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I give him an adoring look, and with that, he leans down and kisses me, parting my lips with his own.

His power is back on me, and I laugh against him, my fingers digging into his skin.

You don’t need to give me another orgasm, I say down our bond.

That sounds like what someone who wants to get edged would say, he replies.

I break off the kiss. “Memnon,” I caution.

He laughs, incandescent with joy, as his pace increases. He gazes at me worshipfully, only looking away to kiss my shoulder or my neck or breasts. Even that is done with a sort of reverence that makes my heart ache in the sweetest of ways.

After two orgasms, I don’t think simple affection will be enough to send me spiraling a third time, but to my surprise,I can feel that familiar, throbbing sensation coiling within me, tighter and tighter with each of his thrusts. It’s helped along by Memnon’s magic, but mostly it’s this euphoric connection I’m sharing with him.

“Gods, you are beautiful,” he says. “Give me your last orgasm, my queen.”

His words are accompanied by deeper thrusts and more power caressing my skin, and all at once, I comeundone.

I cry out, gripping Memnon tighter as that third damnable orgasm rips through me.

He laughs, then groans. And then he’s coming too, his cock thickening with his release, his thrusts growing erratic with it. I feel an echo of his orgasm rock though me, extending my own.

It seems to last forever, but when it finally abates, Memnon pulls out and gathers me to him, throwing a leg over my own.

He presses a kiss to my temple, and for the first time in a while, everything in the world feels right. I fall asleep like that, locked in his arms, hopeful that from this point on, things might actually get better.

But hope…it really is a fickle fucking god.

CHAPTER 41

ROXILANA, 23 YEARS OLD

59 AD, Panticapaeum, Tauris

I’ve been sick.

Sick for many, many days.

Too sick to ride, sometimes too sick to even preside over our people. So sick that not even Memnon’s magic can curb my symptoms for long.

I’ve resorted to lingering in my study, either corresponding with our allies, studying Aramaic and Demotic, or writing notes in Sarmatian to pass to Memnon later. Over the years, I’ve gotten good at transliterating the language.

I’m working on one such note right now, Ferox at my feet, when the nausea I’ve been fighting all morning rises rapidly.

It’s not even a conscious choice to leave my seat. One moment I’m sitting, the next I’m striding out the portiere and then the rear doors of the palace, Ferox trailing behind me.

I barely make it out to the rocky knoll behind it when I kneel and retch. Again and again, the little food I managed to eat earlier splatters amongst the grass.

I’m breathing raggedly when Ferox comes up to me, brushing his cheek against my arm.

“It’s all right,” I say hoarsely. “I’m okay.”

My stomach spasms out of deep-rooted hunger, and I draw in an uneven breath. Now that I feel marginally better, I’m ravenous, but I don’t trust my stomach enough to eat any food.

I hang my head, ignoring the dock workers in the distance and the closer palace guards whose eyes linger on me beneath the summer sun.

Little witch, are you sick again?

Before I can answer, Memnon continues,Where are you? Let me ease your pain.