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That was…earth-shattering.I’m not sure which one of us thinks it; it’s as though for a moment, our minds themselves act in unison.

I reach up and touch Memnon’s face near his scar and smile, shifting a little beneath him. I’m naked and sweaty and he’s still inside me, even if the pressure is gone.

This is a perplexingly marvelous and very vulnerable moment.

“Hi, husband,” I say softly, shyly.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Hello, wife.” Memnon leans in and kisses me, even as he pulls out of my body. Between my legs, I feel a rush of wetness.

Urine? Blood?

Neither, little witch.Memnon reaches down between us and touches me right where we were joined a moment ago. A moment later, he holds his fingers before me, letting their glistening tips catch the light. They’re not bloody, as I first feared, though there are slight streaks of red in the liquid. But for the most part, it’s a whitish semiopaque color. Something our bodies must make, just for this.

I’m oddly aroused by the sight of that liquid and the sensation of it between my legs.

“When can we do that again?” I whisper.

Memnon gives a laugh that sounds like he’s far too pleased for his own good. “Whenever you’d like, my queen, just so long as I get to hold you for a moment first,” he says. “That’s all I’ve wanted to do for years.”

His words harken back to the nights we spent reaching for one another across the world, aching to embrace when we were sad or scared or hurt.

And now we can.

I know my expression softens; my entire body seems to respond to those words. Memnon, my old friend and confidant,who cared for me when no one else did and whom I’ve loved for a very, very long time.

He draws me into his arms, and for the first time since the Romans burned my village, I feel safe.Home.

I lay my head on his arm, and Memnon and I stare at each other, small smiles dancing on our faces. I can see the glint of flame in his eyes.

We did it.Again, I don’t know who thinks the thought, and I have to assume it belongs to both of us.

We did it.

The two of us bask in this moment.

“I cannot tell you how many moons I yearned for this,” Memnon confesses in the dim light.

I place a hand on his cheek, marveling at the feel of his skin. I can’t seem to stop myself from touching him.

“I remember those nights,” I whisper. “I’d wish to the stars, the gods, the darkness itself that you could be with me like this.” My thumb strokes over his skin. “I am glad those nights are over.”

I roll on top of him then and begin kissing each of his scars—to make them feel better, of course. And then I show Memnon just how glad I am all over again.

CHAPTER 15

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Rome, Roman Empire

I wake to an empty bed.

The candles have long since burned out, and in this windowless room, the darkness is almost absolute. I cannot see the rumpled blankets next to me nor the divot left behind by a much larger body.

Memnon.

My own body seems to come alive at the thought of him, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my lips as I remember the night we just had. But as soon as my smile comes, it wilts away because even in the darkness, I’m sure the Sarmatian king is not in this room.

I reach down our connection.