Page 176 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“I am to remain here... with you,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
A sharp, breathless ache pressed against her ribs. It spilled through her, curling high in her throat. Her breath was trapped inside, tangled and tight. Too much, too fast. And yet some silent part of her, long buried under grief and ruin, reached for it. For him. Just as he had reached for her in Troy.
Achilles stepped forward, not swiftly or carelessly. He moved toward her like a tide drawing near, unshakable in its course. He stopped close enough that she could feel him—the warmth of him, the weight of his presence. But he made no move to touch her.
He waited.
And in that silence, taut with all that had passed between them, she lifted her eyes.
His were already waiting. Sea-green. Fathomless. They held her with a fire that neither demanded nor consumed. It was a steadier, enduring flame, a vow burning silently. A promise not to conquer or destroy, but to cast light into the darkness where she had been lost for too long.
“There is nothing to fear.” His deep voice wrapped around her like a mantle, smooth against the raw edges of her soul. “You belong to none but yourself. You are safe here. Here, you are home.”
The words sank into her, into the raw, battered places that no longer knew the shape of truth.
She had heard countless promises uttered from sharp smiles with hiddenintentions. Words that promised safety, even as they cut deeper. Time and again, life had taught her to trust nothing but the ache of survival.
But this was not life. And he—he was not Paris or Menelaus. Not Theseus or Tyndareus, or even the gods.
She could feel the difference of him singing in the marrow of her bones. His words were unhidden, bare. Holding only raw, unvarnished truth.
Like lightning cleaving a darkened sky, the full weight of everything she had borne crashed down all at once. The weight of the years, the blood, the guilt and grief.
Crushing in its enormity, too heavy for her to bear.
But not for him.
Before thought could intervene, she moved. A step. Then another, drawn by a force greater than fear. Her head bowed as she came to him, leaning forward until her brow touched the center of his chest, the place where his heart beat steadily.
Achilles did not move, standing still as though he had been carved for this moment. Waiting. Enduring. As if even breath might startle her into flight. But she did not pull away. She remained there, breathing in the scent of the river and sun-warmed skin.
Only then did he move.
His arms closed around her—not hastily, but with a strength that spoke of certainty. One hand rose to cradle the back of her neck. The other slid firmly around her waist. A stronghold that did not capture, but sheltered.
The rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against her, gradually quieted the tremor inside her. She could feel nothing but the firmness of him, the embrace that held her together when she might otherwise have splintered apart.
“No harm will touch you here.” His oath was low, rough and solemn.
It swelled through her, igniting a flicker of warmth in a place long crusted over with frost. Her breath escaped in a slow exhale, tension bleeding from her shoulders. Her head turned, her cheek finding a place over the steady drum of his heart.
Here—in the place carved out for her, shaped by a gentler will. A quiet haven crafted by a being of grace and soft, glimmering darkness. A foothold where there had been none.
“Rest now,” Achilles murmured, his breath brushing warm against her brow.
And at last, she did.
Chapter 65
Hades found her sitting on the riverbank, a bright jewel against the gray stone. As he approached, his eyes fell to the bundle cradled against her chest.
Lowering himself to one knee beside her, he said quietly, “Persephone, you must let him go.”
In her arms, an infant cooed softly, two chubby fingers tucked into his mouth.
Persephone’s arms tightened around the child. “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking. Tears dripped down her cheeks. “He needs me.”
