Page 25 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Lykos

For what must be the hundredth time since we left Mount Ida’s exposed steppes, I cast a wary glance back towards the looming peak. To where Diktynna no doubt sits, watching over us.

I shudder, and turn my attention to the feel of Cyllarus beneath me, to the icy wind tangling his mane, and the leather reins stiff in my hands. A branch flutters and Cyllarus dances in alarm, making Sira tighten her hold on my waist, her slender arm sitting lower across my hips than she perhaps realizes.

“Shh,” I hum, giving Cyllarus a soothing pat as I try to ignore the feel of Sira’s thighs pressed against the outside of my legs, her breasts against my back.

And you are mine.

Those words echo in my head, until my blood is thick with the strangest mixture of fear and guilt and arousal. I am pledged to a minas. To the Minas Crete. To Sira. I have risen from a fifth brother, from a bastard with nothing but a sword to his name, to one of the most powerful men in the world.

It is exactly what I wanted. Yet I do not feel like I have taken it. I do not feel like it is mine.

I feel like a thread being pulled in the tapestry of the gods.

I am not so sure the notice of the gods is such a welcome thing.

“How is your hip feeling,” I ask in an effort to distract myself from the turn of my thoughts and the feel of Sira’s body against my own.

It’s the wrong question to ask, because now I’m remembering dressing her wound, remembering her naked body. Imagining what that smooth skin would look like without the blood and dirt, without injury. I frown, shifting my hips uncomfortably in my saddle, my hardening cock pressing painfully against the pommel.

“I’m fine,” Sira replies shortly.

I suspect that is a lie.

The path steepens, causing Sira to shift closer to me. She grunts in surprise—or perhaps, in pain—her hands curling beneath my leather armor. I can feel the cold of her fingers even through my under-tunic, pressing low against my waist, right at the top of my upper thighs.

“Fine,” I echo, my tone thick with disbelief.

Not once has Sira complained of the cold or of pain. Not once has she asked to rest. Not once has she demanded water or food.

“You can’t be fine. I saw your injury.” I risk a glance at the women around us—at Asil leading us and Inanna behind us, then lower my voice, angling my body in an attempt to look over my shoulder at the woman I am pledged to. “Please, Keptui, you must tell me if you are hurting.”

She gives me a strained smile, and there is no missing the dark circles under her eyes, or the pallor of her cheeks.

“You know as well as I do that we can’t afford to stop.”

I turn towards the road with a sigh. She’s right, of course. Even with my brother’s men—my men—no longer pursuing us, every moment exposed in Diktynna’s territory puts us at risk. Puts Sira at risk. We have no food, no water, and only our cloaks for beds. And my minas is injured, however bravely she faces it.

“We should reach Zominthos before nightfall,” I tell her, though in truth I have no idea. Before I came to Knossos with my brother half a moon cycle ago, I’d never been to Crete.

Ahead of us, Asil scoffs. “We will be at Zominthos before midday, my lady. Do not heed the Achean. Even if he is so fortunate as to have pledged himself to you.” She turns to give me a sneer of disdain, but the expression quickly morphs to alarm at the sight of Cyllarus only an arm’s length behind her, his hooves skidding in the loose gravel of the path. I don’t bother to hide my smirk.

“Good.” Sira slumps heavily against me, as if the mere thought of rest is almost too much for her. “Thank you, Asil.”

My chest constricts almost painfully. I wish I could take her up in my arms and hold her, like I held her last night. I settle for covering one of her cold hands with my own, and hope she doesn’t mind the dirt and dried blood on my skin.

I try not to think about that dried blood. About who it belonged to. About what I did. Perhaps I shouldn’t have prayed to Diktynna on her own sacred mountain.

And yet, now that Atreus is dead, now that I’m pledged to Sira, now that I command my brother’s ships, my brother’s men—I’m not sure I would have done anything differently.

Even if I had, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. The gods do not amuse themselves with answering the calls of mortals, but with using them. Likely Diktynna would have moved my hand anyway. Likely I could as soon as prevented my brother’s death as captured Asterion’s falling star. Or stopped Astarte’s arrow from piercing my heart.

I glance down at where my hand covers Sira’s and swallow. Even if she is a minas, even if she is beautiful and brave and strong, there can be no other explanation for what I am feeling for this woman. The want . The hunger . Not just for her body, but for her . And worse, the need to protect her. It’s completely irrational, completely unprecedented.

It’s also probably completely unreciprocated.

She has made no secret of her love for Britomartis, even if she hasn’t admitted it in so many words. It’s there, in her look each time that woman is mentioned, in the rasp of her voice as she said that woman’s name in her sleep. My cock stirs at the memory of it, of the feel of her moans against the back of my neck. My body hadn’t cared that it hadn’t been my name.

My heart does.

I glare at Asil, at the other servants of Astarte walking on the path ahead of us. What kind of people serve Astarte, anyway? What kind of goddess amuses herself with infecting people’s hearts? And then those priestesses and acolytes simper and sigh and call that infection a gift, as if there can be no greater blessing than losing one’s reason to Astarte’s whims.

Sira presses her cheek against my back, until I can feel the heat of her against the nape of my neck. She lets out a sigh, a long exhale that sends heat skittering down my spine. My frown deepens.

If I ever meet Astarte, I’ll show her what she can do with her cursed arrows.