Her chest was heaving with breath (and stained with his blood, stark against her pale dress, where he’d pressed up against her) and Melpomene found she couldn’t move from her spot against the wall, and her hands weren’t steady as she held her knife in front of her, clasped in both hands. “It’s been said,” she agreed, panting ragged breaths. “Don’t you dare touch me again.” Another warning she was certain he was going to ignore; he really was the perfect tragic hero.