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I told you the gods were preparing you for us.

You did, I agree.

The preparations are over, he says.

I’m still not following.

Little witch, he continues.I’m coming for you.

I startle.What?I say with disbelief.

Just as Memnon and I have never openly talked about us, we’ve also never talked about meeting. I’ve always assumed it was because it would require traveling across the world, a nearly impossible endeavor.

At least, I assumed it was.

Memnon wants to come for me.

Hope—hope so vast I could fit oceans into it—rises in me.

Across our bond, Memnon grins again.I do.

My own lips curve up, and all my emotions are twisting and twisting.

Memnon, wait.I push the sentence out.There’s something you should know.

I feel like my heart is cracking apart. If there is nothing better than true love, there is nothing worse thandoomedlove. I swallow and pick at my tunic.

Livia is arranging a wedding for me.I think I might sick myself, admitting this. I rush the rest of the truth out.She’s still deciding between grooms, so it won’t be immediate, thank the gods, but it will surely happen before you could ever arrive.

The connection between us grows ominously quiet. I can hear my own ragged breaths as I wait for Memnon’s confusion or perhaps some sad and wounded response.

I should know better.

Some poisoned emotion spills down our bond. Not confusion, not sadness.

Jealousy. Vengeance.

No, little witch, he finally says. I hear his ominous laugh.You won’t be marryinganyonebesides me.His voice is confident and uncompromising.I am coming for you. I will leave tomorrow at first light, and Iwillget there before a wedding takes place.

And when I do, he continues,I will make graves of these grooms and anyone else who comes between us.Violent delight threads his words.You’re mine.

CHAPTER 8

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Rome, Roman Empire

Memnon really is comingto Rome.

I don’t fully believe it for the first several days, when he casually discusses the sights he’s seeing. I’m still positive that the only people who actually travel such vast distances are semi-mythical figures, like Julius Caesar and Pompey. Like Alexander the Great and Augustus, Marc Antony and Cleopatra.

Then again, the boy who has haunted my mind for the last six years has become somewhat mythical to me.

Over the next several weeks, Memnon reaches out to me infrequently, but when he does, it’s often to update me on his movements.

Roxi, I’m mounting my steed for the day. I won’t leave it until the sun sets…

My men and I have entered Roman territory…