Page 18

The sun has set by the time our group returns to Nero’s palace, this time with a panther in tow. Without a doubt, today has been the longest, strangest, most wondrous day of my life.

So when I cross the threshold into that red room, my feet barely hold me up. The panther is at my side, his stomach a little more filled out since we got him food and water.

It ended up being fairly easy to feed the big cat and bring him back here, all thanks to Memnon’s ability to alter minds. I owe him an apology, for being quick to judge and condemn, but when I turn to do so, I find my husband lingering in the doorway of our room, murmuring with his men.

Facing forward again, I take in the bed, my breath catching when I remember Livia’s few stilted words this morning about what married men and women do in beds.

I still have only the most rudimentary idea of what that is, but the idea of doing anything with Memnon in a bed has me burning with nervous anticipation.

“Do Roman beds have teeth?” Memnon says at my back.

I blink, glancing over at him. “What?”

Memnon’s men are gone, and my husband leans against the doorway, watching me with an amused expression.

“You’re looking at the bed like it’s going to devour you,” he says, “so I wanted to know if it has teeth.”

I laugh nervously. “No, it’s just…” I take a deep breath, forcing the rest of the words out. “It’s just that I don’t know what you expect of me.”

He raises his eyebrows, but his eyes gentle. “ Roxi ,” Memnon says, his voice lowering. He doesn’t try to come any closer. “I don’t have any expectations of you. Take the bed. I will sleep on the floor as I have done so for the past weeks. There is nothing I expect of you.”

I swallow, even as warmth blooms in the pit of my stomach.

I give my head a shake. “I don’t want that.” Not at all. Taking a deep breath, I force my deepest truth out. “I want…you, Memnon. All of you, just as you promised in your vows today. And that includes whatever happens in beds.” Maybe especially that.

I can feel Memnon’s heavy, heated gaze on me and the deep thrill that runs through him at my words. It doesn’t stop my own cheeks from heating at my admission.

Clearing my throat, I pull a blanket from the bed and arrange a makeshift pallet for the panther, studiously avoiding looking back at Memnon.

Instead I distract myself by imagining Livia’s scandalized horror at my using one of the emperor’s finely woven blankets to warm a man-eating beast. I smile a little at the thought.

A man-eating beast will sleep on the emperor’s linens…

while I sleep with a barbarian. She would choke on her own judgment.

The panther prowls onto the embroidered blanket, and he—and he’s definitely a he —plops down on it.

I kneel in front of the great cat, admiring his beauty, and I reach out and stroke him. The panther closes his eyes, and I swear he smiles.

“I don’t understand any of this,” I whisper, “but I am glad we found each other.”

I realize then that Memnon has still not fully entered our chamber. I glance over my shoulder and see him at the threshold of our room, staring out into the empty hallway.

Uncertainty grips me as he stands there.

Was that last conversation off-putting? Is he now second-guessing us? Maybe he’s realizing after two months of journeying that this was a remarkably bad idea. Maybe?—

Maybe I am simply protecting us, little witch, and I have absolutely no regrets at all. Memnon glances over his shoulder at me, a soft smile pulling at his lips as magic unspools from his hands. He turns back to the doorway and begins to murmur, and his billowing magic fills up the space.

“What are you doing?” I ask, fascinated.

“Warding the doorway,” he says.

“What is…warring?” I’ve never heard of such a thing.

“Warding,” Memnon corrects as his magic thins out, molding into a nearly translucent film. “It’s a protective spell meant to guard against harm. I’m setting one up here in our doorway so that no can ambush us in the night.”

Our doorway. A thrill runs through me at the reminder.

“Do you think that will happen?” I ask, concerned.

“Not with this, I don’t.”

I swallow at what he doesn’t say: that in the world of kings and emperors, assassins lie in wait.

I watch as he finishes his work. In the low light, I can make out the glint of what looks like letters floating in the empty space there. But as soon as I tilt my head a little, they seem to vanish, little more than a trick of the light.

“I didn’t know our magic could do such a thing,” I say wondrously. What else might it do? The possibilities seem endless.

Memnon assesses his work, then turns and heads toward me. The day had many, many distractions, but now it’s just us. His eyes fall to mine, the candlelight limning his features, and there is a storm in my bloodstream, one that calls to him.

He walks slowly, removing his bow and the gorytos full of arrows that he carries at his side, setting the weapons down next to the bed.

Memnon comes to my side then, his armor jostling as he kneels next to me.

“Have you thought of a name for him?” he asks, reaching out to run a hand along the panther’s back. Surprisingly, the big cat seems to enjoy Memnon’s touch, arching into it and chuffing out a happy noise.

I bite my lower lip, then release it. “I have no business naming anything,” I admit, then sheepishly add, “but I have.”

Memnon waits, his eyes studying my mouth.

“I was thinking… Ferox .” Ferocity . “For his bravery in the face of hopeless odds.”

The big cat leans toward me and rubs his face against one of the hands in my lap. I can’t be sure, but I think maybe he likes the name.

“Ferox,” he murmurs. “I like it. It’s appropriately terrifying.”

I smirk a little as I watch my terrifying new pet. He’s flopped onto his side, his eyes closed happily.

“I thought so as well,” I say. My smile melts into something more pensive. “I don’t understand it, but I’m connected to the panther like I am connected to you.”

“Through magic, you mean?” Memnon asks, peering at me.

I nod slowly. “I can…slip into his mind.” I’ve accidentally done it several times since the first. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Memnon’s brows pull together and he shakes his head. “No, but it’s clear the gods have blessed you, both with this animal and with this new ability to see through his eyes.”

The Sarmatian rises to his feet then, unfastening the belt from his waist and removing it along with the weapons attached to it.

I watch him—I cannot help but watch him. As a seamstress’s assistant, I have seen several men remove bits of their clothing; however, I’ve never seen my man do so, and I’m fascinated by it. He seems utterly oblivious to the strange, evocative way it’s making me feel.

When his hands move to the straps of his armor, I push myself off the ground, leaving a content Ferox.

“So we’re undressing now?” I say casually, crossing over to him.

There are not many fastenings holding the armor in place, but I reach for one he hasn’t undone yet. Across our bond, I feel a spark of surprise at the touch.

“My armor is heavy, and my weapons were cumbersome. I simply wanted to get them off.” He gives me a cautious look. “We do not need to get undressed, my queen.”

A shiver rolls through me at the endearment. I think Memnon still means to make me comfortable. It doesn’t take much musing to know my own heart on this matter.

“Do Sarmatian spouses not undress in front of each other?” I ask softly, unfastening a leather strap.

I see Memnon swallow, and then the whites of his eyes when he turns his face to mine. “They do,” he says.

“I am nervous and perhaps a little afraid,” I say, referring back to our previous conversation. As I speak, I undo another leather cord holding his armor together. “But I meant my vows, and I meant my earlier words. I am yours…my king.”

My gaze meets his. His own eyes look deep enough to dive into, firelight dancing in them. There are layers to Memnon’s emotions—excitement, levity, joy, and something that feels warm and deep.

“And,” I add, “I’m a Sarmatian now. It would be rude if I didn’t follow your customs.”

Memnon’s mouth quirks, but he only says, “You’re a queen. You can do whatever you want.”

I smother my own smile. “That’s a dangerous proposition,” I whisper. I call on my magic to help me unfasten the last of Memnon’s armor. “You don’t know how greedy I can be.”

The Sarmatian’s eyes glint. “I’ve been in your head,” he says. “I have an idea.”

Memnon straightens and lifts the scale mail off, setting it aside. He groans and rolls his shoulders. “Gods, it feels good getting that off.”

Now that the armor is gone, I can see just how built Memnon actually is. I only have a moment to admire him in his tunic before he removes this too.

I suck in a sharp breath as I take in his rippling, sun-bronzed torso and the beguiling tattoos that adorn his skin from arms to chest and chest to waist.

He looks like everything I’m supposed to fear, barbarian from head to foot, but gods, I only want to draw closer. His body is honed and muscular, likely from grueling hours spent fighting or something equally wretched—something I should probably mind.

I can’t seem to make myself look away, even when it becomes apparent that I should.

A soft, knowing smile spreads across Memnon’s face. He glances down at his stomach, where his abdominal muscles are prominently on display, before looking back up.

Do you still think I look like a monster? he asks, harkening back to one of our earlier conversations.

It’s kind of him to assume I’m even capable of forming a coherent response.

Deliberately, he removes the circlet from his head, setting it on the side table next to our marriage document. He turns from it and steps up to me, and I don’t have the sense to move away. Not when the lamplight is making light and shadows dance across those rolling, rippling muscles.