Page 27

God, I missed my combat boots. I missed cargo pants. I missed clothing designed by people who understood that sometimes a woman needed to make a swift getaway from a possessive king who had apparently decided her dignity was optional.

Behind me, the door burst open with enough force to make the sound crack through the corridor like thunder, and I didn’t need to look back to know it was him. I felt him before I heard him, that same impossible pull that always seemed to reach for me no matter how far I tried to run. Only this time, I shoved it down beneath the heat of my anger and tightened my grip on my skirts.

“Alexandra, stop!”

I ignored him and moved faster. Half running, half fighting with the dress as the polished floor slid beneath my heels. Even as the high walls carried his voice after me, I still didn’t stop.

“Come back here!”

“Leave me alone!” I shouted back, not slowing, not turning, because if I turned, then I would see him, and if I saw him, then all that hurt would have somewhere to go.

His footsteps came after me, measured at first, then quicker when he realized I had absolutely no intention of obeying him.

But obviously, he was gaining on me. Because Atlas could probably chase down a warhorse if he was in the mood, while I was stuck gathering up half a wardrobe and trying not to skid across the marble like some furious, overdressed fool.

“Would you just stop running?!”

“Would you stop being an asshole?!”

The words flew out of me sharp enough to cut, and I heard his pace falter for the smallest moment before it resumed. Heavier this time, less patient, the sound of a king discovering that command meant very little to a woman who had already decided she was done listening.

“Alexandra,” he warned.

“Atlas!” I snapped, breathless now, my heart slamming against my ribs as I rounded the bend and gathered the dress higher. “You don’t get to say my name like that!”

“Gods above, I am trying to talk to you, woman!”

“And I am trying to get away from you. Take the hint!” I shouted back, refusing to turn to face him.

“Not until you stop and listen… for fuck’s sake!”

I heard him swear under his breath, low and vicious, and a bitter part of me was glad. Let him be angry. Let him feel even a fraction of what was burning through me. Because I couldn’t get his words out of my head. Couldn’t stop the shame from twisting with the fury until they became one ugly, unbearable thing.

What did he think I was?

What did he think I had done?

After everything, after all of it, did he truly believe I would hand myself over to Theron like some bargaining tool, some pretty offering traded across enemy lines?

The thought hit so hard that my vision blurred.

Then the air shifted behind me.

It was the smallest warning, nothing more than a change in pressure. The heat from him was suddenly too close, the instinctive prickle down my spine that told me a hand was reaching before it touched me. Riley’s voice flashed through my head, not as memory but as a command. One sharp and merciless, honed by years of training.

Never let them take your arm, never let them control your balance. Use their weight against them before they use yours.

Atlas’s fingers closed around my arm, and I moved before thought could catch me. Which meant that instead of fighting his grip, I moved into it. Pulling away would have given him control, while stepping in shifted the advantage back to me. My foot slid back and anchored against the floor. Twisting beneath his grip, I caught the angle of his arm and drove my weight down and across, using his own momentum against him.

He was stronger than me, ridiculously stronger, built from war, arrogance, divine stubbornness, and, of course, he was a descendant of the Gods. Though strength meant nothing, especially when he reached for me, expecting fury but finding trained skill instead.

Hence, why his balance broke.

For one breath, his eyes widened, not in pain or fear, but in pure astonished disbelief as his body followed the direction mine forced it to go. I pivoted harder, using his arm as the lever and his momentum as the weapon. The next thing I knew, the King of Theïkós was no longer behind me.

He was on the floor.

The sound of him hitting the marble echoed through the corridor with a finality that made all my emotions pause. I stood there, chest heaving, one hand still gripping my skirts, the other hanging uselessly at my side as my brain slowly caught up with what my body had just done. Atlas lay flat on his back at my feet, dark hair spilled against the pale stone, one arm braced out beside him. His expression was frozen somewhere between outrage and utter disbelief.