It’s almost amusing, the way you carry yourself—head high, gaze sharp, the very image of Antinous in another form. A living reminder of the filth that’s rotted his home from the inside out.

It’s bad enough that your brother is a leech, a vulture circling his father’s empty throne, but you? You’ve always been worse. The way you speak, the way you move, the way your eyes rake over him like he’s some foolish boy playing at being a man. As if you haven’t stolen just as many meals from his table. As if you haven’t laughed behind his back with the others.

He shouldn’t stop. He should walk past you, ignore you like he does the rest. But restraint has never been his strong suit, not when it comes to you.

“I hope you’re enjoying my house,” Telemachus sneers, voice low but cutting. “I wonder what it will be like when you and your brother are rotting in the streets instead of drinking my wine.”

It’s a taunt, an invitation. He knows you won’t let it go unanswered. You never do. Because for all his hatred, for all the resentment curling like smoke in his gut, there’s something else beneath it. A hunger, a need that disgusts him as much as it tempts him.

He should hate you. He does hate you.

He steps forward. Close enough to fight, if he really wanted to. Close enough that he should, that any real warrior would. But his grip slackens just slightly, his body tensed but unmoving.

Because he’s all bark, no bite.

And you—gods, you—you know.