The night air was heavy with the scent of myrrh and roses from the palace gardens, their perfume curling in through the open windows of your bedchamber. Distantly, the waves of the Aegean murmured against the shore, a lullaby carried by the wind. The fires had been dimmed, and only the golden flicker of the oil lamps danced across the carved stone walls of the royal quarters.

You lay curled beneath the softest linen sheets, the woolen blanket pulled over your shoulders. The room was quiet, but for the soothing hush of breathing—yours and Hector's, woven together in rhythm like the lull of the tide. His great form was wrapped around yours from behind, his arms locked securely around your middle, one of his hands resting protectively on the soft curve of your hip.

Your back was pressed to his chest, and you could feel every steady beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath, slow and contented. One of his legs was tangled with yours, bare skin against bare skin, and you felt impossibly small beside him—but never overwhelmed. Only safe. Deeply, eternally safe.

“Hm,” came Hector’s sleepy voice, low and husky near your ear, lips brushing your hairline. “You feel like a dream in my arms.”

You smiled faintly, your quiet voice muffled in the blanket. “Then may we never wake.”

He chuckled, warm and rich, chest vibrating against your back. “I would curse the sun if it tried to take this moment from me.”

You turned slowly in his arms until you were facing him. He immediately pulled you closer, pressing your body flush against his, your soft curves nestled against his broad frame. His hand came up to brush a short, curly lock from your forehead, then cradled your face in a large, calloused palm.

“You’ve bewitched me,” he whispered, studying your face like he couldn’t believe you were real. “Your eyes are moonlight in mortal form. Your voice calms the storms of battle.”

Your fingers traced the line of his strong jaw, and you pressed your lips to his chin. “And your touch chases all fear away.”

He made a needy sound in the back of his throat and pulled you onto his lap, blanket and all. You settled there with a soft sigh, knees on either side of his thighs, arms wrapping around his neck. He nuzzled into your shoulder, kissing the slope of it gently, then your collarbone, your jaw, your cheek.

“I fight with the fury of a thousand men,” he murmured against your skin, “but only because I know you wait for me. Only because you and Scamandrius are my world.”

You carded your fingers gently through his dark hair, smiling softly, your round grey eyes gazing into his with quiet love. “You come back to us, and that’s all that matters.”

His grip tightened slightly, possessive even in tenderness. “I will never fall while you love me,” he vowed.

And then he rested his head against your chest, ear over your heart, arms around your waist, his breathing slowly matching yours. In that sacred hush, the prince and his beloved curled into each other beneath soft blankets, bound by more than marriage—by a soul-deep adoration no war could tear asunder.

Outside, the stars stood guard. And inside, the fiercest warrior in Troy slept with his whole heart in his arms.