Page 51 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Lykos

“Daidalos.”

I roll the large Keptui’s name in my mouth as if I’m tasting it, like I’ve seen the lawagetas do with his mother’s wine all evening. It is good wine, though I would never admit it. My men have assured me it doesn’t compare to the zythos we carried in—the finest Mycenae has to offer, brewed from grains grown in the cooler climes to the north—though I’ve seen some of them sampling the Minas Zakros’ wine too.

Well, I suppose that is what they came here for, after all. Not the wine, but the chance to see new things, try new things, whether it is some dish or wine.

Or the beautiful men and women weaving their way like dancers between the braziers.

One of those beautiful men is standing before me, though I would never admit that either.

“Greetings to you, Lykos of Mycenae.”

Daidalos offers me a careful smile, then bows lower than is probably necessary for someone of his birth. As if he is anxious to make amends for his mother’s earlier treatment of me. I’m not sure whether I should be pleased with that or not. He could just be trying to get into my good graces so that he can succeed in his suit with Sira.

I give him a broad smile, the same carefree smile that kept me safe all those years at my brother’s side, and offer him a cup. It’s filled with the rare erontas-infused wine that Brita brought back with her. Wine that, upon further reflection, she decided was too expensive and perhaps too potent to be served at a gathering such as this.

He takes the cup reflexively, then starts in surprise when he notices the contents. Unlike the wine from Zakros, this wine is a pale color, somewhere between pink and yellow. It is sweeter than his mother’s wine too, as if the artisans who crafted it mixed in honey to mask the bitter tang of the erontas.

“What is this?” He asks gruffly, his voice a coarse, low rumble.

“This, my friend, is erontas wine.” I pause, taking a careful sip of my own, holding it in my mouth like I’ve seen so many do, before swallowing it down, then licking my lips. “One of Crete’s rarest wines, apparently. Crafted at the base of Mount Ida.” I lift a brow. “I’m surprised you haven’t tried it, prince that you are.”

Daidalos makes a face, then swallows back a large swig of wine. Unlike the lawagetas and other fine people at this festival, he doesn’t seem to even taste the beverage.

“It’s good.”

He takes another large swallow, until more than half the cup is empty. I stare at it, then him in mild alarm. I had promised Brita I wouldn’t get this man drunk before introducing him to Sira, but he seems determined to get there himself without my assistance.

“Thanks.” Another large swig, until pale wine barely covers the bottom of his cup. “Do you have any more?”

I scrub at the back of my neck, considering. He’s big, at least a full head taller than I am, and broader. I can make out the definition of his biceps through his fine linen tunic. His kilt, cut shorter than my own, does nothing to hide the strength of his thighs, the shapely turn of his calves.

Surely, a man such as him, he should be capable of handling another cup.

“For you? Certainly.” I give him a conspiratorial wink. “But don’t tell your friends. I stole this jar from Britomartis’ collection, and I’d rather not face her if I return it empty.”

That draws a low chuckle from him for some reason. He drops his gaze to his now empty cup, his face darkening as a quiet grin tightens his cheeks.

“Come. I’ll show you where I stashed it.”

He ambles after me, docile as an ox and just as powerful as I make my way through the crowd. My men toss me smiles and greetings as we pass, making no secret of their delight for me at having risen so far up. In fact, they are almost respectful now.

The Keptui and Theran men are strangely polite too, bowing their heads and offering their compliments about the cut of my clothes, about the jewelry stacked uncomfortably around my wrists and arms and neck. The compliments are not for me, I know. They are for my position. Because I have the ear and heart of the Minas Crete.

Still, who can blame me if I smirk at them in reply?

“You are well-liked here,” Daidalos muses as we reach the edge of the clearing where the jar of Brita’s erontas wine is hidden between a large rock and some sort of thorned shrub.

“They are not fools,” I reply, giving him a meaningful look before turning to pull the jar free, then sitting down with my back against the rock. “I am the first pledged to the Minas Crete. Except for my men, who perhaps tolerated me before, I wouldn’t say any of them particularly like me.”

Daidalos’ eyes widen at this uncomfortable truth. That I should be saying so much, and to him—even I know that is outside the bounds of decorum.

Which is exactly why I say it. It might be enough to help him let down his guard.

I tilt my chin to the space next to me. Daidalos only pauses for a moment before dropping heavily beside me, close enough that his thigh brushes my own. He takes the jar from my hands without asking, making quick work of refilling his cup to the brim before topping up my own.

“My mother would have me court the Minas Crete.”

Daidalos draws up his knees as he says this, causing the fabric of his already short kilt to expose even more of his thighs. My gaze drops to his lap despite myself.

When I don’t answer, Daidalos takes another long drink of erontas wine, then lets out a sigh.

“Is she… what is she like, your minas?” Daidalos asks. His head is turned towards me, his body nearly folded in half as he bends forward to rest thick forearms on his knees.

It’s strange to see a man like him attempting to make himself small, as if he can somehow contort himself into something less threatening.

“Perfect,” I tell him simply, but I haven’t gone to all this trouble to tell him about Sira.

No, I want to find out about him.

I give him a sharp smile. “But enough of her. Tell me about you, Daidalos, prince of Zakros. Are you eager to court my minas? I know Britomartis has promised to introduce you to her, and she will, but tell me, when I speak to my lady privately later tonight…”

I waggle my eyebrows at this, and Daidalos makes a choked sound in response, the flush that has been painting his cheeks spreading down to the neckline of his tunic.

Delightful .

“…When I speak to her privately, what should I tell her of you? The Minas Crete has defied death itself to take her throne. She is wise and brave and kind, a true mother to her people. The sort of minas that will lead her people to peace and prosperity…”

I had heard Britomartis say something along those lines when she spoke to introduce the Minas Crete at the start of the festival. To many listening, especially to those who had traveled from nearby villages for the festival, they would have just been pretty words. The sort of embellishments one would expect at a festival such as this.

But I know them to be true.

“What do you have to offer a minas such as that?”

Daidalos’ throat bobs. He stares at me for a long moment, eyes flickering as if searching my face for… something… then turns to face the crowd. To look at where Sira sits, like a goddess placed on her dais, patiently meeting every person who comes to speak with her in turn.

“You should tell her I have nothing.”

His voice is a low rasp that dances across my spine. He is not slumped any longer, but sitting upright, looking almost bold. Defiant. He turns to look at me, a look of quiet determination painting his features.

It is a pretty face, I realize. A strong jaw, smooth skin. Bright eyes beneath a straight brow. A proud nose that looks as if it has been broken once. Perhaps twice. A fighter, perhaps.

“Nothing?” I can’t help but smile at that. “Truly?”

He gives a decisive nod, then takes a long swig of the erontas wine, finishing the cup. I widen my eyes in alarm. If he keeps going, he’ll be unable to cover the distance between us and Sira. He’ll barely be able to stand before her when it comes time to be introduced.

Britomartis will not be pleased with me.

The thought shouldn’t send a thrill through me, but it does. Perhaps it is the effects of the erontas, though I haven’t finished my cupful yet. But I can’t help imagining her stern look of disapproval and wondering what she might tell Sira to do to me in punishment for my wrongs.

“There is nothing I can offer any woman, Lykos of Mycenae,” Daidalos continues.

He narrows his eyes at me on this last word, on the mention of my home. I straighten, my grin fading at the expected derision, the look of disgust.

But none comes.

“I prefer the company of men.” His gaze flickers briefly over my form before meeting my eyes with his own. “Not just at sea, like many of us do.” He wets his lips, clears his throat. “But always. Only.”

Oh. Ohh.

Compassion rushes through me, expanding behind my ribs uncomfortably, making me want to reach out and clap him on the shoulder or pull him in for an embrace. I frown at the impulse, wishing I could shake it off. I did not pull this man aside to offer him my sympathy.

I don’t say anything and he doesn’t seem to expect an answer. Instead, he reaches between us, fishing the wine jar from the long grass, unstopping it and pouring himself another cupful.

“You should take care, princeling,” I warn him. “This is not your mother’s wine.”

This is erontas wine. The same wine that had Sira practically writhing with desire.

If this man continues as he’s going, he’ll be tenting his kilt when Britomartis brings him before Sira.

He scowls at me, then takes a long drink, shooting me a look of challenge over the rim of his cup. Something hot rushes beneath my skin at that look. At the way he swipes at those full lips with the back of one sun-darkened hand.

“I know my limits, Achean,” he retorts. Then, giving me the faintest of smiles, adds, “I am large enough to handle more than most men.”

Gods, that smile. That deep rasp of a voice. And his words… he should not say such things. Not to me. Not when erontas is coursing through my veins, thick and hot as molten metal in a forge.

I swipe at my face, then take a long drink of my own wine to hide the rush of longing that must no doubt be branded over my features.

“You’d be surprised at what I can handle,” I reply snippily, annoyed at the effect this man is having on me.

Daidalos’ expression sharpens and he sits up, eyes flashing with an alertness that wasn’t there before. No. No, not alertness. My stomach swoops uncomfortably at the realization. Interest .

“Is that so?” The words are nearly a purr, a rumble that goes straight to my cock.

I shift my knees beneath my kilt, brush my hands over the fabric, determined not to embarrass myself. His eyes follow the movement, lingering until I can feel the heat of his gaze like sunlight on bare skin.

“Yes, I see it now,” he murmurs.

He gives me another one of those smiles. It’s a hungry smile. The look of a lion before it devours its prey. The sight of it has heat rushing down my spine, my balls drawing up almost painfully.

He takes another long swig of his erontas wine, then angles his body so that he’s facing me. He is close enough now that his knee is brushing my own. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his body and smell the erontas wine on his breath. There is another scent too, a sweet musk that reminds me of crushed herbs and leather. A masculine scent. I draw it in before I can stop myself, letting it fill my lungs until my head is spinning.

“But could you handle me?” His question is barely more than a whisper but it jolts through my body like lightning.

My breath punches out of me, an exclamation leaving my lips in a wordless answer.

A triumphant grin flashes across Daidalos’ face, his shoulders straightening as he sits back, his eyes never leaving mine as he puts a respectable distance between us again.

“I think maybe you could, Lykos of Mycenae.”

He reaches for his cup but this time, instead of bringing it to his lips, holds it out to me. It is still half full and I stare at him in confusion, uncertain of what he wants me to do with it.

“You knock your cup against it,” he explains, a teasing smile curving those full lips. “Do your men not do such a thing amongst their companions? With their friends?”

I shake my head, still stupidly unable to form any coherent words, and do as he says. The terracotta cups clink softly, the back of his fingers brushing against my own as his eyes lock with mine. My heart thunders, a wild patter thrumming in my ears, behind my ribs.

“Now drink,” he orders.

I obey, swallowing a large mouthful of the sweet erontas wine, delighting in the burn of it in my throat, in my chest, behind my eyes.

“Good,” Daidalos purrs.

His smile pulls at his cheeks, tilting the corners of his eyes as he gazes at me with hunger. That look, and that word, it has a needy sort of longing expanding behind my ribs, rushing down my limbs.

I want more of it. More of him.

Daidalos places his own now empty cup between us and refills it, then tops up my own.

“To new friendship,” he says, lifting his cup once again.

I lift my own and his smile widens, the white of his teeth a sharp contrast to his sun-darkened skin. He looks almost dangerous now, with his broken nose and that smile. Yet I can’t find it in myself to be wary of him.

“To beautiful barbarians,” he says, knocking his cup against my own. “To men.”

We both drink.