Page 22 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor’s Destiny (Time for Monsters)

S omething shifted between us. Her warm breath against my skin had made my desire for her rise like a tidal wave. Most of the time I managed to control it, but right then, I needed to touch her. I only dared the faintest touch, I was afraid otherwise I would give in to my most primal urges, pick her up, and throw her over my shoulder to carry her away to a place where nobody would witness me ravaging her body. And ravage it, I would. There would be no mercy; my yearning for her was an inferno burning inside me. One that was slowly consuming my rationality, driving me madder by the moment. Seeing her day in and day out, watching her sleep at night—it was a torture as sweet as it was agonizing.

I realized how for granted I had taken being able to touch and fuck her to my heart's desire, a desire only matched by hers, for centuries. Having that right taken from me... it would have been more merciful to carve out my heart. It would have been faster. I knew. I had experienced it.

Never in my life had I needed to persuade a woman. They had always thrown themselves at me, even Vaelora, a goddess—I couldn't help a prideful smirk at the memory. I had never had to work for their affection, but Roweena was different. One moment she was skittish like a wild horse, ready to bolt, the next she fought me like a fury. She had more facets to her than a crystal, and I enjoyed finding each new side of her.

That day at the market, she was more playful than I had ever seen her. Her delight in the smallest things was so genuine I wished I could have bottled it up and preserved it. I committed every smile on her lips, every reflection of light in her blue eyes, every tilt of her head to memory.

We walked by a stall offering food, and for the first time since waking up in this gods' forsaken time, I enjoyed eating. I enjoyed even more seeing Roweena try things she had never eaten before. Her face lit up in joy when we shared Pinchitos Morunos —a grilled lamb skewer. The celentitia —spiced chickpeas—weren't as much to her taste, but she laughed when she washed the cumin-infused delicatessen down with sweet mint tea. Grilled sardines were more to her liking, whereas I couldn't get enough of the marinated octopus.

I discovered her sweet tooth when we came to a stall offering dried fruit and spiced nuts roasted in honey cinnamon. I even bought more of it to take with us, delighting in imagining the things I could make her do to get to the morsels. Until I remembered that this wasn't Vaelora, goddess of carnal delight, but Roweena, untouched virgin. I swallowed, and my cock roared. A virgin. Somehow, I hadn't fully taken her virginity into account yet. Not until right then. I would be the first, the only man, to ever touch her. Sweat beaded down my back. I stared in envy at a group of Muslims wearing nothing but sirwals —long loose-fitting trousers, their sun-tanned torsos bare, whereas I was sweating underneath my shirt. I had taken off the cumbersome cravat, jacket, and vest, but it wasn't enough. My skin yearned to be exposed to the sun, like that of these men. It only took one look at Roweena to stop me, though. For whatever reason, she seemed perfectly content wearing the layers and layers of complicated fabrics. She had to be hot as the underworld underneath it, but she didn't show any sign of discomfort. Poised and graceful, she kept walking through the rows and rows of stalls, admiring baubles and trinkets with the same enthusiasm as she might have for an expensive collar made of rubies.

She was an enigma, one I very much wanted to fully possess, body, heart, and soul. She was mine, and I wanted her to accept that she was. Which was why I followed her like a starving puppy, delighting in her delight.

She showed no signs of tiredness as the day wore on, and we continued exploring the market. As Roweena marveled at the sights and sounds, I cast my mind toward the journey ahead. Three days, the captain of the Star of Alexandria had told me. Three days of sitting in this port and waiting. I would have taken the land route just to get going, but three wasted days weren’t enough to justify the additional weeks of travel. It helped too, that the ship intrigued me. It was like no ship I had ever seen before.

I had seen and commandeered ships before. War galleys, trading vessels, sleek corsairs that cut through the waves like sharpened blades. The ship that had carried us from England to Gibraltar had been impressive, a sturdy beast of wood and iron, but it was nothing compared to this.

This was a leviathan of the sea.

Its masts rose like the pillars of a forgotten temple, stretching so high that the very clouds seemed to skim their tops. Thick ropes, as thick as a man's arm, crisscrossed the ship like the veins of some ancient beast, pulleys groaned as sailors scurried across the decks. Three towering masts, each with an army of canvas sails, rippled in the wind, catching the sun like vast banners of conquest.

The hull was dark wood, nearly black, polished by salt and wind until it gleamed in the midday sun. Rows of iron-rimmed portholes lined its flanks, some open to reveal the dim lantern glow of the lower decks. Cannon ports—as I had been told they were called—sat beneath them, a reminder that this was no mere merchant ship—it was a fortress upon the water, built to weather storms and fend off pirates.

The scent of tar, brine, and spice clung to the air, mingled with the sweat of the deckhands who hauled cargo up the gangplank—wooden crates stamped with foreign seals, barrels bound in iron, heavy sacks of grain and dates spilling their contents onto the dock. A flock of seagulls circled above, their cries shrill against the hum of sailors shouting orders in Spanish, Arabic, Italian, and every tongue under the sun but my mother language.

It was the size that astounded me most. Never had I seen a vessel this enormous. It dwarfed every ship in the harbor, making them look like mere driftwood in comparison. I could not fathom how such a thing remained afloat, how it did not sink beneath its own weight.

For the first time, I did not merely think of the journey ahead—I thought of the voyage itself. The endless stretch of water, the unknown horizon, the storm-wracked nights and sun-drenched days aboard this floating city of wood and sail.

The adventure stirred something deep inside me, something ancient, something I had forgotten. I had conquered seas like this, once.

I had no doubt I would do so again.