became touching.
Which became a problem.
Because once I grew comfortable around him, I started moving closer in bed just to touch him.
Not inappropriately.
Mostly.
Just enough to satisfy my own strange fascination.
His arms first.
Then his shoulders.
Then tracing fingertips lightly across the scars running down his neck while convincing myself he wouldn't notice because he slept so deeply.
And for months
months—l
I genuinely believed I was getting away with it.
Until one night my hand wandered lower than usual and a deep voice suddenly spoke through the darkness.
"You're getting too comfortable."
I screamed.
Then fell directly off the bed.
I still remember the horror of staring upward at him while he sat there calmly against the pillows, green eye half-lidded with amusement while the scarred side of his face disappeared into shadows.
"How long have you been awake?" I demanded in horror.
He chuckled.
"Long enough to know you have a very strange obsession with touching me in my sleep."
I wanted to die.
Truly.
I apologized so quickly the words nearly tangled together while promising it would never happen again.
Which only made him laugh harder.
"I never said I minded."
That confused me enough to stop panicking briefly.
Then he stretched lazily before adding:
"You do make sleeping difficult though."
"How?"
"Hard to sleep peacefully when my wife spends every night feeling me up while I'm apparently not allowed to return the favor."
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Then that awful grin appeared.
"If your dirty little fantasies are becoming overwhelming," he said conversationally, "you could simply ask. I'd be more than willing to assist."
I nearly died a second time.
"You knew?" I asked weakly.
"Maybe."
"You let me continue?"
"Maybe."
"You are such a prick."
He actually looked pleased.
"Are you upset because I caught you being a pervert?"
"You're my husband," I snapped defensively. "I legally have the right to touch you."
His grin widened.
"And if I didn't like it?"
"You should've stopped me."
Something dark flickered through his expression then.
Something softer beneath the teasing.
He reached forward suddenly, grabbed my waist, and pulled me directly back onto the bed until I landed on top of him with a startled noise.
"We both know," he murmured against my ear, hands gripping my thighs firmly enough to make my breath catch, "that I would never stop you."
Heat floods my face remembering it.
Especially because after that
I became worse.
Far worse.
Bolder.
More shameless.
I started touching him deliberately.
Exploring openly beneath the excuse of curiosity while pretending not to notice how his breathing changed whenever my hands lingered too long.
One night I told him very seriously that if he didn't mind, I would like to continue my "exploration."
He looked up at me with that wicked expression and said:
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
A loud crack jerks me violently back into the present.
William crashes directly through one of the side tables.
Wood explodes across marble.
Gasps ripple through the throne room.
Achille stands over the man breathing slightly harder now, though not from exhaustion.
Excitement.
Definitely excitement.
Blood streaks across his knuckles while his shirt clings damply against his body.
William rises again stubbornly.
Achille looks delighted by this development.
Around me the Kyrian nobles exchange increasingly nervous glances.
Good.
Let them.
Because now they finally understand what kind of man sits on this throne.
Not a king.
Not really.
An empire wearing human skin.
One massive hand closes around the Williams throat before slamming him backward hard enough to crack marble pillars.
The entire court flinches.
Achille leans close enough that only the front rows likely hear whatever he says next.
Then
he smiles directly at me.
And gods help me
my stomach flips.
Because he looks insane.
Beautifully, terrifyingly insane.
Blood drips slowly down the scarred side of his face while one vivid green eye locks onto mine with possessive intensity.
Then..
without breaking eye contact...
he grabs William by the hair and forces his head down onto the edge of the throne steps hard enough to crack bone.
The sound echoes sickeningly.
Several nobles recoil.
One woman gags.
And I
I lick my lip before I can stop myself.
Gods.
There is something deeply wrong with me.
Because part of me still fears him.
Still remembers the first night I saw him kill a man without hesitation.
Still remembers how cold his voice can become.
How cruel.
How utterly merciless.
But another part...
another darker, hungrier part..
looks at him standing there drenched in blood with bodies at his feet and thinks about pinning him beneath me just to see if I could make him lose control.
I want to hear him curse beneath his breath.
Want to watch composure snap.
I Want to see the terrifying ruler of empires unravel.
while everyone else watches my husband with horror I am sitting here wondering what it would take to make him lose control tonight.