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I don’t take a last look at the walls with their chipped green paint or meet the eyes of anyone else in that apartment.

The only thing I concentrate on is the warmth of Memnon’s hand and placing one foot in front of the other.

We step out into sunlight so sharp, I have to close my eyes against the glare, and for a moment, enveloped in that heat and light, I am filled with absurd joy.

Once my eyesight clears, I take in the gathering below. Most of the wedding guests have scattered; those who remain cling to the edges of the courtyard, watching with wary eyes the group of fearsome Sarmatians astride their horses.

Memnon leads me down the stairs and over to his men. Among them is a riderless horse adorned with a bridle made of intricately carved wood and gold. I slow as I take the beast in. I have never sat on a horse, let alone ridden one. I don’t know?—

Memnon grabs me by the waist and hoists me up onto the creature. I yelp a little as my backside hits the saddle, and I nearly slide off it. Before I can, Memnon’s magic is there, guiding me back into place. I marvel at the sight of it, at once both so similar to and so different from my own.

Memnon lifts himself into the saddle next, settling behind me.

I’m sitting sidesaddle when Memnon taps one of my thighs. “Little witch,” he whispers against my ear. “This leg needs to be on the other side of my steed.”

My face flushes. “Women don’t ride like that.”

“ Roman women,” he corrects. “But you are to be a Sarmatian , and our women sit astride their horses.”

After a brief hesitation, I try swinging my leg over as Memnon suggested. Only, it snags on my long bridal tunic, the fabric pulling taut against my leg.

Gods, but this is embarrassing.

Worse, people are still watching—his people, plus the horrified crowd of onlookers gathered around us; I even manage to look up at the second-story windows of the insula and see some neighbors staring down at me with unbridled curiosity.

Before I can struggle too much, Memnon’s hand runs lightly over my leg. Beneath it, I see his curling magic spread out, and the material caging in my leg splits up the side of my calf and midway up my thigh.

I inhale sharply, even as my leg slides into place. Now I’m sitting astride the horse, just as Memnon wanted, my tunic hiked up on one side and exposing me up to my thigh on the other.

Memnon pulls me against him, my backside cradled in his lap, my spine flush against his armor.

This is by far the most intimate I’ve been with a man, and between this and my exposed leg, I feel positively indecent.

The fact that this indecency centers around Memnon, the very person who has haunted my mind for so long, gives me a perverse thrill, Roman modesty be cursed.

Memnon whistles, and the group of Sarmatians, which consists of my husband and four other men, begins to move.

My stomach tumbles as the steed beneath us lurches forward.

I catch a final glimpse of the apartment I lived in for eleven long years.

Livia stands in the doorway, weeping so hard her whole body bows from the effort.

Perhaps I am wicked right down to my bones because the sight of her pain does absolutely nothing to me.

Memnon’s horse exits the courtyard, and my apartment and the remaining wedding guests are swept from sight. Relief sweeps in, along with a lingering sense of disbelief.

I…escaped that life, that fate. Memnon rescued me from it.

I relax more deeply into the man himself as our mounted procession steers their horses down the cobbled streets of Rome, causing the locals to shout or dart out of the way.

Memnon’s grip on me tightens a little. “It is a wonder, finally having you in my arms,” he breathes against my ear. “Do you feel how perfect we fit against each other?” he says. “You were made to be here.”

So many emotions course through me—giddiness, joy, fear, and a sense of rightness that goes far beyond fitting together well.

I glance down at his arm, studying the way tattoos wrap around it. My fingers begin to trace one of them, which is some sort of animal—maybe a ram. Beneath my touch, Memnon’s skin pebbles and his fingers flex against me.

I cannot believe you are real , I finally say to him.

When I envisioned meeting Memnon, my mind never made it this far. I couldn’t really imagine his face or his hair, his skin or the tattoos that decorates it. And I definitely couldn’t picture his ferocious presence, no matter how many times he spoke of this part of himself.

Again, his grip tightens. Neither can I , he admits, his voice breathless even in my head.

Ahead of us, a cluster of Roman soldiers span the road, blocking our way.

Not just any Roman soldiers, I realize as we get closer, but the Praetorian Guard, the emperor’s personal unit of soldiers. They wait for us, their armor gleaming in the sun, their shields and weapons at the ready.

At my back, Memnon stiffens, and a bit of his power leaks out, encircling us.

Roxi, you are safe , he promises.

Memnon releases my midsection for a moment to hold up his arm, making a closed-fist gesture. Behind us, the other horses slow, then come to a full stop.

For several inhalations, all is quiet as the two groups take each other in. The back of my neck prickles. It feels like we’re on the brink of battle.

Slowly, the Praetorian Guard lowers their weapons. Only then do I let out a shaky exhale. The man I’m assuming is the group’s prefect steps forward.

“On behalf of the emperor, your presence is required at the imperial palace,” he announces.

The emperor ? I cannot have heard him correctly.

Then again, at my back is a foreign king . Perhaps this is not an unusual situation for him.

I rode unimpeded into the heart of the empire , Memnon says to me. I’m guessing your emperor is displeased about that.

How did you manage that? I ask. No one gets into Rome without the emperor willing it.

Another wisp of Memnon’s power unfurls from beneath his hand, twisting and curling into the air in front of us.

Magic.

“Did your emperor not get my missive?” Memnon says to the guard. “We had agreed that my men and I were to enter and exit Rome peacefully today.”

I only know it’s a lie because of what Memnon just silently told me. But between his formidable presence and the confidence in his voice, I wouldn’t have guessed it.

The guard hesitates for the barest breath, then regains his composure. “I must insist we escort you to the palace.”

For a long, tense moment, Memnon does nothing, and I can almost hear him weighing his options. Finally, he whistles, and one of his men moves up to his side.

“It seems our plans have changed,” he says in Sarmatian. “Be ready for anything. These men are treacherous.”

Memnon’s gaze returns to the Roman guard once more, and in Latin he says, “Lead on.”