Pherenike - Chapter 92

For a moment, a flood of unfamiliar hatred poured over her. Hot on its heels, love chased after that hatred.

His love always consumed his hate in the end. He forgave. He always forgave her. The only one he couldn’t forgive was himself.

On the rock, Pherenike’s hand slipped several times. The pleasure was so intense she could barely breathe. As if trying to escape, her fingertips scrambled up the rock—only for Deucalion to seize her arm like a leash.

In that instant, she was completely at his mercy.

He pounced into her like an animal. She felt like a beast herself. The queen’s lips whispered the King’s brother’s name like a breath. Those same lips declared love once more. He laughed.

“Do you say such sweet things to your other husband too?”

Just as she peaked again, Deucalion nipped at her ear and quietly asked the question. Pherenike stiffened, as if cold water had been poured over her.

Slowly, Deucalion straightened up, pressing down on her slender back as he thrust into her from below. Her climax felt cold and sharp.

He looked down at his wife with a blank expression, and pulled out at the last moment as he came, painting her back with his seed.

Pherenike collapsed onto the rock, gasping for breath. With every rise and fall of her back, his s***n slid down the hollow of her spine. Deucalion watched as it finally slipped away, disappearing between her hips.

“…Why didn’t you finish inside me? I’m taking medicine anyway.”

Her low voice was edged with faint mockery. Deucalion silently pulled her into his arms. Pherenike grasped his arm, digging in her nails.

“Am I dirty to you?”

“Nike.”

“I know. There’s no way you’d like a body touched by your brother.”

“Look at me.”

“…Do you think I flirt with Actor Nikandros the way I do with you?”

“Nike, please.”

“Do you think I’m a w***e too?”

He roughly turned her in his arms.

Pherenike was crying with an angry face, not from sadness but from pure fury. And when she finally looked up, intent on glaring at him with murderous rage, she saw that he was crying too.

“Don’t cry, Nike.”

“….”

“I’m sorry.”

He leaned on her shoulder like a child, weeping quietly.

When he was young, Deucalion was not a boy who cried often.

Usually, his mother would cry before he did, and before his mother, her loyal handmaids would cry first. Even the prince’s burly childhood friends had once been boys who cried easily—they laughed as easily as they wept.

He grew up surrounded by so many tears that he never really knew when it was his turn to cry. He didn’t need to—weeping was never lacking in his life. Sorrow was his mother’s share, fear belonged to his friends, and as for anger, well, he’d lost that banner to his little fiance from the cradle.

The general’s daughter hated tears, just like her father. She found others’ weeping disgusting, and her own tears humiliating. For her, tears were a form of begging, a sign of surrender.

To Pherenike Vassilios, crying meant admitting defeat. Her blood likely tasted of defiance.

Yet Pherenike always cried before Deucalion did. At least when she was angry—she could never hold it in and would weep from rage. He never cried when angry, so that’s how their little competitions always ended. Most of the time, it was Deucalion who made her cry.

Whenever Pherenike got so angry with him she could cry, she’d rather try to kill him than just sit there weeping. Her shame over tears only doubled her rage.

If only you’d die, I’d have nothing left to cry about. I’ll kill you now, and then never shed another tear as long as I live… The girl would grit her teeth in all seriousness over her betrothed.

If I die, you’ll cry your whole life, he’d retort as she hit him. Maybe those wouldn’t be tragic tears, but tears all the same.

Deucalion never thought he could make her sad. She wasn’t the type to wilt in the face of sorrow, and he couldn’t imagine himself doing anything to truly hurt her.

But that day, after a moment of thought, Pherenike looked at him sadly for the first time in her life. Deucalion remembered lying there, poisoned, feeling oddly as if the poison weren’t even real.

Yes. If you die, I’ll mourn you my whole life. You’ll be the first person to ever make me truly sad…

So don’t die, Deucalion.

Now, it was a distant memory. He couldn’t count the days that had passed since. Deucalion knew that, despite her denial, many sorrows had brushed against her life. And he knew that most of those sorrows came from him.

Now, even if he died, he wouldn’t be the first to make her truly sad. Still, every time he skirted death, he thought of that little girl’s words more than of his wife.

So don’t die. If you die, I’ll cry for you my whole life. You’ll be the first to ever make me truly sad…

Don’t die, Deucalion.

He woke up to that memory. It had only been a light sleep—he sat up abruptly, looking around.

He’d fallen asleep at dusk, and now it was dark night. Deucalion grabbed his spear and stepped out from under the shade.