Page 48

The Sarmatian’s eyes glint. “I’ve been in your head,” he says. “I have an idea.”

Memnon straightens and lifts the scale mail off, setting it aside. He groans and rolls his shoulders. “Gods, it feels good getting that off.”

Now that the armor is gone, I can see just how built Memnon actually is. I only have a moment to admire him in his tunic before he removes this too.

I suck in a sharp breath as I take in his rippling, sun-bronzed torso and the beguiling tattoos that adorn his skin from arms to chest and chest to waist.

He looks like everything I’m supposed to fear, barbarian from head to foot, but gods, I only want to draw closer. His body is honed and muscular, likely from grueling hours spent fighting or something equally wretched—something I should probably mind.

I can’t seem to make myself look away, even when it becomes apparent that I should.

A soft, knowing smile spreads across Memnon’s face. He glances down at his stomach, where his abdominal muscles are prominently on display, before looking back up.

Do you still think I look like a monster?he asks, harkening back to one of our earlier conversations.

It’s kind of him to assume I’m even capable of forming a coherent response.

Deliberately, he removes the circlet from his head, setting it on the side table next to our marriage document. He turns from it and steps up to me, and I don’t have the sense to move away. Not when the lamplight is making light and shadows dance across those rolling, rippling muscles.

His attention dips to the cingulum holding my garment in place. He reaches out and lightly touches the rope, and I get a breathless thrill from the contact.

“Is this meant for husbands to untie?” he asks softly, a lock of his freshly shorn hair hanging in front of one of his eyes. Earlier, Nero had made mention of the knot of Hercules—the wedding knot; I hadn’t thought Memnon would notice.

Apparently he had.

“It is,” I say softly.

His fingers continue to trail along my cingulum. All at once, his hand closes on the knot, and he undoes its bindings. The rope falls away, landing with a light thump on the marble floor.

The two of us stare at each other, and something is about to happen?—

Memnon cups my face. His lips are a handspan from my own, but he pauses, giving me a moment to pull away should I not want this.

But I don’t pull away.

“All that I am is yours,” he whispers. He leans in and kisses me.

It’s a soft kiss, gentle even. Not what I would expect from a warrior king, one who single-mindedly rode for months to find me.

Maybe that’s why, almost shyly, my hands come up and grip his bare sides. His skin feels warm and forbidden, despite us being legally married. Itshouldbe forbidden—I’m drowning in sensation already, and we’ve only just touched.

Memnon slides his tongue along the seam of my mouth, and I part my lips in surprise. But as soon as I open my mouth, Memnon’s tongue is there too, tentatively touching the tip of my own. I jolt, and reflexively, I push back against it.

He smiles at the pressure, his tongue and lips sliding along mine, and I realize as my grip tightens and my knees go weak that this, too, is part of the kiss.

I have heard so much talk of war and conquering—why are there not epics dedicated to this alone? There should be.

Memnon groans, his hands moving so he can gather me closer to him. My own hands skim up his warm flesh, and I’m still shy but far less unsure.

All at once, Memnon breaks off the kiss to press his forehead against mine.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his gaze moving languidly over my face. “So godsdamned beautiful.” He strokes my cheek. “It wouldn’t have mattered what form you came in, as my heart has always been yours, but still, you are perfect.”

His words flay me open. The precious few compliments I ever received on my appearance were always outweighed by Livia’s frequent criticisms—that my eyes were cold and unnerving and my hair was too garish a hue. That I had a petulant set to my jaw and a displeasing look about me. That I dragged my feet often, lost focus easily (often to chat with Memnon), kept poor posture, and on and on.

The criticisms burn to ash under the adoring gaze of this man, who is looking at me like he might memorize my features.

I slide my palms up his back, a bit braver now, noting the dips and rises of muscles and scars. And there are a lot of them.