CHAPTER 25- QUESTIONS THAT SHOULD NOT BE ASKED
I sit on the floor beside the couch.
Not because anyone told me to.
Not because it is proper.
But because it feels safer to be lower than him.
The carpet beneath my knees is thick and soft, woven with dark blue and gold threads that twist together like vines. It muffles the small movements I make when I shift my weight, the quiet rustle of fabric when I smooth my skirts over my legs again and again without realizing I'm doing it.
It is a nervous habit.
One of many I have developed since arriving in this palace.
Achilles notices everything.
The way I fold my hands too tightly together.
The way I tuck stray pieces of hair behind my ear when I'm anxious.
The way my shoulders stiffen whenever he moves too quickly.
Even the way I keep adjusting the hem of my sleeve as though it might somehow hide the tremor in my fingers.
He notices all of it.
And says nothing.
Which somehow makes it worse.
He sits on the couch like the room belongs entirely to him.
Which, of course, it does.
One arm rests lazily along the back of the couch while the other holds a glass of wine loosely between two fingers. His posture is relaxed in a way that only men who are extremely dangerous ever seem capable of achieving.
His sword rests against the table beside him.
Within reach.
Always within reach.
The sunlight from the tall windows spills across the floor and climbs slowly up the side of the couch, catching on the deep lines of the scars across his chest where his shirt hangs slightly open at the collar.
He looks... calm.
Which is unsettling.
Because Achilles calm still looks like someone who might decide to break a man's neck simply because he felt like it.
And I am sitting on the floor next to him.
Alone.
I try not to stare.
I fail.
My eyes keep drifting back toward him without permission.
Watching the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
Watching the way the scar across his ribs pulls slightly when he shifts.
Watching the lazy rhythm of his fingers tapping lightly against the side of the wine glass.
It takes several seconds before I realize he has noticed.
"You're doing that strange staring thing again."
His voice cuts through the quiet like a knife through silk.
I jump slightly.
My shoulders tighten.
"Sorry."
The apology leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
He sighs.
It is not an angry sound.
Just... tired.
"You apologize like it's a profession."
I blink.
"I—"
He lifts one hand lazily, stopping me.
"Don't."
My mouth snaps shut immediately.
"If you apologize again in the next thirty seconds," he continues calmly, swirling the wine in his glass, "I may be forced to invent a tax for it."
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly.
"And I assure you, I am extremely creative when it comes to taxes." I press my lips together quickly to keep from speaking again. Which only makes him glance down at me with faint amusement.
"Good." He takes another sip of wine.
"Silence suits you better than constant guilt."
I stare at the carpet.
Then back at him.
Then back at the carpet again.
My fingers begin smoothing the edge of my sleeve again.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Trying to give my hands something to do.
I clear my throat quietly.
"May I ask you something?" His eyes shift toward me immediately.
Sharp.
Observant.
"Within reason." My heart beats faster. The question has been sitting in my mind for hours now.
But asking questions of Achilles always feels like stepping closer to the edge of a cliff.
"You recommended that medical book to me."
He nods once.
"And?"
My fingers twist together slightly.
"Well... if you knew that book well enough to recommend it..."
I hesitate.
"...why didn't you know the medicine you were taking wasn't strong enough?" For a moment there is only silence.
I brace myself.
But instead of anger...
Achilles laughs.
It is quiet.
Short.
"Well," he says slowly, leaning his head back against the couch, "that does make me sound rather foolish."
"I didn't mean—"
"I know."
He waves his hand dismissively.
"I simply don't pay much attention to my own suffering." His voice carries the same casual tone someone might use when discussing the weather.
"I know very little about medicine."
"But the book—"
"I study poisons."
The words fall so casually that I almost miss them.
"Poisonous plants."
He lifts one finger.
"Venoms."
Another.
"Animals that can kill you if you look at them incorrectly."
He glances toward me.
"So that if someone attempts to poison me..."
He taps his temple lightly.
"...I notice before my organs fail."
I nod slowly.
"That... seems practical."
"Self-preservation is an admirable hobby."
He stands suddenly.
The movement is smooth but sudden enough that my shoulders tense automatically.
I notice.
He notices that I noticed.
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
"You flinch every time I move."
I stare at the floor.
"I don't mean to."
He walks to the cabinet beside the window and retrieves new bottle of wine.
And another glass.
"Perhaps I should start announcing my movements beforehand."
His voice carries a faint hint of dry humor.
"I am standing."
"I am walking."
"I am pouring wine."
He sets the glass in front of me.
"Now I am offering you alcohol."
I hesitate.
Of course I do.
He notices immediately.
"You think I poisoned it."
"No—"
"You should."
He takes a sip from my glass.
"There."
He gestures toward the drink.
"If I die in the next minute, don't drink it."
I stare at him.
"And if you don't?"
"Then you are probably safe."
Probably.
I take the glass carefully.
"Thank you... Your Majesty."
He grimaces.
"Achilles."
I blink.
"In this room," he says calmly, "the formalities are unnecessary."
I nod.
"Achilles."
The name feels strange.
Like saying something forbidden.
He studies me for a moment before asking quietly,
"My question now."
My stomach tightens.
"Why do you know so much about medicine?"
I look down at the wine swirling slowly in the glass.
"I wanted to be useful."
"You were already useful."
He says it simply.
"Your a princess."
I shake my head slightly.
"I'm a bastard."
The word comes out quietly.
"I may hold the title of princess..."
"...but that doesn't mean I have power. Or purpose."
Achilles pauses mid-sip.
Then lowers the glass slowly.
"Oh."
"You're a bastard."
I blink.
"...yes?"
He scratches the back of his head thoughtfully.
"That explains a few things."
My confusion grows.
"You didn't know?" He shrugs.
"I didn't read the report."
I stare at him.
"You didn't read it?"
"No."
He drinks again.
"I believe I spilled wine on it."
"You're serious."
"Completely."
"When you arrived," he continues casually, "I didn't even know your name."
I stare.
"You didn't?"
"No."
"Why?"
He looks at me like the answer should be obvious.
"I assumed you would die." The words land bluntly.
"Some jump."
"Some stab themselves."
"Some run."
He shrugs.
"Why memorize details about someone who might not survive the week?"
My grip tightens slightly around the wine glass.
"But you're still here."
He studies me carefully.
"And that makes you... interesting."
He leans back again.
"And besides."
His voice lowers slightly.
"Why read a report about someone..."
"...when you can simply talk to them?"
He tilts his head.
"There is nothing written on parchment that you won't eventually tell me yourself."
A pause.
"And if you don't..." The faintest hint of a smile touches his mouth.
"I am very good at making people talk." My heart skips a beat.
He raises his glass slightly.
"But for now..."
His eyes slide toward me again.
"...conversation will do."
The statement sits strangely in the air between us.
Conversation.
The tyrant king of this kingdom sits in front of me drinking wine and offering conversation as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if he weren't a man whose name people whisper like a curse in corridors.
I nod slowly.
My fingers tighten around the stem of the glass . The wine inside trembles faintly with the movement of my hand.
For a few quiet seconds neither of us speaks. The room feels almost peaceful, the afternoon light spilling across the floor in long golden bands, dust floating lazily through the air like tiny drifting stars.
Then suddenly he stands.
The movement is so quick my body reacts before my mind does.
My shoulders jerk.
My back straightens. The glass nearly slips from my fingers. Achilles pauses mid-step and glances down at me.
One eyebrow lifts slowly.
"You jump like a rabbit." I try to smooth the reaction away.
"I didn't mean to."
"You never do." His tone isn't angry. If anything, it sounds faintly amused. Which somehow makes the embarrassment worse.
But instead of walking away or leaving the room, Achilles steps closer.
Then lowers himself down onto the floor directly in front of me.
The motion is deliberate and controlled, before he settles back against the couch.
I stare at him.
Because the king is sitting on the floor.
Right in front of me.
Like this is a perfectly reasonable place for him to be.
He glances sideways and catches my expression immediately.
"What?"
"You're... sitting on the floor."
"Yes."
He nods once.
"That tends to happen when gravity is involved."
I blink.
"I meant—"
"I know what you meant."
He gestures toward my neck.
"You were going to injure yourself." My brow furrows.
"What?"
"You kept craning your neck like this." He tilts his head back dramatically to demonstrate.
"Staring up at me."
"I felt like I was watching someone slowly attempt suicide." My lips part slightly.
"I wasn't trying to—"
"Your neck disagrees." He leans his head against the couch behind him.
"If it snapped, I would have to explain to the court that my queen died because she insisted on staring upward too enthusiastically."
He sighs heavily.
"It would be humiliating." My mouth opens before I can stop myself.
"Humiliating?"
"Yes."
He nods solemnly.
"They would say I broke your neck." He pauses thoughtfully.
"Which would be unfortunate."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't."
His eyes flick toward me.
"And I prefer my crimes to be accurately reported."Despite myself, a small breath of laughter escapes my chest.
It is quiet.
Almost accidental.
Achilles glances sideways at me.
"Careful." His tone carries a faint warning wrapped inside dry humor. "You're starting to look like you enjoy my company."
My cheeks warm instantly.
"It's the wine."
I say quickly.
His mouth curves slightly.
"Of course it is."
I lift the glass and take another sip.
Mostly to hide the heat creeping into my face.
The truth is something else entirely.
For the first time in weeks my mind feels... quiet.
Not racing.
Not constantly calculating every possible way I might accidentally anger him. And that quiet feels dangerously comforting. Achilles watches me finish the glass.
Then reaches for the bottle and pours another without asking.
"You drink faster when you're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Mm."
He hands me the refilled glass.
"I'm choosing to pretend I believe you." I take it carefully.
Our fingers brush briefly.
The contact is so sudden I nearly pull away, but I manage to stop myself halfway through the movement.
Achilles notices.
Again.
"You flinch a lot."
"I don't."
"You do."
He leans his head back against the couch.
"if you continue flinching every time I breathe, people may begin to suspect I'm terrifying."
I stare at him.
"You are terrifying."
"Am I?"
His tone carries mild curiosity.
"Yes."
He considers that for a moment.
"Well."
He takes a sip of wine.
"At least the rumors remain accurate." The silence stretches again. I glance toward the other couch across the room.
"I could have sat there."
He follows my gaze.
"Too far."
"I wouldn't have to look up."
"You whisper."
"I do not whisper."
"You absolutely whisper."
He points lazily in my direction.
"If you sat across the room I would require a messenger to translate every sentence."
I frown slightly.
"I don't whisper."
"You do."
He pauses.
"And sitting on the floor is hardly beneath me."
"You're the king."
"Yes."
He nods.
"Which means I can sit wherever I want." His eyes flick toward me again.
"And right now I want to sit here."
I don't argue.
Instead, curiosity gets the better of me again.
"The wound on your side."
His head tilts slightly.
"What about it?"
"You said it was from three days ago."
"Yes."
"How?"
"A knife."
I study the faint scar on his shoulder.
"What about that one?"
"Arrow."
"And the one across your ribs?"
"Fire."
My eyes drift toward the long scar cutting across his face.
"And that?"
His expression doesn't change.
"War."
The single word settles heavily between us.
I swallow.
"When did you become king?"
"Twenty-three."
"That's young."
"Yes."
"Did you want it?"
"No."
I blink.
"But you fight wars."
"People keep trying to kill me."
He shrugs lightly.
"I respond."
"That's one way to phrase it."
He glances sideways at me.
"You expected a more heroic explanation?"
"I don't know what I expected."
He smirks faintly.
"Neither do most people."
My questions keep coming.
I don't even realize how many I've asked until Achilles suddenly laughs again.
"You're a nosy one."
"I'm curious."
"Same difference."
I open my mouth automatically.
"Sorry—"
"Don't."
He lifts his hand immediately.
"If I minded your questions..."
He gestures toward the sword resting nearby.
"...you would already be dead." The words land calmly.
Almost casually. But they still make my stomach tighten. He studies my face for a moment.
Then leans back slightly.
"You ask questions like a scholar."
"I read a lot."
"I noticed."
His eyes narrow thoughtfully.
Then he asks quietly,
"My turn."
My heart skips.
"Alright." He swirls the wine slowly in his glass. Then speaks a single name.
"Who is Isaac?"
Everything inside me freezes. The warmth from the wine disappears instantly. My fingers tighten around the glass. Because I know that name. And I know exactly why hearing it makes my heart stop.