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“Damn you,” he says fondly, even as he gives me all the sensation I want. The stroke of his cock inside me and his magic between my legs builds and builds until?—

Memnon buries himself inside me, and across our bond I feel the first spike of his orgasm. It’s enough to tip me over the edge too.

“Memnon!” I cry out as my climax lashes through me.

At my back, Memnon groans, his hand reflexively tightening around my neck. The punishing grip heightens the next wave of my release, and I gasp, gripping the altar harder. Our combined orgasms stretch on and on, each one lengthened by the pleasure we share across our bond.

Eventually, Memnon’s thrusts slow, and he withdraws himself. Before I can straighten and begin to clean myself up, he lifts the back of my tunic and kurta and presses a kiss to my bare spine, his nose and forehead dragging against my flesh.

“Promise me you will always be this disobedient,” he breathes against my skin.

“No,” I say tartly.

He laughs, then slides lower down my body, so he can nip my ass. “Good.”

After a moment, he sighs and drapes himself against my backside. “Are you ready to meet our future allies?”

“Also no.”

But disobedient or not, I’m loyal to a fault. So I go anyway.

Of course, Memnon decides to start with the Dacians.

I nearly groan as we step off the ley line only to recognize the sharp peaks of the Carpathian Mountains in the distance. My husband must be hungering for a fight.

The two of us leave the odd, circular sanctuary we came through and head deeper into the settlement around us.

The Dacian city looks nothing like Panticapaeum or our tented settlement. The fortress city is protected on all sides by massive walls made out of tree trunks, and the houses are fashioned almost entirely from conifer trees.

We head down a muddy pathway, past Dacians who give us tense, scrutinizing looks, to the palace proper at the center of the city, where the king undoubtedly is.

I glance at Memnon briefly, just long enough to meet his eyes and notice the orangish edge of the ward I placed on him earlier.

Why begin with this nation?We have been enemies for years.

If I can convince them to join us, then I can convince anyone.

Fair enough.

Memnon makes quick work of the guardsmen, and this is Panticapaeum all over again—the soldiers my soul mate quickly renders useless, the spells used to open and shut what should be impenetrable doors, and the easy walk inside the palace.

The only difference is that this time, Memnon’s magic beckons forth a Dacian guard. Using his more insidious power, Memnon places his hands on the guard’s head and lets his indigo magic slip into the man’s nose and mouth.

Whatever spell he places on the man, it takes hold within mere moments. The guard pulls away and leads us forward, into the mostly empty throne room.

And like Panticapaeum, Dacia’s king, Rubobostes, sits in here on his carved seat, a golden circlet inlaid with rubies on his head, eating mutton off the bone and laughing at something a nearby man has said. Grease coats his cheeks, and a bit of gristlehangs in his long, ginger beard. He wipes his hand on the kurta covering his barrel chest.

As soon as Rubobostes sees us behind his guard, his mirth dies away. He tosses his piece of mutton aside, sitting up straighter, his expression morphing into annoyance, then anger as he takes in Memnon’s crown, then my own.

“What is this?” His voice booms. “How did either of you get into my city?”

“My king,” the guard in front of us announces, “these are the rulers of Sarma?—”

“Bloody gods, I know who they are,” he says. “But why are these villains in my city walls, in my fucking palace, when you should’ve gutted them on sight? You should be mounting their heads on pikes at this very moment!”

The guard stutters to a stop, and he shifts his weight uncertainly.

Memnon steps around him, approaching the raised dais, and I follow.