Spoiler Alert

by Olivia Dade

  Summary:

  Aeneas teaches his wife swordplay—and waits for the day she draws blood.

  Notes:

  Thanks to my beta. He knows who he is.

  * * *

  Lavinia was growing more comfortable with a sword in her hand.

  That was true in bed, of course, and he was a selfish enough man to appreciate her increased skill there. But the bed wasn’t where she was growing to trust him, thrust by thrust.

  At night, she permitted his caresses and ventured her own, willing but awkward still. That wide-eyed look of shock each time she shuddered and came apart in his arms hadn’t yet disappeared. Her lingering hesitance charmed him, even as her pleasure prompted his.

  Under the blazing sun, in the dust, she was a different woman. Clothed and confident, she swung back at him. She parried. She engaged.

  You must learn, lest I and the other guards of the Latium gate fail, he’d told her.

  It was true enough. It was also an excuse, one he refused to relinquish after sparring with her the first time.

  Her endearing, lopsided smile bright, she moved her elegant, angular body without hesitation, certain he wouldn’t wound her. Some swords, it seemed, she considered more dangerous than others.

  One day, she wounded him instead.

  “Tell me about Carthage, husband,” she said as she knocked aside his blade and made an advance. “How did you spend your time there?”

  His concentration slipped, with predictable results. The gash on his thigh welled with blood, and she gasped and found a clean corner of her stola to press to the injury.

  She choked out apologies, and he consoled her, and he wondered.

  If she knew—if she knew—how he’d left behind the last woman he’d loved, abandoning her without a word; if she’d stood on the deck of his ship, at his side, and watched a queen light herself afire in desolation at his cruelty; if she understood him for what he was and what he’d been and what he’d done—

  Maybe she wouldn’t accept his sword in bed, and maybe she wouldn’t laugh and use one to parry his thrusts in the dusty yard they shared.

  Maybe she’d turn it on him instead.

  29

  “—SO CYPRIAN AND CASSIA WILL NEED TO MAKE SOME hard decisions about what they mean to each other, and what they’re willing to sacrifice for one another and for humanity,” Maria said in response to the moderator’s question, before turning to Peter. “Anything you want to add?”

  As she’d spoken, he’d been gazing at her the entire time, rapt, mouth quirked slightly in a smile. “Another question that will become paramount is whether the island where they’ve been shipwrecked for years is still their prison, or whether it’s become their home. Otherwise, I think you’ve covered everything I’d planned to say. As always.”

  Her expression impish, Maria wrinkled her nose at him. “If that’s a hint that I talk too much—”

  “Never,” he swore dramatically, one hand clapped over his heart as the audience laughed. “I hang on your every utterance, my lady.”

  “There’s a word in Swedish that applies here.” Maria propped her elbows on the table in front of her and gazed conspiratorially out at the session’s attendees. “Snicksnack. Nonsense. Total bullshit.”

  Carah snickered at that. “I thought I’d be the first person bleeped today.”

  “Swedes are a foulmouthed lot, I’ve found,” Peter said very clearly into his microphone, while Maria grinned at him. “I can only conclude that long winters encourage vulgarity.”

  Marcus shook his head at them both. By the time he got on Twitter later, that particular exchange would have already gone viral, one of many such exchanges that had become memes and gifs over the last several years. He knew it already.

  The closeness and seeming devotion of his two castmates fascinated even people who’d never watched Gods of the Gates. Maria and Peter had never, ever dated each other, as far as anyone—including Marcus—knew, but that only seemed to encourage the speculation, rather than dampen it.

  The moderator turned to him then, the last cast member who hadn’t answered a question specifically about his character. “Marcus, can you talk a little bit about Aeneas’s arc over the course of the show? I know you can’t share any spoilers for the final season, but can you tell us more about the state of your character as everyone prepares for the big showdown between Juno and Jupiter?”

  Usually, Marcus didn’t get such probing questions.

  Here it was. Another moment of decision. Another chance to be brave, or not.

  April wasn’t in the audience. He’d looked, hard. Maybe she’d needed to prepare for her session with Summer, which was occurring in less than half an hour, or maybe she hadn’t wanted to share a room with her ex-boyfriend in public.

  It didn’t matter. Her bravery might have inspired him, but this wasn’t for her.

  It was for himself.

  He’d seen the question ahead of time. He knew what he needed to say.

  “I think . . .” A sip from his water bottle helped relieve his throat’s dryness. “I think, when we meet Aeneas in the first season, he’s a man who’s lost his home, but not his identity. He may have been sailing for months, sometimes far from land and at the mercy of Neptune, but he has a very clear sense of purpose and self. Pius Aeneas. A warrior and leader dedicated to the will of the gods, whatever that might entail.”

  His castmates were staring at him now, all wide eyes and furrowed brows, and no wonder. He didn’t dare look out into the audience, which had gone very quiet.

  “But—” More water, and he kept speaking. “But after being ordered to leave Dido, the woman he loves, in such a cruel and damaging way, after standing on the deck of his ship and helplessly watching her burn on a funeral pyre comprised of their life together, he finds himself unable to reconcile his personal sense of honor with his obedience to Venus and Jupiter.”

  Another gulp of water. Another deep breath, before he continued to defy his public image so completely, there could be no mistaking his previous artifice.

  “By the time he meets Lavinia, he’s wrestled with the contradiction between duty and conscience, and is trying to determine what piety actually means to him. He’s not the same man. Especially after he begins to build a life with his wife, one not defined by battle and bloodshed.” Marcus offered a feeble, thin smile to the room without actually making eye contact with anyone. “How that’ll play out in the final season, I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

  The moderator, a reporter from a well-known entertainment magazine, was blinking at him. “Oh—okay. Um, thank you, Marcus, for that—” The older man paused. “Thank you for that very thoughtful answer.”

  In the front row, Vika was watching Marcus. When he inadvertently met her gaze, she inclined her head with a faint smile. An acknowledgment. Encouragement, perhaps.

  “Well, uh . . .” The moderator still seemed a bit shell-shocked, but he eventually glanced at the papers in front of him and pulled himself together. “I believe we have time for audience questions.”

  Several moments of general upheaval ensued before a woman near the back of the room stood, accepted a microphone, and addressed the panel. “This question is for Marcus.”

  “No fucking duh,” Carah muttered, and patted his arm comfortingly.

  To his surprise, though, the woman didn’t address the obvious dichotomy between his previous public persona and the version of him who’d spoken moments before.

  No, what she asked was infinitely worse.

  “My boyfriend and I have an ongoing argument,” she said, gesturing toward a guy in a Gates tee who sat slouched and smirking in the seat beside her. “He’s convinced you only dated that fan as a publicity thing, or as some kind of political statement. I told him you’re a great actor, but there’s no way you were faking that expression whenever you looked at her. So who’s right?”

  Dimly, Marcus wondered what expression he wore whenever he looked at April. Thunderstruck, probab
ly. Lovesick.

  The moderator heaved a sigh and glared at the woman. “Please make sure all future questions involve the show, rather than matters of an entirely personal nature. Let’s go to the next—”

  “No,” Marcus found himself saying. “No, it’s okay. I’ll answer.”

  Before April, he wouldn’t have realized the real implications of this question, the stance the woman’s boyfriend was actually taking. But now he knew, and he wouldn’t let it go unchallenged.

  April might not want him anymore, but he wasn’t going to stand by while that smirking asshole or anyone else dismissed their relationship as a PR stunt or political statement.

  “My relationship with Ms. Whittier is real.” He spoke directly into the mic, each word deliberate and chilly. “She’s an incredibly intelligent and talented woman, as well as gorgeous.”

  The boyfriend snorted at that, and Marcus stared at him. Kept staring, stony and expressionless, until that hateful little smile evaporated.

  “I consider myself fortunate to have dated her, and I would be proud to have her by my side at any and all red carpets, if she were willing to accompany me.” One brow raised challengingly, he turned back to the woman. “Does that answer your question?”

  “Um . . .” She dropped back into her seat with a distinct thump, eyes wide. “Yes. Thank you.”

  It wasn’t enough to make up for how he’d hurt April, but at least he’d proven one thing.

  Whatever else he was, he wasn’t her goddamn father.

  Right now, for the first time in years, he was only himself. No more, and definitely no less. Whether that would be enough—for her, for Gates fans, for his parents—he couldn’t say.

  But at long last, after almost four decades, it was enough for him.

  TWO MINUTES BEFORE their session was due to begin, Summer Diaz rushed into the backstage area and offered April a quick, slightly sweaty hug.

  “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “The group panel ran long. There were a lot of audience questions. Awkward ones.”

  “Oh?” April tucked her hair behind her ear, doing her best not to appear as starved for information as she actually was, especially if said information included Marcus. “What were people asking?”

  One of the conference organizers was waving at them, trying to catch their attention. April deliberately shifted until Summer blocked any view of him.

  The other woman was watching April carefully, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “Among other things, why Marcus suddenly sounded like a PhD candidate, instead of the most handsome village idiot on earth. Whether his relationship with you was real, or just a publicity stunt.”

  April’s mouth was gaping. She knew it, but the air in the hotel suddenly seemed unusually thin, so much so that she needed to gulp for breath.

  “What—” Another shallow breath. Another. “What did he say?”

  “Quite a bit. Let me see.” Summer tilted her head. “The highlights: he’s shy and dyslexic and happy to explain more in an interview that should be posted either late tonight or tomorrow.”

  Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

  He’d done it. He’d disposed of his old persona in the most public way possible, short of interrupting a royal wedding to announce his dyslexia via interpretive dance before setting fire to a series of hair products.

  Not that he would ever set fire to his hair products. He was very, very attached to them. Especially his soft-hold mousse, which smelled like rosemary and fluffy clouds and money.

  “How did the audience react?” The central, terrifying question.

  Summer lifted a shoulder. “They were sympathetic, albeit confused. I think the interview will help smooth over any ill feelings, once it’s posted.”

  April gripped the back of a nearby chair, knees literally weak with relief.

  “And . . . what did he say about me?” It was nearly a whisper, because the con organizer was coming closer, but she wasn’t sure she could have spoken louder under any circumstances.

  “You’re intelligent, talented, and gorgeous.” One by one, Summer ticked off the adjectives on her fingers. “Your relationship is real, and he’s proud to be with you.”

  April closed her eyes then, willing the tears back into her sinuses.

  “We’re already a minute late.” The organizer sounded harried. “Are you two ready?”

  Eyes still closed, April nodded.

  “Sure,” Summer said. “April?”

  Then they were moving out onto the stage, squinting under the lights, and April was looking down at her notes and trying to concentrate on the job at hand. More people kept shuffling into the room, standing at the back as she introduced Summer to the audience, and she couldn’t help but wonder whether they too were coming straight from the full-cast panel, whether they’d heard what Marcus had said. About himself, about her. About them.

  Can’t think about that now.

  “Summer,” she said, angling herself in her chair to face the other woman more directly, “to start us off, can you explain what drew you to the character of Lavinia?”

  The rest of the session was a blur, punctuated in places by Summer’s keen empathy for her character and the intelligence with which she answered questions about her work, the books that had inspired the series, and the experience of acting on a show with such a broad global reach. Through it all, April tried her best to remain clear and present and prepared for whatever might occur, but it all went smoothly, more smoothly than she’d even hoped.

  Then, as planned, they had ten minutes left for questions and answers.

  One of the con volunteers picked an audience member, someone April vaguely remembered joining the session moments after she’d introduced Summer.

  The tall, generously rounded girl, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, smiled shyly as she looked at April. “Hi. I’m Leila, and I was hoping to ask a question.”

  April smiled back, as encouragingly as she could. “Hi, Leila. Go ahead. Summer would be delighted to answer any question you might have.”

  The girl’s brow crinkled. “No, I mean I was hoping to ask you a question.”

  Oh.

  Oh, shit.

  In her peripheral vision, she could see Summer taking out a cell phone and feverishly thumbing away, which seemed odd and sort of rude under the circumstances, but April supposed no one in the audience was paying attention to the actor right now anyway.

  No, they were all looking at her, and they all knew what this young woman wanted to ask about. Marcus. Of course, Marcus.

  The con organizer was waving at her from the side of the stage, mouthing something. It’s up to you, if she was interpreting the man’s exaggerated lip movements correctly.

  Her privacy was at stake here, but so was her pride.

  So was her heart.

  Marcus would eventually see this, she knew. At the very least, he’d hear about it, from Summer or someone else. And maybe she hadn’t thought the convention was the right place to have this conversation, and maybe she hadn’t intended to expose her heart to a hall full of strangers before speaking to him directly, but she wasn’t going to evade the question, whatever it was.

  He loved her. He loved her, and Marcus had already loved too many people who’d failed him. Who’d ignored his needs. Who’d refused to acknowledge him publicly.

  She was proud of him and for him, and whatever happened between them next, he needed to know that.

  After a shuddering breath, she mentally hiked up her big-girl panties and answered the young woman. “Sure. What’s your question?”

  “At the cast panel—” Leila gestured vaguely toward the door. “You know, the one that happened right before this session?”

  April tipped her head in acknowledgment.

  The girl continued, “Anyway, at that panel, Marcus Caster-Rupp said he wasn’t with you as a publicity stunt.”

  “Our relationship has nothing to do with publicity.” The words were firm. Definitive. “The first time
we met, the attraction was immediate and mutual.”

  And that remained true whether she meant their first online meeting or their first date.

  “Oh. Good.” Leila’s brief smile was beautiful, wide enough to plump her cheeks adorably. “Are you two still dating? Because it . . .” The microphone picked up the little catch in her throat. “It meant a lot to me to see you two t-together.”

  When April met the girl’s eyes, she saw pain and need there. The same pain and need that had clawed at her for decades, and the same pain and need that had drawn her inexorably into the Lavineas fandom.

  Please tell me people who look like us can be loved.

  Please tell me people who look like us can be desired.

  Please tell me people who look like us can have happy endings.

  She bit her lip. Dropped her chin to her chest. Considered what to tell the girl. Dammit, she hadn’t intended to say any of this, but—

  “Not to sound like a social media status update, but it’s complicated.” The audience chuckled, and she huffed out a small sound of amusement too. “Let me make one thing absolutely clear, though: If we do break up, it won’t be because our relationship was fake, or because he doesn’t like how I look. He wants me exactly as I am. Believe me”—she slanted the audience a smile dripping with smug confidence—“I know.”

  Leila giggled at that, and April laughed with her and reached for a well-deserved sip of water. Only to see, when she turned away from the audience, someone standing at the far edge of the stage, blocked from the sight of session attendees by a curtain.

  Not the con organizer. Not a volunteer.

  Marcus.

  His chest was heaving, as if he’d run through the hotel to reach her. He was clutching his cell, and April suddenly knew exactly whom Summer had been texting earlier and why.

  He was staring at her, face pinched into a concerned frown. It was easy enough to read his lips, to interpret the sweep of his arm toward the unseen audience. I’m sorry.

  When she smiled at him, his gaze turned soft. Still worried, but gentle and affectionate.

  “Leila, you didn’t ask me this, but I want to make something else clear.” She spoke into her microphone, but she was looking at him. Always, always at him. “If Marcus and I break up, it won’t be because I want to, and it won’t be because I don’t love him.”