Page 17 of A Spark in Time (A Knights Through Time Romance #21)

D awn came dressed in blood and bronze, painting the Aegean the color of a fresh bruise.

Things that constitute a relaxing morning at sea: dolphin sightings, gentle breezes, maybe some light fishing. Things that don’t: your boyfriend sharpening his sword while discussing the best way to gut Spartans.

Bebe stood at the edge of Kassander’s war council, trying to blend into the weathered wood of the Nereid’s mast. The pirates from last night had been dealt with—efficiently, brutally, their ships plundered, now ghost boats drifting toward Poseidon’s realm.

But the victory celebration had died the moment the lookout spotted the red sails on the horizon.

Spartan red. Three ships, maybe four, bearing down like hungry wolves.

“They’ll try to ram us first,” Kassander was saying, bent over a rough map weighted down with daggers. His golden hair was tied back, revealing the sharp angles of his face, the scar at his temple white against sun-bronzed skin. “Break our oars, leave us spinning while they board.”

“Let them try,” growled Alexios—not the Athenian councilman, but Kassander’s second, a mountain of a man with more scars than skin. “We’ve danced this dance before.”

“Not with Spartans.” Kassander straightened, and Bebe’s breath caught.

He’d changed.

No, that wasn’t right. He’d become .

The laughing rogue who’d kissed her in the storm was gone, replaced by something that made her understand why ancient Greeks believed in demigods.

Every line of his body sang with purpose.

His eyes had gone cold as winter seas, calculating angles and deaths with the same detachment her mother used to plan dinner parties.

This is what he really is, she realized. Not a mercenary playing at war. A weapon in human form.

“Theron, take six men to the port oars. When they come alongside, wait for my signal, then reverse hard. We’ll use their momentum against them.”

His voice carried absolute authority, the kind that made grown killers snap to attention.

“Miklos, to?chise ta pyrsóbelē — prepare the fire arrows. ” If we can’t outrun them, we burn them.”

“The wind’s against us for fire,” Miklos pointed out.

Kassander smiled, and it was terrible. Beautiful and terrible. “Then we make our own wind.”

The men laughed—dark, anticipatory. They looked at him like Catholics looked at saints, like he could perform miracles through violence alone.

Maybe he could.

“What about your woman?” Alexios asked, jerking his chin toward Bebe.

Kassander’s gaze found hers across the deck. For a moment, something soft flickered there—concern, maybe, or regret. Then it was gone, replaced by tactical assessment.

“Bebe goes below. Barricade the door. If they breach that far...” He pulled a dagger from his belt, flipped it, caught it by the blade, and offered her the hilt. “ Stócheuse ston laimó — aim for the throat. It’s faster.”

The dagger was beautiful in its simplicity—no jewels, no decoration, just perfectly balanced death.

“I don’t?—”

“You survived Athens,” he cut her off. “You’ll survive this.”

Will I? Will you?

She took the dagger. It was heavier than expected, the leather grip worn smooth by his hand.

“Positions!” he barked, and the deck exploded into controlled chaos.

But Bebe didn’t go below. Not yet. She watched, mesmerized, as Kassander transformed fully into what the gods had made him for.

He stripped to the waist, revealing a torso that belonged on a marble statue if statues came with that many scars and muscles.

His men brought his armor—not the pretty bronze of Athens, but functional leather reinforced with iron.

Each piece was strapped on with ritual precision, like a priest preparing for a bloody sacrament.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking at her.

“You’re preening.”

That got him to glance over, amusement flickering through the battle-madness. “Am I?”

“Like a peacock before a fight.”

“Peacocks are terrible fighters.”

“Exactly my point.”

He laughed, quick and genuine, and for a second he was just Kassander again. Then the lookout shouted, “Dyo mília! Kleínei!” — two leagues and closing! The laughter died. He picked up his swords—massive, scarred, nothing ceremonial about them—and the transformation completed.

“Below deck,” he said, not a request this time. “Now.”

She wanted to argue. Wanted to stay and watch him fight, even if it meant watching him fall. But the look in his eyes brooked no argument. This wasn’t the man who’d kissed her in the storm. This was the warrior who’d killed thirteen men without breaking a sweat.

She turned to go, then stopped.

“Kassander.”

“Yes, silver girl?”

“Don’t you dare die a hero. Heroes are boring at parties.”

His smile was sharp as his blade. “I never do anything heroic.”

But she’d studied Greek literature, knew the stories. Heroes always said things like that right before doing something terminally heroic.

As she descended into the ship’s belly, she heard him addressing his men, voice carrying like Zeus’s own thunder.

“They come for blood and glory! They come with their pretty red cloaks and their bronze shields! They think us merchants, pirates, dogs without honor! Deíxōmen auto?s tí dynantai hoi Thessalikoì kynes! — Let’s show them what Thessalian dogs can do!”

The roar that went up shook the timbers.

Bebe barricaded herself in the small cabin, dagger clutched in her sweaty palms, and tried not to think about how every Greek hero she’d ever read about ended up dead.

Achilles had his heel. Hector had his pride. Ajax had his madness.

What’s your weakness, Kassander? And will it kill you before we have a chance at a life together?

The ship lurched. The Spartans had arrived.

Above, the deadly song began.

She pressed her ear to the deck boards, listening to the thunder of feet, the clash of weapons, the sounds of men becoming myths or corpses. Somewhere up there, he was dancing with death, making it look easy.

Don’t fall for him, she told herself. Don’t fall for another doomed man in another cage, even if this cage is made of sea and stars instead of marble and expectation.

But it was too late. She’d been falling since he’d called her magnificent in a storm, since he’d offered her a choice instead of a command, since he’d looked at her and seen neither goddess nor prize but something worth saving. Since he’d offered her a home. With him.

The ship rocked violently. Someone screamed—not Kassander, she’d know his voice anywhere now—and something heavy hit the deck above her head.

Please, she prayed to gods she didn’t believe in, to the ring that brought her here, to the universe that seemed determined to teach her lessons in the hardest ways possible.

Please let him be the exception. The hero who lives.

Even if heroes who live don’t get poems.

Even if I’m just another tragedy waiting to happen.

Let him live.

The battle raged on, and Bebe sat in the dark with a dagger and a prayer, in love with a man who fought like a god and would probably die like one too.

Damn you, Kassander. Damn you for making me love you.

The ring at her waist pulsed once, warm and knowing, like it had been waiting for exactly this.

Like this was why it brought her here—to learn that some cages you build yourself, out of fear and want and the terrible hope that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

Above her, the swords sang their funeral song.

And Kassander danced.