Page 33 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)
Lykos
“Will you not lay with me?” Sira’s eyes are round, pupils blown from the wormwood wine and the low evening light filtering into Britomartis’ cabin. Sira tilts her head, swaying slightly as she pats a space beside her on the thin pallet mattress. She gives me an unmistakably flirtatious smile, her voice going throaty as she adds, “Come, Lykos. Do you not want me to touch you again?”
I hesitate, the toes of my bare feet curling against the smooth wood decking. I do want that. Very much. In fact, I think it would be fair to say I’ve thought of almost nothing else since those incredible moments stolen at Zominthos.
“Or you could touch me.”
Sira throws her head back, eyes fluttering half-shut as she exposes the column of her throat. One slender hand reaches up, trailing down the flushed golden skin from her collarbone to her breastbone, her fingertips tracing a path along the V-neck of her tunic.
Zeus help me.
My mouth waters, a wave of dizziness sweeping over me as all the blood in my body rushes to my groin. I press my palm against the front of my kilt.
“I… I shouldn’t,” I rasp.
“Shouldn’t?” Sira echoes, fixing me with a sharp frown, one brow lifting imperiously. “Why?”
“Because… because…” I scrub at my face in frustration.
Yes, why? Why shouldn’t I touch her, just a little? I could make her feel good. She deserves it, after everything she has suffered these past few days.
“Because you have spent the greater part of this afternoon emptying your stomach.” A cool sea wind brushes against my back as Britomartis pushes through the canvas flap, then ties it shut behind her. “You should be resting, not chasing your pleasure.”
Sira flops back onto the mattress with a huff. “You do not command me, Britomartis of Thera.” She lifts her arms above her head, tucking her hands beneath her head as she stares between the two of us with glassy eyes. “And I would not be chasing anyone. I would just be laying here.” She widens her knees, the colorful layers of her wool skirt shifting with the movement. My cock bucks in answer, and I cast a wary look in Britomartis’ direction, praying she hasn’t noticed.
“Really, Lykos?” Britomartis’ eyes lift from my kilt to my face, and she shakes her head in disapproval.
I bristle, squaring my shoulders defensively. “I wasn’t going to,” I hiss. Gods above, can a man not get a cock stand anymore?
“Though I suppose you could do the job just as well, Britomartis.” Sira’s tongue traces her full lower lip as she stares at Britomartis with unabashed hunger, voice thick with some dark emotion. “At least you didn’t mind before...”
“Sira…”
Even in the fading light, there is no mistaking the way Britomartis’ cheeks darken.
“You used to call me sweet Sira,” Sira complains, but she’s barely looking at Britomatis now. Or, if she is, I don’t think she’s really seeing her. Her eyes are open, the deep brown nearly black in the dim light, but it doesn’t seem like she is seeing either of us anymore.
Alarm prickles across my skin and I round on Britomartis. “What did you give her?”
I have seen men take wormwood wine countless times. I’ve even tried it myself once, if only so that I had an idea of the effects. It’s a bitter drink, the sort that feels like fire burning down to your stomach, leaving behind a warm, settled sensation.
I’ve never seen it cause this before.
Britomartis looks sheepishly away. “The sun has set. I’ll light a lamp for you.”
“What did you give her?” I ask again, a sickening sense of dread rising up, tightening my throat. I was a fool to trust this woman near my Sira. A fool to let her give her any medicine without testing it myself.
Britomartis’ hands tremble as she picks up the oil lamp, no doubt preparing to take it to the central flame kept on deck. The light that all ships keep burning day and night. The light that only ever goes out in the darkest and most dangerous of storms. But I don’t need light right now, I need truth.
I grab her wrists, pulling her toward me. “What. Did. You. Give. Her?”
Her throat bobs, but she holds my gaze, her expression flickering with only the barest hint of an apology.
“Erontas,” she whispers, and I feel my stomach plummet even as relief washes over me. “They didn’t have any wormwood wine.” Her chin tilts up in defiance. “Besides, they said wormwood wouldn’t work for ailments of the stomach like seasickness.”
“Of course it works. I’ve seen it work on countless men at sea.”
“Well, they didn’t have any,” she replies tersely. “And the erontas seems to be working fine.”
“Fine?” I scoff, then lower my voice. “What about my lady’s situation seems fine to you?”
As if to punctuate my point, Sira lets out a pained sounding moan and Britomartis and I look over at her in unison. She’s laying back against the thin pallet mattress, one arm thrown over her face, her knees splayed wide beneath her layered skirt, one hand pressed against her lower stomach.
“Gods help me,” I mutter. “Erontas? What fool of a healer would prescribe that?”
Britomartis straightens. “The priestess at Astarte’s temple here said it was their most prized medicine. The leaves themselves are worth more than gold. They mix it with poppy…”
I laugh, but it is a mirthless laugh. Of course Astarte has her hand in this. Though what that goddess seeks to gain by throwing the Minas Crete into a lust-driven frenzy is beyond me. Sira needs to have a clear head. She needs to rest and train and prepare herself to meet her allies.
“Erontas is an aphrodisiac,” I tell her slowly, as if I’m speaking to a child. “Everyone knows that.”
“It is used as such,” Britomartis admits primly. “Though like most medicines, it is capable of treating more than one illness.”
I scrub my face with my palm. Gods help me, this woman is infuriating. “They call it Astarte’s gift for a reason,” I point out.
At least, that is what I’ve heard the men back home call it, when they can afford to buy it. I’ve heard them boast about giving it to their wives and would-be-lovers, and how it turns even the most prudish woman into a lover with an appetite to rival the servants of Astarte.
Though, having spent the last several days in the company of Astarte’s servants, I’m inclined to think the rumors about Astarte’s servants are significantly exaggerated.
Britomartis waves one hand dismissively. “It can’t be that potent. Astarte’s gifts cannot be forced.”
I lift my brow. I haven’t heard that particular tenet before. “Can’t they?” I wonder out loud. Because Astarte seems to be forcing her gifts in my direction with an alarming regularity.
“I’m going to light the lamp,” Britomartis replies, pulling the empty oil lamp to her chest. “Watch over her until I return.”
I glare at Britomartis’ retreating back, but don’t reply. Instead, I turn to Sira with pitying sigh and drop to sit at the edge of the thin mattress, right beside her head.
“What can I do, my lo… my lady?” I ask, blinking in surprise at the words that had been poised to tumble off my tongue. My love. I had been about to call her my love.
“You know what I want,” Sira replies pitifully, her voice muffled by the arm draped over her face.
“Hmm, I do know.”
I can’t help but smile, can’t help the pleased rumble of approval vibrating behind my ribs at the sight of her. Especially when she lifts up, fixing me with glazed eyes, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.
“But you will have to wait for that, little bird.”
She pouts, and my smile widens, even as something uncomfortable pangs behind my ribs. “I will not make love to you while you are in Astarte’s thrall,” I explain gently, reaching up to brush a damp lock of hair from her forehead.
Sira’s frown deepens. “What if I don’t want you to make love to me?” she retorts. “What if I want you to—what did you call it—barbing?” She says the word on a sigh, eyelashes fluttering as if the mere thought is ecstasy. “Yes, that is what I want. I want you to barb me.”
I choke, apparently unable to maintain the mortal requirements of breathing properly in this woman’s presence. Barb her. Gods help me. Women don’t speak like that, do they? And yet now that she’s said it, I can’t get the thought of it out of my head.
“Sira…”
Her name comes out in a deep, warning rumble. My fingers tangle where they’ve been stroking her hair, balling into a fist.
“Please, Lykos?”
I shake my head, but my cock throbs in protest. “I won’t. Forgive me, little Keptui.”
Gods, but it hurts to deny her. Not just because the idea of sinking balls-deep into her is now consuming my every thought.
She is my queen. My minas. It feels wrong to tell her no.
But it would be worse to tell her yes.
“Then perhaps I will ask Britomartis to barb me instead,” she snaps petulantly.
I chuckle, and try to ignore the sudden tangle of emotions flaring up at her words. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Lust.
“I think you’d find she’s lacking the equipment necessary for a satisfactory barbing,” I tell her smugly, folding my arms over my chest. I don’t leave her side though. Erontas isn’t dangerous, as far as I know, but it’s best that I watch over her anyway.
“What would you know of that, Achean?”
I start at the sound of Britomartis’ voice, followed by the rush of warm lamplight flooding the enclosed space. I turn to look up at her, but she is staring at Sira, an unreadable expression on her face.
“And such a vulgar term for it,” she scoffs, turning to give me a disgusted look. “Just like an Achean to describe something that should be pleasurable in a way that makes one think of pain. What else do your people call it? A thorn? A spur? Though I suppose for your poor women, that is what it’s like. No doubt you mistook your last lover’s cries of pain as cries of ecstasy.”
Britomartis settles the lamp on a low table and I blink at her with a mixture of confused shock and surprise. I have been nothing but polite to this woman since she arrived. I even insisted that she sleep in this cabin with Sira and myself—a decision which I’m now regretting—and she has insulted me at every possible turn.
I’m about to ask her what exactly her problem is when Sira sits up, fixing Britomartis with a glare that is at odds with her glazed eyes and swollen lips.
“But he hasn’t,” Sira protests. “He’s never made love to a woman in that manner before. He told me as much.”
I drag my palm over my face, and wish that Poseidon would open up the decking and swallow me whole.
“Sira…”
“That is unlikely,” Britomartis scoffs derisively. “You know who he is, don’t you? Whose brother he is?”
“Was.” The word comes out before I can stop it, hot and angry.
Britomartis looks at me in confusion. “What?”
“Whose brother I was.” My lungs feel too tight behind my ribs, the air within them thin as if I was standing atop Mount Ida. “King Atreus is no more.”
Britomartis’ jaw goes slack with surprise. Sira wraps her hand around the back of my fist where it’s clenched against the decking and I realize that I’m trembling, my thighs vibrating with the need to move, to run, to fight.
“It is true, Britomartis.” Sira’s voice is calm, almost tired. “I saw it with my own eyes. King Atreus is dead. Lykos has his ships now, his men. They wait for us at Amnisos and Knossos.” She straightens, her vision seeming to sharpen even as the color drains from her cheeks. “They are my allies, just as your people are.”
“Your allies?” Britomartis shoots her a pained look. “How can you… you know what they did on Thera.”
Sira stares baldly back. I glance between them, tense silence stretching alongside the hissing of the oil lamp and the lapping of the waves against the hull and the thundering of my own heart.
“I know you don’t like the Acheans.” Sira’s voice is thick with exhaustion, and some other emotion I can’t quite place. “And perhaps you don’t like Lykos either. But he is mine. He is pledged to me, by his blood and oath, before Potina herself and all the watching gods. He is mine, Britomartis. And you will not insult him.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the moan of delight threatening to burst forth at Sira’s words, at the imperious look she is giving Britomartis, even through the haze of erontas that is no doubt still clouding her mind. If I weren’t already sitting beside her, that look alone would have brought me to my knees.
“I…” Britomartis begins, but Sira is not done.
“He has given me truth where you have given me lies. No. Don’t deny it.” Sira lifts one trembling hand. I want to take it in my own, to press it to my lips, but I don’t. “Days we spent together and not once did you tell me that I had a right to rule. You took my secrets and sailed away to Thera, without once telling me you planned to call up my mother’s allies to help me to the throne. I gave you my heart and my body and you left. Left to go to her, to Adrienne. To that so-called Astarte. Left me alone in Potina’s temple thinking I’d never see you again...”
Britomartis flinches, as if Sira’s words are a physical blow. She drops to her knees, her thick layered skirt piling up around her on the decking.
“And then you come here with my brother’s ships, with my brother’s men. I should be angry with you—if I were a better sister, perhaps I would be. But she asked me where I stand, old Aletheia did, and this is where I stand.” Her fist thuds against the decking, the sound vibrating against my knees. “Here.” Another thud. “With my people. Even if it means accepting help from the woman who… from you. Even if my brother will hate me for it...”
Those last words come out choked, and Sira falls silent, her face contorting as she attempts to hold back her tears.
I wrap my arms around her, folding her against my chest, letting her hide her face in the crook of my shoulder. “Shh,” I murmur against the top of her head. “Your brother will not hate you.”
“Sira…” Britomartis begins, but I silence her with a glare.
All the while, Sira’s words repeat in my head. I gave you my body and my heart and you left me.
Britomartis left her. And deceived her. I can’t imagine how anyone could do such a thing. Not to Sira.
I hold Sira tighter, rocking her until her body relaxes, until her breathing steadies with the deep rhythm of an exhausted sleep. I think of the first man I took as a lover, of how I had felt flayed open to my very soul afterwards. He’d smiled at me and stroked my hair and murmured sweet, empty words to me. “I wish I could keep you,” he had said, and I’d believed him. But of course we both knew it was impossible, because the sea was waiting for me and my brother’s demands loomed over me, like a terrifying and expectant shadow.
I hadn’t loved him, but it had hurt to leave him all the same. I cannot imagine what it would feel like to have Sira leave me, or to willingly leave her side.
I work my jaw and narrow my eyes at Britomartis. “You call me a barbarian, daughter of Thera,” I whisper, taking care not to wake the woman sleeping in my arms. “And yet it was I who carried her out of Knossos, not you. You were content to leave her there.”