The next morning, Nathan awoke with a lingering weariness weighing down his limbs—a reminder of the intense night he had shared with Medea. Though his body was still sore, there was a strange sense of calm that lingered in the stillness of his room. The linens clung to his bare skin, warmed by the Roman sun peeking through the curtains.
He reached to the other side of the bed out of habit, but his hand met only cool, empty sheets.
Medea was gone.
Of course, she would be. For all her passion and fire, she was also perceptive—far more than most gave her credit for. She understood the gravity of their situation without a single word needing to be exchanged. With Marcus Antoinus now lying dead by Medea's hand, the political landscape had shifted violently. Power left a vacuum, and vacuums never remained unfilled for long. It was inevitable that suspicion and scrutiny would now fall more heavily upon Nathan than ever before.
He could not afford recklessness. Not now.
