Page 8
Not completely.
No, the tension remained etched into every line of his face, exhaustion and grief still lingering behind his eyes. But for the first time since I had arrived in Theïkós, I caught a glimpse of the man beneath it all. The man who had spent months searching for me. The man who had nearly lost his brother. The man who looked as though he was holding himself together through sheer force of will.
Crossing the distance between us in only a few strides, he reached for me before I could say a word, his hands rising to cradle either side of my face. His touch was warm, grounding, and for a moment neither of us spoke. We just stood there, staring at one another as though trying to make sense of the impossible reality that we had somehow survived long enough to find our way back to each other.
“We have much to talk about.”
A weak laugh escaped me despite everything.
“That might be the understatement of the century.”
For the briefest moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, but the smile never quite materialized.
“Perhaps.”
The word settled between us, alongside a thousand unanswered questions. There was so much he still didn’t know. So much I needed to explain. The Labyrinth. The Badlands. Theron. Demetrios. The dagger. Everything. Yet neither of us seemed quite ready to begin unraveling it.
Eventually, his gaze drifted past me before returning to my face.
“I need to take care of Lazaros.” The sadness in his voice made my chest ache.
“Go.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“I don’t want to leave you.”
The honesty of the admission stole the breath from my lungs. Beyond the castle walls, an entire kingdom was trying to recover from war. His brother was falling apart somewhere down the corridor. There were soldiers to command, survivors to help, and a thousand impossible decisions waiting for him. Yet somehow his greatest concern remained standing right in front of him.
“I’ll be fine,” I promised, my voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes searched mine as though trying to determine whether he believed me or not. Then his gaze dropped to my throat.
His hand slid from my cheek, his thumb brushing gently across the cut left behind by Lazaros’s blade. The storm that darkened his expression told me exactly what he thought about my definition of being fine.
“You’re hurt.”
Instinctively, my fingers rose to touch the wound.
“It’s only a scratch.” The look he gave me suggested he disagreed entirely.
“A scratch that came far too close.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
His hand remained against my neck, his thumb tracing the edge of the injury with infuriating gentleness before he finally released a slow breath.
“I’ll have a maid sent to you. She’ll show you to a room where you can clean up.”
Before I could answer, the distant sound of Lazaros’s voice echoed through the corridor beyond the throne room. The broken cry that followed seemed to strike Atlas like a physical blow, his eyes closing briefly as pain flickered across his face.
“Go,” I breathed. “I’ll still be here when you’re done.”
When his eyes opened again, they settled on mine and remained there for several long seconds. Then his hand slid to the back of my neck, and he gently drew me closer until our foreheads touched.
The gesture was achingly familiar.
Comforting… like home.
