Page 39 of Queen to the Sunless Court (Brides of Myth #2)

On Duties and Desires

Theron

Calliste’s soft body against the gilt door, breath-taking in her golden robe with her hair ruffled from the wind, her expression fierce and hopeful—Theron couldn’t shake off her image from his mind.

Not when he awoke before dawn and dressed in his formal purple robes to attend the Assembly, nor when he ate Gaiane’s breakfast and received confirmation that Kalias was fine. And not even while catching up on the most tedious reports and petitions his absence from the desk had earned him.

So when Xanthos entered his study, pristine in his blue robe, Theron made a furious effort to stop smiling to himself and focus on the task at hand.

“So. Coming with me today?” Xanthos asked as he approached his desk, frowning at the scattered parchments.

“Yes. I’ve reviewed some of the urgent papers and responded to a few. I’ll be attending as usual for half the day.”

“And the other half?”

“I’ll be handling other matters,” Theron replied with a shrug, reluctant to mention the rooftop garden.

Of course, it would be easiest to let Calliste go there with Lykos to retrieve the coin.

But his instincts told him he had to do it himself.

Just as he’d descended to the Roots, knowing—even if not entirely believing—that he’d meet Amatheia, he knew he had to confront what he’d been avoiding and secure the final piece connecting the past with the future.

And he was ready, as long as Calliste remained by his side.

“Theron,” Xanthos cleared his throat. “Did you hear what I said?”

He looked up blankly.

“Zeus help me if this is a taste of what I’ll be dealing with from you today,” his advisor sighed.

“What did you say?”

“That your reply to the Pyrriseum’s Council would look far more professional without Calliste’s name scribbled all over the margins.”

Theron glanced down at the last paper he’d signed and froze at the undeniable evidence of his distraction. “I don’t remember doing this.”

“And now you’re blushing. A grown man, a father, and a king. Blushing. Whoever said that love is insanity knew what they were talking about.” Xanthos shook his head as he turned to head for the door. “Let’s head to the Assembly for this utter delight of a day.”

***

Theron redeemed himself—partially, at least—by devoting his undivided attention to the Assembly sessions.

His quick, sharp remarks flashed like daggers, cutting through the smirks and hints at the reason for his absence.

But he soon realized that Xanthos’ observation about a chariot without a charioteer was sadly accurate.

It forced him to devote more time than he had initially planned to restoring the order of proceedings—but even so, dealing with the demanding noble Houses of Hesperis had a soothing familiarity, like slipping on his weathered boxing gloves and grounding himself in a hard-earned habit, sparring with his retorts. He knew exactly what he was doing.

It was a welcome distraction from thoughts of the Underworld lingering in his mind.

When the sundial outside showed that he could no longer delay his garden trip, he called for a break. “I won’t be coming back after they reconvene,” he muttered to Xanthos.

His advisor nodded, eyes fixed on the neat stacks of parchments awaiting their turn. “Go ahead. At least they’re falling back in line.”

For now , Theron wanted to add, but he didn’t. He climbed back to his wing and his sunlit study, then headed to the adjacent bath-chamber. He refreshed himself, washing his face with scented water, and then stared into the polished bronze mirror, fighting the sickly sensation in his stomach.

He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. It’s that godsdamned garden.

But then he steeled himself, his steps quick as he descended to Calliste’s room, knocked—and promptly lost his breath when she opened the door.

“Afternoon.” Her smile rivaled the brilliance of the sun.

She wore the earrings he had given her and a shimmering orange robe, cinched at the waist with a black sash.

The orange lent her complexion a ruddy hue, and her face was fresh from sleep.

Her glossy hair caught the sunlight, highlighting its dark-cinnamon shade.

“Afternoon, Calliste. Slept well?” He drank in her appearance.

“Too well.”

“A new robe?”

“From Gaiane. I’m being spoiled rotten in your household.”

“As you should be,” he said with a grin that would probably drive Xanthos to leave the room through the nearest window, screaming about the insanity of love.

For a few unhurried breaths, they stood in pulsing, bright silence.

He reached out and traced her cheek. “Have you eaten?” he asked. When she nodded, he took her hand and sighed. “Then we can go.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“No.” He moved a fraction closer.

“I won’t think any less of you if you ask me to go alone.” Her voice fell into warm undertones, and he wondered if this was how she comforted those with wounded souls. “Do you remember when I collapsed when I saw Anthemos?”

“Yes. Bad memories triggered you.”

She nodded. “You might not react the same way, but I don’t want that to happen to you. Join me only if it feels right.”

He didn’t know where his certainty came from, but it was undeniable. Despite his reluctance, the answer was simple: “Even though it hurts, it feels right.”

“It still hurts?” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Do you know which muscle in the human body is the slowest to heal?”

“Huh?” He glanced at her in surprise, momentarily thrown off and scrambling to think. “Muscle? Uh, no, I’m not a healer. Which one?”

Her smile was somewhat sad as she reached out and placed her hand on his chest. “Heart,” she said softly. “It’s always the heart.”

It took him several breaths to recover from the sorrowful way she said those words. He briefly wondered if she had once loved her husband. The pieces he held in his hands only revealed part of the story: the bitter end.

What had happened at the beginning, he still didn’t know.

He was about to wrap his arms around her and kiss her senseless when he heard familiar footsteps echoing in the corridor.

He knew who it was even before seeing the man.

Leaning against the wall with his elbow, his hand cradling her cheek, he casually asked, “Tell me, Calliste, why are we always stalked by a certain pesky and insufferable captain?”

“Oh, and good afternoon to you as well, Theron,” Lykos gritted out, spruce and adorned with all the insignia of his rank: an intricate black leather breastplate with the crest of Hesperis embossed in gold, and his sword and dagger swinging at his wide, embossed belt.

His black hair was slicked back and his dark-blue eyes narrowed in a way Theron remembered from their fights in the boxing ring.

“On a grand scale of aggravation, you’ve outdone even me.

Do you think I enjoy squeezing information about your whereabouts from your perpetually disgruntled and unaccommodating advisor?

Huh? You’ve always been a pain to guard, always, but now—now you’re just determined to be a monumental pain. ”

Theron’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t reply.

“I truly don’t know what kind of insanity consumes me,” Lykos continued, widening his stance, “to keep putting up with this thankless task. Why should I even bother?”

“Gold,” Theron quipped, knowing exactly what answer to expect.

“Screw you.”

“Then love.”

“That’s even more presumptuous,” Lykos growled, exasperated, then scrubbed his hand over his mouth. “Where are you two running off to this time?”

Theron exchanged glances with Calliste.

Lykos pinched the bridge of his nose. “A secret location. Splendid. This will be exceptionally good for my nerves.”

“We were going to visit Theron’s rooftop garden,” Calliste replied, smiling.

Lykos froze with a strange, surprised expression. “Now? Both of you?”

Theron tilted his head, noticing that his friend’s ire had suddenly vanished. “Yes, now. Both of us. Why?”

“Why there?” Lykos made a vague gesture. “There are many other places you could show Calliste. Like… like the grove behind the palace—why not there?” He cracked his usual jesting smile, but there was something unsettling in his eyes. “A perfect spot for trysts.”

Theron paused, wondering why his friend looked guilty, before glancing at Calliste to gauge her reaction. Her brows were pinched; she seemed intrigued too. “We need to see the sculpture Solon placed there,” he replied.

“Why on earth would you want to see it?” Lykos’ brows rose.

Theron shrugged. “It’s a very long story, and we don’t have time—”

“We need to check it for something that might help us cure Kalias’ illness,” Calliste said at the same time.

Understanding flashed in Lykos’ eyes, but he was still oddly unsettled. “Eumelia is practicing there right now.”

“Practicing where ?” Theron raised his brow. “In that weed-infested ruin?”

“She needs peace and quiet.” Lykos pushed his thumbs behind his belt. “And it’s the perfect spot for her.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind.” Theron stepped forward, but Lykos blocked his path.

“Can’t you wait until Eumelia finishes? She should be done soon and heading to her quarters.”

Now he sounded desperate. Theron took a long look at his friend, trying to understand why, until he remembered Lykos challenging him about mistreating Eumelia by flaunting Calliste in front of her.

It would certainly appear that way to him, and to anyone else, after the charade Eumelia and he had played just to gain some peace from the court.

“Lykos,” he said quietly, “I need to go there now. I never knew this was her practice spot, but we’re not invading her privacy. This is my garden, and regardless of what you think, she’ll be happy to see Calliste and me.”

A beat of tension passed between them.

His jaw clenching, Lykos stepped aside and followed them.

Holding Calliste’s hand, Theron navigated the familiar turns of the corridors, leading them to a part of the palace that had been easy for him to avoid; the rooftop garden was in another compound.

When they finally reached the staircase which would take them to the garden’s entrance, his heart clenched. He began climbing until, several steps later, his steps faltered.

When Calliste squeezed his hand, he pushed himself to continue.

Another flight of stairs, and they would emerge from the shaded staircase onto the rooftop terrace. A fragrant breeze swirled from the lightwell above, carrying the familiar scents of what used to be his favorite place—until his parents’ and Amatheia’s deaths poisoned it all.

He couldn’t bring himself to take another step, unwilling to face the overgrown, weed-infested ruin he had left to rot, with Amatheia’s sculpture likely as the focal point, already trying not to think about the hours spent there with her, consumed by guilt and fear, hoping he could change what couldn’t be changed.

As he opened his mouth to ask Lykos to take Calliste to the garden, a silver thread of music streaming from above filled the staircase. He recognized it in a heartbeat: the piece from his supper with Calliste.

She met his eyes, and he saw it again: the wall of jasmine with candlelight woven into the greenery like magic and their fervent, forbidden kiss.

The crystalline notes pulled him over the last flight of stairs, into a short corridor leading onto the roof, and then…

The sun blinded him, black spots flaring up in his vision. He blinked.

Beside him, Calliste gasped. “Oh, Theron…”