Page 48 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

I had been bold with Lykos and Britomartis in the great hall, teasing Lykos, demanding that Britomartis stay. The moment we step into our private chambers, my boldness evaporates like sea mist under the morning sun.

A large bed sits in the center of the room, dressed in fresh linen, lit by carefully placed oil lamps. The scent of rose water and lavender hangs in the air, teasing. The door snicks shut behind me and I jolt in surprise at the sound, feeling suddenly nervous, a doe watched by wolves.

Except unlike the doe, I want them to consume me, even if I’m terrified of it.

Lykos chuckles, brushing one hand along the curve of my spine, his amusement skating along the back of my neck. “Did I frighten you, little bird?”

I ignore his teasing and turn to look at him, desperate to drink in the sight of him. He is beautiful in his fresh linen tunic, sun-darkened skin contrasting against gold threads embroidered along the neckline, the hint of hair peeking through. His lips are curved into a smile but his eyes are serious, searching my own for the cause of my sudden nervousness. Thick fingers trace along my jawline, settling on my throat as he stares down at me.

“Are you frightened?”

My throat bobs, and I feel the movement of it against his fingertips. How do I explain this, the wanting and the fear? The aching need to take him and Britomartis in, make them mine, consume them, worship them. It’s a terrifying thing. I look to Britomartis, as if she can answer this for me. But out of the two, she terrifies me the most—Lykos is pledged to me, but she might leave.

She cannot leave. I need her.

“Sira,” she says, and the word is a gentle chastisement, given on a sigh with the shake of her head. “You’re trembling.”

My gaze drops to my hands, shaking where they are clutched in front of me, half hidden in the colorful layers of my skirt.

“You must be exhausted. Come.” She takes my shoulders, prying me from Lykos’ hold and guiding me to the bed. “Let’s get you out of this. Into something more comfortable. I see they brought you some sleeping things.”

She spins me around, moving me until the backs of my thighs are against the mattress, my legs shaking as they collapse under me.

“Lykos, bring that sleeping tunic. No, the other one. It’s on that trunk over there. And she’ll need some water, she hardly drank or ate anything all day. Those lawagetas would have talked her to death if they had half the chance.”

I whimper as her hands brush against my stomach, fingers deftly untying the decorative belt that hides the ties, then working at the knots underneath that hold my skirt together. She’s focused, her brow dipped over that elegant straight nose, her kohl lined eyes fixed on her task, her lips curving with the faintest hint of satisfaction when the fabric comes away.

I take in a stuttering breath, and she frowns up at me, alarm widening her eyes.

“Was it too tight? You didn’t say anything when I helped you dress this morning,” she chastises, settling her hands on my thighs.

“It… it wasn’t,” I gasp. “It was fine. I promise.”

She looks unconvinced, but Lykos spares me from answering any further questions by tossing a ball of linen to Britomartis. She huffs in disapproval, then unfurls the fabric, laying it on the bed and smoothing it, as if to inspect that it is in fact the correct item of clothing.

“Anything else, priestess?” Lykos asks, then throws himself onto the bed behind me without waiting for her answer. “Hmm. This is nice.” He rolls onto his side, curling his body so that he’s practically wrapped around me, his stomach curving around my backside as he rests his chin on his hand, grinning up at me. “This is a much bigger bed,” he observes casually, amber eyes glinting with amusement. “Certainly more space than that thing you had in the temple.”

“Move over, barbarian,” Britomartis chides, reaching over me to shove at Lykos’ shoulder. “You’ll wrinkle her clothes.”

Lykos gives a derisive snort, but does as she says, moving back just enough so that Britomartis can pull the untied skirt out from under me, then lift off the ornately decorated tunic.

Lykos hums in approval, mattress dipping as he tries to angle for a better view. I shiver at the shock of cool air against my heated skin, at the sensation of being suddenly naked while both of them are still fully clothed.

“No, don’t,” Lykos protests, when I reach for my sleeping tunic. “We should keep her like that, don’t you think, priestess? With just that gold necklace between her breasts and those earrings at her ears.”

He scrambles until he’s kneeling behind me, warm hands skating over my bare shoulders with careful reverence. Touching me as if I am some forbidden treasure that he wants to grasp but doesn’t dare.

“She’s cold,” Britomartis argues. “Look at her. She’s shivering.”

I am shivering, but not from cold, not entirely. It’s not only the cold making my nipples pebble, the skin tightening until they’re hard points.

“I’m not that cold,” I argue, but Britomartis is already slipping the tunic over my head, grumbling when the fabric catches on my hair.

“We should probably take the beads out, at least,” she muses, eyeing the elaborate coils she created this morning when my hair was half wet and somewhat more compliant. “Though it would be more comfortable if we let your hair down too.”

I nod in agreement with a murmured ‘yes please’ that I’m not entirely sure she hears. The truth is, I have always hated wearing my hair up like this, hated the weight of it and the pull on my scalp. The thought of trying to preserve this hairstyle in sleep, with my head carefully cradled on a pillow, trying not to roll in my sleep—it is impossible.

“I can do that,” Lykos offers cheerfully, his hands already working to undo all Britomartis’ hard work. “It can’t be that hard.”

I close my eyes at the feel of his hands working the coils and twists from my hair, at his fingertips on my scalp, sighing in relief with each lock that comes free.

“Does that feel good?” he purrs, running his fingers through my hair, careful not to let the thick waves tangle or pull. “Do you like that, little bird?”

“Mhh,” I agree, tipping my head back to give him more access.

“Britomartis thinks you’re tired,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “But you don’t want to be wrapped up and put to bed, do you? Not when you’ve waited so patiently for what she promised you.”

I suck my lower lip into my teeth to bite back the moan threatening to escape.

“You were going to make her feel good,” he continues, even though I’m already remembering those delightful, steam-filled moments from this morning. Pressed between the two of them in the bath. “You still want that, don’t you?”

Gods, but he knows me so well. I nod, the movement causing my hair to pull where it’s twined through his fingers.

“Yes,” I rasp, my eyes still squeezed shut. I don’t dare to open them, don’t dare to see Britomartis telling me that she doesn’t want that, after all. That she’s going to leave me. “I do.”

Even if she leaves me. Even if this is only for tonight. I want her, however she will give herself to me.

Tears sting behind my eyelids and I blink, Britomartis’ concerned face blurring and swimming in front of me.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she starts, but I shake my head, swiping my eyes with the backs of my hands.

“I want to,” I tell her again, firmly this time. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Please, Britomartis.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches down to cup my cheek. “Sweet, sweet, Sira,” she sighs, but this time there’s a warning in her words, the faintest hint of a hungry glow in her eyes.

“Just tell me what to do.”

Lykos’ hands have made a firm grip in my hair now, holding my head in place as Britomartis caresses my face, then my neck, her thumb settling over my pulse point. I wonder if she can feel how wildly it is thrumming, like the heart of a rabbit being hunted, like the beat of bird wings against a storm.

“Please,” I add, because my body is aching for that hand to move lower, to cup my breast through my sleeping tunic, to tease my nipple through the fabric.

“Lay back on the bed,” she orders, her dark eyes fixed intently on my own.

I nod. Lykos releases his hold on me, shifting to the side as I scramble to obey. I tremble at being laid out before them, Lykos kneeling and Britomartis standing, both of them looking down at me as if I am a feast to be devoured instead of a minas. There’s a similar intensity written on both their features, I realize, though where Lykos is practically vibrating with his eagerness to climb on top of me, Britomartis is controlled, dark eyes assessing everything with hungry calculation.

I shift on the mattress, conscious of the way my sleeping tunic has ridden up my thighs, of the way my stomach is fluttering beneath the fabric. I grasp at the bedding, just to have something to hold.

“Take off her tunic,” Britomartis tells Lykos.

Lykos huffs in exaggerated annoyance, even as he hurries to obey.

“I told you we shouldn’t have put it on her in the first place,” he grumbles, half lifting me from the mattress as he pulls the tunic over my head. “Didn’t I say she looked much better like this?” He tilts his chin in my direction, grinning. “With nothing but her jewelry.”

“I have to agree.” The faintest of smiles quirks Britomartis’ lips. “As much as it pains me to admit that an Achean could be right about something.”

“I’m right about many things,” Lykos retorts haughtily, but his eyes are fixed on my naked body and he’s crawling on all fours across the mattress to get closer to me.

“No. Don’t touch her.” Britomartis gives a huff of amusement when Lykos makes a pained sound. “Not yet,” she adds. “Patience, if you have such a word in your tongue.”

Lykos narrows his eyes at her, but stills his approach, settling on his knees beside me. I look between the two of them, heart thundering so loud that surely they must hear it, heat building in my core as I lay exposed under the flickering lamplight.

Can they see that too, I wonder? Can they see how puffy my lips must be growing beneath my curls? The dewy drops of need glistening between my thighs? The hardening peaks of my nipples, as if they are silently begging for even the faintest of touches?

A tight, mewling sound catches in my throat as embarrassment tangles with arousal, and I turn my face into my shoulder, my fingers grasping the linen bed covers.

“Look at me, Sira,” Britomartis urges. “You are beautiful like that. Spread out just for us. Don’t try to hide.”

I nod, my lower lip catching in my teeth.

“Good.” The softest of smiles dances across her lips, there and gone again. “Now, do you remember what it felt like when I used my mouth on you?”

Gods, she asks that now? When I’m laid out on a bed before her, much as I was that first time? As if I could forget those first stolen moments we had together in my room at Potina’s temple, when I had all but thrown myself into her arms.

“Yes.” It comes out as a warble, tremulous and faint.

“And you remember how it felt when Lykos tasted you? How his tongue worked you like his fingers did?”

I nod, the flush of embarrassment burning down my neck, across my chest, to my forehead.

Britomartis’ fingers work at her belt, letting it fall free. My eyes track its descent, embarrassment heating into something new, something that pulses low in my belly and thuds like a heartbeat between my thighs. A gasp leaves my lips when Britomartis’ skirt quickly follows, when she pulls off her tunic in one fluid motion, letting it drop to the floor in a pile.

My mouth waters at the sight of her. I’ve seen her undressed in brief flashes, in the moments between getting dressed, or when she was climbing into the bath. I’ve felt the shape of her in darkness. I’ve never seen her like this, towering over me, her sculpted body glowing in the lamplight.

She smirks down at me, her spine erect, her shoulders back. She has the body of a warrior, but there is softness over the metal too. The gentleness of full breasts, with nipples tipped upwards, and the curving hips above the muscled thighs. She’s completely aware of what effect she’s having on me but I drink in the sight of her anyway, unashamedly greedy.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, then shiver when she moves towards me. She moves like a lioness, like the wildcats painted on the palace walls, graceful and deadly. “So beautiful.”

She hums noncommittally at my praise, disbelief flashing with an arched brow. “You are,” I repeat, but my arguments falter into stutters when she climbs onto the mattress, slinking more than crawling until she is poised over me.

Her knees are on either side of my hips, the tips of those full breasts dipping towards my own.

“Sira,” she rasps, and then she is slanting her lips against my own in a sharp, claiming kiss.

It’s the sort of kiss that demands entry, that steals breath. I arch towards her, wanting to give more, trying to draw her in when her tongue presses against my own, opening for her, letting her take and take and take.

“This is not fair,” Lykos dutifully points out. “If you’re touching her, I should be allowed to touch her too.”

Laughter huffs against my lips, and Britomartis pulls back, drawing in breaths in eager pants as she shoots Lykos a look of narrow-eyed reprimand. “Patience, barbarian. Stop being so greedy.”

Lykos grumbles something under his breath that sounds more like his northern tongue than our own language, something that is more hard angles and rough stone than flowing honey. My mind grasps at the words anyway, trying to understand the shape of them—until Britomartis claims my mouth with her own, and presses one hand between my thighs.

“So wet,” she murmurs against my mouth, her fingertips effortlessly finding that spot at the apex of my sex. “Mmm.” She nips at my lower lip, then darts out her tongue to lick away the sting. Pleasure arches through me as she rolls that aching bud beneath the pads of her fingers, gently, almost too gently. “You like that, don’t you?”

I nod, spreading my knees wide to give her better access, my hands grasping at her thighs where they spread around my own, uncertain of where to touch her, of what she wants.

“Would you like to touch me like this?”

Her question dances against my lips as she presses our foreheads together, her nose brushing against my own. She reaches down, grasping one of my wandering hands, and guides it between her thighs. “Here.” She presses my fingertips against that raised bud, and I follow her lead, working it gently at first, slowly, then faster.

“Anhh! Oh gods, Sira. Yes.”

Her eyelids flutter shut, lashes thick against the kohl. The red dye on her lips is smeared in one corner, and warm satisfaction blooms at the sight of it, at the knowledge that its counterpart will be painted across my own lips now too. That anyone looking at us would know that she belongs to me and I to her.

“That’s it, yes. Oh.”

She’s trembling now, those strong thighs quaking above me. She’s close, climbing higher and higher towards that cliff. It’s a beautiful sight, her back arching as she sits up above me, the slick of her sex warm against my hand, breasts swaying with each heaving breath. I still my fingers, and she gasps, staring down at me in surprise.

“I want to taste you,” I tell her, my fingers lazily stroking her inner lips, then dipping further to her entrance, skating over it. She rises up to give me access, rocking her hips towards me, angling for more even as she tries to gather her composure. But she’s trembling too, just like I am.

“Are you sure?”

“Britomartis…”

Doesn’t she know how much I want her?

My finger slides into her slick heat in one steady thrust, and the shock of being suddenly inside of her has my intended reprimand coiling into sharp hunger.

Her lips part on an exhale. I pull my finger back, then let a second one join it, curving them. The look of cool control on her face shatters like a wave against the cliffs, leaving only silent demand. It’s a heady sight, to see this woman unravelling above me, to see the careful veneer crack. To know that she is not so different from me, after all, at least when it comes to this. She is just as desperate and wanting as I am.

“Come here,” I urge, slipping my fingers free from the luscious heat of her, my fingers damp as I grasp her thighs with both hands. “Let me taste you.”

Her eyes widen, pupils so blown I feel like I could fall into the darkness of them. She scrambles up my body, those powerful thighs shaking as she settles herself over me, her exposed core so close to my lips that I can practically taste the salty sweet dew. I lick my lips, mouth watering at the sight of her, at the musky scent filling my nostrils, at the feel of those powerful muscles trembling beneath my grasp.

I dart out my tongue to taste her, tentatively, curiously. Feeling the silky smoothness of her most hidden parts, savoring her, just for a moment. I’m going to devour her. I know it. I can feel the hunger in my throat, saliva pooling at the thought of drinking her in. But first, first I want to explore. Taste her. Tease her, like she has done to me.

“Oh gods,” she gasps, when my tongue finds that swollen nub. There is no mistaking it now, hard and raised at the top of her open sex. I lap at it, first with the point of my tongue, then more firmly, dragging the flat of my tongue along it, gathering up the taste of her.

“ Angh .” Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling almost painfully as she lowers herself against me, pinning my mouth beneath her.

A gasp of surprise gusts out of me, a surge of panic at being pinned down, my mouth open against her, my nose pressed into her soft curls.

“Please,” she cries, rocking against me, fingers against my scalp. “Oh gods, Sira. Please, please don’t stop.”

The panic blooms into something molten behind my ribs, a proud hunger. A victory cry leaves my throat, muffled by the press of her against me, vibrating between us as I close my lips around her, draw her in. I might be pinned down, scarcely able to breathe, but she is the one completely at my mercy.

She is the one begging.

Her cries come in rhythmic, mewling pants, her hips rocking above me in time. She’s using my face, using my mouth, taking her pleasure from me selfishly, unapologetically. My body thrums beneath her, need pooling between my thighs, dampening the linen, electricity rushing under my skin.

More , I want to tell her. Take more. Take it all.

But I can only moan against her, my body devoured by wanting as I drink in the ever-sweetening taste of her. My fingers press into her thighs, fingernails leaving their crescent moon shape on her skin as I pull her against me in silent demand, a silent oath that I can take everything she will give me.

Sira .

She mouths my name like a prayer, her eyes widening, staring unseeingly as her whole body trembles.

“Sira!”

This time it’s a cry, pitched high to the ceiling as she throws her head back, back arching, those full breasts pushed forward. I reach up, daring to grasp them, to cup the weight of them, tease those nipples, rolling them between my thumb and forefinger—gently at first, then hard. Like she has done to me.

When she comes apart, it is like watching a mountain crumble, like watching a cliff collapse into the sea. She screams my name, a blessing amid a string of words that only the gods themselves can comprehend.

Perhaps it really is an offering to Astarte, what we are doing. A sacred act. It certainly feels like it, watching her.

“Sira,” she gasps, lifting away from me.

I release my hold on her with a frown, wanting more even as I’m panting to catch my breath, my lungs aching, my tongue aching too.

“Oh gods.”

She slides down my body, covering me with her warmth, with the sweet softness of her, pressing her lips to my own, smearing the taste of her between us. It mingles with the remnants of the stain reddening her lips, dancing with her warm breath on my face.

“That was… goddess, but you were incredible.”

I smile against her lips, warmth blooming at the praise. But my own need is clawing now, a steady thrum beating its pulse between my thighs. I widen my knees, wanting her between my legs, wanting her against me, my hands roaming over her body, pulling her against me.

She chuckles, a dark, knowing sound. “Oh sweet Sira. You’re hurting for it, aren’t you?”

I nod, a whimper catching in my throat.

She presses a tender kiss to my lips, her kohl lined eyes flashing with mischief as she pulls back, stares down at me. I did this , her look seems to say. I made you like this .

I can’t even refute it. I can only stare up at her, silently begging.

“You’ve been so, so good,” she purrs. Another kiss, first to my chin, then to my throat. “Hasn’t she, Lykos?”

Lykos lets out a frustrated growl in reply, mattress dipping as he shifts beside us. His cheeks are flushed as he stares down at us, one hand pressed against the front of his kilt as he kneels beside us. Even with his hand covering himself, there is no mistaking the bulge there, the evidence of his arousal tenting the fabric.

Britomartis nips at my neck, then draws in the lobe of my ear with her teeth. I shudder, eyelids fluttering as I stare at Lykos, drinking in the sight of him. He knows what it is to want. What it is to ache. He is just as desperate as I am.

“Should we let him barb you?” Britomartis murmurs the question against my ear, one hand reaching up to trace teasing circles around my breast.

I draw in a sharp breath, my eyes going to Lykos’ in silent question, even as want rushes through me like a riptide against rocks, threatening to pull me under. His nostrils flare in surprise at her words, at the unexpected offer, at the sound of his crude words on her tongue. He nods, eyes going dark, lips parting.

“Yes,” I rasp, licking my lips. I can still taste her there, the sweet musk of her release. “Please.” My core pulses at the thought of it, at what it would be like to have him inside of me, to feel his strong body pressed against my own, covering me, filling me.

Britomartis’ lips curve, her eyes tilting up in the corners with approval. Another kiss to my ear, to the side of my face, my forehead. Like a blessing bestowed, honey sweet.

“I’ll help him get you ready,” she whispers, and I can’t help but shiver at her words, at the way her hands skate over my heated flesh, as if I am an offering being prepared.

“Take off your clothes, barbarian.”

She throws the order over her shoulder, full of sharp demand, before moving to lay beside me, one arm draped possessively over me, her hand cupping my breast.

Lykos leaps to obey, fingers fumbling at his belt and kilt, nearly tearing the ties with frustration before it slips free, hands trembling as he pulls the tunic over his head. I lift up to my elbows to watch him, my gaze tracking hungrily over the sharp lines of his body, the hard muscles, the hair trailing over his chest and covering his arms and legs, the sun-darkened skin of his shoulders contrasting against his honey colored thighs.

And his cock. Gods, that cock—so hard and full, the foreskin pulled back, revealing a head that is so swollen it’s nearly purple, the tip shining with pre-cum. I lick my lips, remembering the taste of him, the feel of him against my tongue, pressing into my throat. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry at the thought of all that inside of me.

“Kneel between her thighs,” Britomartis orders.

One of her legs wraps around my own, pulling it towards her, forcing my knees to widen. Opening me to him. All the while, her hand traces lazy circles around my nipple, occasionally stopping to pluck at it, like a musician plucking at the strings of her instrument. I quiver beneath her, lightning rushing through my blood, tightening beneath my skin.

Lykos hurries to do as she says, crawling between my spread thighs, the head of his cock tapping against his stomach when he settles on his knees before me, his heels tucked beneath him. Britomartis lifts up, resting on one elbow so that she can see down the length of my body, releasing her hold on my breast so she can slip one hand into the warm curls at the apex of my thighs.

“Taste her.”

Britomartis uses her fingers to spread my lips open. I shiver at the cool air on those sensitive, hidden parts of me, at the feeling of being held open like this for him to see.

Lykos draws in a shuddering breath, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, pupils flaring wide as he stares down at me.

“Open her.” Britomartis’ voice is low, melodic. The steady tones of a priestess used to being obeyed.

Thick, callused fingers replace Britomartis’ as Lykos bends forward, pulling me open. His head dips to my core, his nose brushing my damp curls as he draws in a hungry breath, then lets out a satisfied rumble.

Warmth rushes through me, sun-warmed honey beneath my skin. I know what it is now to crave that taste on my tongue, yet want to savor it. The thought has a smile blooming on my lips as I stare down my naked body, at the top of Lykos’ head between my thighs, at his long lashes fluttering shut when he lifts his chin, licks his lips.

I arch beneath him, pressing against his fingertips as he holds me open, desperate for his tongue, his lips, his mouth. He gives it to me, his eyes opening to meet my own, to drag over my body like a ravenous creature even as he drinks me in.

“That’s it,” Britomartis urges, her voice thicker now. Her hand settles on my stomach, fingers splaying as she holds me in place for him. “Remember how I showed you, gentle at first, then give her more.”

I mewl, twisting beneath them, turning my head against my shoulder, throwing my arm over my eyes.

I don’t want slow. I don’t want gentle. Doesn’t she know I’ve been slowly burning, burning, burning this whole time? Surely I must be a wet, open thing by now, a gaping mouth ready to be filled. I am not some flower, some closed bud. I’ve had her fingers filling me, pressed to the knuckles.

Surely, surely I can take his cock.

Britomartis chuckles, her other hand coming up to peel my arm away from my face, then pinning it above my head. “Easy,” she murmurs, dipping down to draw a nipple in between her lips. “There is no rush, sweet Sira.”

I glare at her, teeth gritted as pleasure grinds through my bones, painful with its demand for more, more, more . I’m spiraling upwards, white hot pleasure dancing around my vision like smoke, ethereal, not quite tangible enough to grasp, but everywhere.

“Please,” I pant, arching towards her lips, spreading my thighs beneath Lykos’ hands, pressing against him, against the rasp of his scruff and the relentless working of his tongue. He groans against me, his lips closing around my swollen bud, sucking me in. I throw my head back, a keening wail vibrating in my throat as Britomartis’ strong hands tighten their grip on my body, pinning my stomach beneath him, keeping my arm in place above my head.

I am helpless beneath the pair of them—sweating and panting and only capable of taking what they will give me.

“Stretch her open,” Britomartis breathes against my aching nipple. “Start with one finger inside her, then add a second, a third. Open her up for your cock, Achean. Make her ready to take it.”

Lykos gives a strangled cry against my core, pulling back to give Britomartis a look that is all pained madness, panting through gritted teeth.

“I’m so close,” he whimpers, panic flashing in his eyes. “Please. Priestess, please. If I spend…”

“You can contain it.” Britomartis lifts away from my breast to stare down my body at him. Even from this angle, even with lust painting my vision red, I can see the imperious tilt to her chin, the arched eyebrow, the downward curve of her lips. “You will contain yourself, barbarian. Or I will barb her instead of you.”

His brow furrows at that, lips pursing in confusion as his gaze drops to her thighs, to where her sex is pressed against my hip. “But you don’t…” his throat bobs, his cheeks blazing has he licks his slick coated lips. “You haven’t got a cock.”

Britomartis snorts. “Neither does our Sira. And yet she managed to barb you just fine.”

Lykos makes a choked, strangled sound, the flush darkening his cheeks rushing down to his throat, to his forehead.

“There are more than just fingers and cocks, you know,” Britomartis continues ruthlessly, apparently determined to push Lykos to the edge. “There are tools that can be used. Polished leather, polished wood.” A sharp smirk. “Surely your people have such a thing, when a willing cock cannot be found? I am sure I have heard the word in your tongue.” She pauses, mouth twisting as she searches her memory. “An olisbos? Olisboi? Is that how you say it?”

Lykos gives a reluctant nod, gaze dropping as shame slumps his shoulders. “I know it,” he rasps, not meeting our eyes.

“You’ve used one?” Britomartis guesses, only the barest hint of surprise sharpening her features. Then a curt nod. “Of course you have.”

Lykos lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at Britomartis. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Britomartis shrugs, then lets out a sigh. “Your people are so complicated about these sorts of things, aren’t they? Men can make love to men, but one of them will be shamed. Bátalos , they call him, while clapping his lover on the back.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “It makes no sense.”

Lykos blinks at her, releasing his hold on my thighs to scrub at his face. His breathing has calmed, the desperate gleam gone, the madness in his eyes muted. I whimper at the loss of his touch, his mouth.

“How do you know such things, Britomartis of Thera?”

Britomartis gives him a deadpan look. “I have only ever had women lovers, Achean. Of course I know about such devices.”

Lykos shakes his head, curls falling across his forehead. “No. I mean, what do you know about our men? The ways of our people?”

Britomartis’ lips press together, her gaze going distant. “I have spent nearly two moon cycles at sea.” She says this wistfully, with the ache of someone longing for home. “We have men on board who have traveled to Mycenae, traded with your people. We have youths who started their lives as doulos too, sent to our people from Mycenae with the hopes of finding wealth and freedom they could never dream of on your shores. Trust me, I have heard all I care to hear about the strange ways of your people.”

Lykos’ gaze drops to his knees, his hands folding across his lap as he considers Britomartis’ words. His cock has softened now, not entirely, but enough that it no longer looks painful, that it rests heavy and swollen on his thigh instead of straining upwards.

Realization dawns as I look at Britomartis, at the careful way she is considering the man in front of her, her eyes clear and alert. She was helping him, wasn’t she? Bringing him back from the peak before he fell over it.

Steadying him, like a master seafarer steering a ship in a storm.

“There is no shame in any of it, Lykos.” Britomartis’ voice is gentle, but firm. Like a mother soothing a child who has scraped its knee. “Do you think the gods would have made us in a form that is displeasing to them? Do you think the fates who bind our threads with those of our lovers—do you think they frown when we act on the very desires they have woven into us? Do you think Astarte refuses such offerings?”

Lykos’ brow dips, an argument forming on his lips, but Britomartis lifts one finger to silence him.

“No. She does not. I know this, Lykos. I have seen it. I have been on a ship of men when Adrienne—that goddess we call Astarte—fell into lifelessness after battling Poteiden. The men on my brother’s ship saved her with their joinings, with the lovemaking shared between men who sail together. She did not rise and call them bátalos . She did not deride the offerings of those who bent for their lovers. She took them all, until the sacredness of what they did made her glow like the moon reborn.”

Lykos’ eyes are shining, his lips parted as he drinks in Britomartis’ story. Truth , my heart sings, basking under the kindness of her words, like a flower beneath the sun. Lykos swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Truly?” He rasps, but I can tell he does not doubt her. There is too much hope and gratitude shining in his eyes.

Britomartis dips her head in affirmation, then curves her lips into a smirk. “Our lady does not need an olisbos though, does she?” Britomartis reaches between my thighs, cupping my aching mound with the palm of her hand. “Not when we have you to fill her, to serve her on command? And I am sure you will be good at it, once you are properly trained.”

Lykos’ eyes flare wide in a mixture of arousal and indignation. Britomartis laughs, a low, teasing sound that vibrates through my core.

“Now.” Her fingers part, exposing me to him once again. “Are you going to open up our minas for your cock, or should I do it?”