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At the sight, his lips curve into a sinful smile and his eyes alight. “Look at you, so menacing. My cock is harder than stone, just taking in all that hate.”

“Keep going, my king, and you won’t have a cock to speak of.”

Now he laughs—he outright laughs. “You love my cock far too much to ever remove it from my body.” He steps in even closer, his voice lowering. “Curse me, fight me, it doesn’t matter, Empress,” he breathes. “I won’t risk your safety. I cannot”—his voice catches—“cannot endure losing you again.”

At his words, a portion of my ire dissipates. Still, what he’s been doing is unacceptable.

I lift my chin. “Vow to me you won’t meddle with my thoughts again,” I say, “and maybe I won’t try to outmaneuver you.”

I see his jaw work, and I sense him weighing his options.

“Fine,” he finally says. “I will vow to not meddle with your thoughts, even for your own good.” He hesitates. “But there is something I should share with you. Something I should’ve shared with you long before now.”

My brow furrows even as Memnon reaches out a hand, a thin stream of magic pouring from his palm. The deep blue line of his power snakes over to one of the smaller chests in the room, wrapping around the piece of furniture and causing it to rattle.

“After the last battle you fought in, when we were celebrating our victory that evening, I was called away for a portion of the revelry. Do you remember?”

I nod slowly, searching his features. That was about the time Eislyn had entered the room.

“My warriors had come to tell me that they retrieved a letter that had been tucked into the Roman commander’s uniforms.”

As he speaks, the lid of the nearby chest swings open, and from it a small, blood splattered scroll drifts out, floating along the air until it looms right in front of me.

I reach out and grasp it, frowning a little. A red wax seal still clings to the edge of the letter, and pressed into it is the familiar profile of a man, one whose face I’ve seen many times on the surfaces of coins, but also once in person.

Nero.

I glance up at my husband. “The emperor sent you this?”

Memnon’s face is grim when he inclines his head.

My attention returns to the document. If this letter was on the Roman commander’s person at the time of the battle, thenit likely made the long trek from Rome with the army. Which means it was written months ago.

What could Nero have possibly said all that time ago that was important enough for a Roman officer to deliver all this way?

And why is Memnon sharing it with me now?

“Read it,” he insists.

I take a shallow breath and unroll the papyrus.

Uvagukis Memnon, barbarian king of Sarmatians, how deep your grief must run. My condolences on the loss of your wife in today’s battle.

My grip tightens on the scroll, and my heartbeat quickens.

She was a lovely thing, and it pained me to order her death. I remember how fond you were of her when we met in Rome, and I’ve heard of your continued ardor in the years following your marriage. I will drink to her demise and enjoy it only a little. You see, I cannot allow you to challenge Rome without consequence.

It is not too late to stop this foolish endeavor. Relinquish the Bosporan throne and retreat back into the wretched hinterlands from whence you came and we will have ourselves a truce. Should you ignore this peace offering, then fret not for the loss of your wife, barbarian, I will make sure you are hastily reunited. Then I’ll drink to your death too.

Imperator Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus

After I finish reading, I continue to stare at the document, though I’m not really seeing it.

“How did Nero know?” I breathe, finally lifting my gaze. He sounded so certain of my death in this battle, but that would be impossible to predict months beforehand.

Wouldn’t it?

Memnon’s eyes are stormy and his jaw is clenched. “I don’t yet know,” he admits. “When I peered into the commander’s head, the Roman officer had no idea of the letter’s contents, though he had separately been encouraged to attack you if you were sighted.”