Push him away.
I didn’t. God, help me. I didn’t. Tongue sliding past my lips, he inhaled me. Breathed me in like I was keeping him alive and held me so tight I would have finger-shaped bruises later. Nipping my lips, he sucked the hurt away, so they throbbed in time with my pulse.
He ripped his lips from me, leaving me barely standing, barely breathing.
“I’m not sorry.” His voice was as hard as his grip had been.
What had I done?
I touched my lips and winced. My fingers were red with blood, and I stared at them. All I could think wasbad.I was a bad person. A horrible person. Pollux would be so hurt.
What was wrong with me?
Paris dipped his head, licked my bottom lip and then drew back only enough to lift my fingers to his mouth. He cleaned them off, and it shouldn’t have done a thing for me, but it was such a primal act.
“I’ll explain.”
“How?” I asked. I stared up at him, studying his face. There wasn’t a shred of indecision there, just this hard, stubborn glare that seemed to be daring me to argue with him. “How is it going to be okay, Paris? I’m going to hurt him so much. And I—” I almost said it.Love.But it couldn’t be love because it was too soon for that. “I care so much for him.”
Paris’s expression didn’t change. “I know.”
If he knew, then why?Why?
I was going to be sick.
Releasing my hand, Paris cupped my face and bent closer to me. “I won’t make the same mistakes twice. I won’t steal you away, but I won’t give you up either.”
“You don’t even know me.” Days together and he was kissing the life out of me, turning my entire world upside down.
He pressed his lips to my forehead, then to the tip of my nose, and my lips again. “You know me, though.” One hand left my face, and before I could stop him, he pressed his palm to the seal.
The light lit up Helen’s hair like a golden crown. The smile on her face, bright, carefree. I didn’t understand it. How could she smile after everything?
And then I saw him. Two arms held in the air, and she went to her knees, then lifted her son into her arms.
Not my son.
Ten years with her, and we had no children. A year with Menelaus, and a son. He had his father’s dark hair, but the smile on his face, dimples deep in each cheek, were Helen’s.
So.
She was happy.
At least I had done this. Without the gods to move us like pieces on a game board, she could make her own destiny. Her own decisions.
Moving from the shade of the olive tree, I whispered her name, “Helen.”
Whirling toward my voice, I didn’t miss the way her golden skin paled, and she tightened her grip on her son. “Paris?”
I came closer. “Helen.”
She swallowed, glanced over her shoulder, and swallowed again. “You’re alive.”
I wasn’t alive so much as I existed. I had no heartbeat. I didn’t grow old. I healed after any hurt, but I supposed, yes, I was alive. Nodding, I tightened my grip on the bough of the olive tree I’d pushed aside.
“You have to go.”
“Do you want me to go?” I asked. It was a question I hadn’t asked her the first time I’d taken her from Menelaus. Then, I had asked, “Do you love me?” And when she’d answered yes, I had acted without thought.