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Tamara lets out a huff, though I see her pressing her lips together against her own smile as she watches her son.

Memnon laughs again, and in three long strides he crosses over to me. He sweeps me into his arms, and then he kisses my lips, my cheeks, my neck. “It’s not travel sickness?” he says, pulling away.

I shake my head. “Just pregnancy, apparently.”

I feel his relief, though it’s quickly overtaken by a joy that seems to have wings.

“Gods, Roxi, we’re going to have a baby?” The hope in his eyes makes them shine brightly.

Again I nod, flashing him a shy smile. This isn’t something we talked about, nor have I spent much of my life dwelling on parenthood, but seeing his reaction, excitement starts to well up from within me. This…this might actually be wonderful.

Memnon grins back at me, the action stretching to every corner of his face.

“I love you, I love you,” he says, cupping my face. He kneels and presses a kiss to the soft skin of my stomach. And then he whispers a final line meant for another being entirely. “I love you.”

CHAPTER 28

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Southwestern Sarmatia, North of Odesa

Despite Sarmatians’penchant for war and their ongoing dispute with the Dacians, I don’t expect battle to happen.

Not until it does.

We have only resided at our new settlement—a grassland bordered by a creek, rolling hills, and many, many burial mounds—for a week or so when preparations for it begin.

Revenge has been on every warrior’s lips since the Dacians ambushed us, but up until now, it was spoken more as a wish.

Now, it’s a sobering reality.

Every time I think of it, my pulse quickens and I remember Memnon’s bloody, broken body lying in the tall grass.

I’m still wrestling with my own horror over the blood I’ve spilled and Memnon’s unholy cruelty to our enemies, but I also don’t think I can endure another skirmish hidden away in the safety of camp while he battles it out.

So when the day of battle comes and Memnon suits up for it, I follow him over to the chests and grab my own weapons—daggers for close combat, a bow and arrows for long-rangefighting. My gut twists as I touch each one, and I tell myself they’re precautionary.

“Little witch, what are you doing?”

When I glance up, Memnon is watching me, his expression unreadable. Across our bond, however, I can feel pride and protectiveness warring for dominance within him.

“I’m coming with you,” I say with as much authority as I can, forcing my voice not to quake. I strap on my gorytos, then secure my sheathed blades to my waist.

Memnon moves to me, placing his hands over mine to quell my movements. “I know the last battle still haunts you, thekillingstill haunts you,” he says gently. “You don’t have to do this.”

My gaze meets his. “I cannot let you go out there unprotected,” I admit hoarsely. Again, the image of Memnon bleeding out flashes behind my eyes.

His expression softens. “What happened last time is not normally how these battles go,” he reassures me.

I give my head a shake. “For good, for ill, and for always, my life is bound with yours,” I remind him, reciting our wedding vows. “I’m coming with you. You’ll have to curse me to stop me.”

He stares at me a bit longer. Then, seeming to make up his mind, a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. He clasps me by the back of my neck and pulls me in close. “You will not die. Swear this to me.”

I nod quickly, foolishly, like fate is something I can outmaneuver. “I swear I will not die.”

His hand slides from my neck and settles low on my belly. “And you will protect our child as well.”

I swallow, the weight of that responsibility settling on my shoulders. “I swear that too.”