Varianth’s POV
The memories crashed down before I even realized it.
My hands had just passed the baby back into Athena’s arms when it hit me like a blow to the chest. A scent. A breath. A flicker of gold light.
Her.
I stumbled. My legs weakened. I gripped the bedpost for balance, my fingers curling around the carved wood like it was the only thing holding me up.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. But the images wouldn’t stop.
The hotel room. That night. Her body. Her voice. Her scent. “You’re beautiful…”
“You don’t look like a king tonight…”
Soft laughter. Bare skin. Her fingers running down my chest. Her lips on mine—gentle, unsure, unforgettable.
It was never a dream. It was never a blur.
It was Athena.
Always Athena.
My eyes darted to her. She lay on the bed, holding our baby—my son—cradled against her chest. She looked at me, concern etched across her tired face.
“Varianth?” she asked softly, her voice trembling. “What’s wrong?”
Her lips parted again. “What… what do you remember?”
I stepped closer, breath caught in my throat. “That night. The hotel. The candlelight. Your laugh. The way you touched me like you already knew me.”
Tears welled in her eyes.
“You,” I said again, my voice breaking. “It was you. It was always you.”
She let out a shaky breath. “I tried to tell you. I swear I did.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wanted you to remember on your own,” she whispered, clutching the baby tighter. “I didn’t want you to think I only mattered because of him.”
I knelt at her bedside, my hand reaching out slowly—hesitantly. I brushed my fingers against hers.
“I don’t just remember the night,” I whispered. “I remember how I felt. Safe. Seen. Wanted.”
A tear slid down her cheek. “You told me I was beautiful.”
“You were,” I whispered back. “You are.”
I glanced down at the baby sleeping peacefully.
And then it hit me again—how much he looked like me. The strong brow. The hint of a curl at the edge of his dark hair. There was no denying it now.
“I have a son,” I breathed. “With you.”
She nodded, a sob caught in her throat.
“You should have told me,” I said. Not in anger—but in pain.
“I was scared,” she replied, voice breaking. “Scared you’d reject him. That you’d reject me again… even if you didn’t remember.”
I squeezed her hand, shaking my head. “No. Not again. Never again.”