The robe was cinched at her waist by a heavy belt of linked silver, a focal point that drew the eye before the silk fell away in a cascade that did nothing to hide the regal, powerful swell of her hips. It was a body made for a throne, a perfect fusion of controlled strength and decadent, commanding curves.
But it was the way the fabric strained over her bust that made the breath catch in Pete's shattered chest.
Full, proud, and impossibly perfect, they rose and fell with each calm, measured breath, pressing against the thin silk with a weight that was both authoritative and deeply, undeniably sensual. It was the breathtaking beauty of a statue of a conquering empress brought to life, all marble and muscle and undeniable, magnetic presence.
Her jewelry wasn't just expensive; it was a declaration. A necklace of heavy gold links, each one as thick as Pete's thumb, rested in the hollow of her throat, drawing the eye to the elegant column of her neck and the sharp, stubborn line of her jaw. Her wrists were circled by bands of onyx and gold, accentuating the strength of her hands as one beckoned to him with languid, possessive grace.
It was a different kind of desire than the one he'd felt for Persephone. That had been a soul-searing, suicidal lust for the divine, a foolish, impossible need to touch the untouchable.
This... this was more primal. Rawer. It was the gut-wrenching, painful lust of a wounded animal for strength, of a broken man for wholeness. It was a desperate, aching desire for her. For the effortless power she wore like a second skin. For the absolute command in her dark, calculating eyes.
For the sheer, unshakeable reality of a woman who had likely never known a single moment of weakness in her entire, magnificent life.
He was a wreck of blood and sand, held together by frayed nerves and a power he didn't understand. And she... she was a monolith. A living, breathing monument to everything he was not.
And in that moment, staring up at her, a lust so sharp it felt like a new and entirely separate flavor of agony burned through his pain. He wanted her. Not just her body, but the certainty, the authority, the bone-deep rightness of her existence.
Her face was striking—not beautiful in the soft, gentle way, but in the sharp, commanding way of a predator. High cheekbones that could cut glass. A strong, stubborn jaw. Dark, calculating eyes that missed nothing, took in every detail of his broken form.
Two guards flanked him, their grip on his arms like iron manacles. They hauled him forward, forcing him to stumble up the final steps into the opulent viewing box.
"Put him down," she commanded.
The guards released him.
He dropped the last two feet, landing hard on his ruined leg. A universe of pain exploded through his calf and he pitched forward, catching himself on a heavy, gilded table with a grunt. Blood dripped from his wounds, pooling in dark, obscene spots on the expensive, patterned carpet beneath his feet.
The giantess didn't seem to mind. She studied him, her dark eyes traveling from his blood-matted hair down to his shredded leg, cataloging every injury with a detached, clinical interest.
The crowd below was still roaring, but up here, in this elevated space, the sound was muted, distant. Like a memory of noise rather than noise itself.
"So," the giantess said, her voice rich, cultured, used to being obeyed. She looked at Pete the way a merchant might look at an interesting new commodity. "You're the Boy from Beyond."
It wasn't a question.
Pete straightened despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, despite the screaming protest of every fiber of his being. He met her eyes—had to crane his neck to do it, she was so impossibly tall—and managed something that might have been a nod.
"Apparently," he said. His voice came out a dry, hoarse rasp, raw from screaming. "Though I'm still figuring out what that means."
Her smile widened slightly. It was not warm. It was not friendly. It was the smile of a master craftsman who had just found a fascinating, flawed, and incredibly difficult new material to work with.
Her purple robes were expensive silk, flowing and elegant, but so fine that the light from the box's braziers streamed through it, creating subtle, shifting silhouettes of the form beneath. She was generously, gloriously proportioned—her figure speaking of perfect health and immense power, with curves that didn't just demand attention, they held it captive.
Pete's exhausted, adrenaline-fried brain couldn't help the dark, hysterical chuckle that escaped his cracked lips.
'Do I seriously live in a universe where giant men have the same debates we do?' he thought, almost delirious with pain and fatigue. 'Do they sit around their giant taverns, pounding giant meads, arguing about size and proportions? "By the Titans, Grog, my wife's backside has better shape than yours!" "Bah, yours is all flash, no substance, Borg! MINE has superior heft!"'
Of course they did. They were just people. Just... bigger. The same petty comparisons, the same insecurities, the same pathetic, lecherous preferences, all scaled up to a terrifying, thirteen-foot scale.
This woman before him was what giants would consider abundantly favored—not overwhelmingly so, but definitely blessed by their gods of bounty. Her figure was athletic yet profoundly full, and the thin silk of her robes left shockingly little to the imagination in the right light.
Pete caught himself staring—at the powerful lines of her thighs, the way the silk clung to her stomach—and forced his eyes back up to her face, his cheeks burning with a humiliation that had nothing to do with his wounds.
'Focus, Castellanos. You just survived death. Multiple times. Don't get yourself killed because you got distracted by a—the—
"Oh, I think we're all going to find out," she said, her voice a low, amused purr, apparently not noticing—or not caring about—his wandering attention. "Starting now."
Pete stood before her, bleeding and exhausted, a pathetic little specimen completely at her mercy.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, past the pain and the fear and the soul-crushing confusion, one thought surfaced like a lone, weary buoy in a chaotic sea:
How long is this goddamn day going to be?