Page 28

I wake in an unfamiliar place, full of unfamiliar smells, to the soft murmuring of distant voices. I reach out, my fingers trailing over the dark wooden wall next to my bed.

There’s a heavy weight on me, and when I look to it, I realize it’s Memnon, his face buried in the crook of my arm, his body half on me, half off. He smells like wine and campfire, and he’s snoring softly.

Lying on the other side of him is the ever-opportunistic Ferox.

I smile at the sight of these two crammed into a bed that was meant for me alone.

I run my fingers through Memnon’s hair. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I whisper. That’s what I was told last night, when Katiari settled me in this space.

“Mmmm,” he groans, his arm tightening around me, his face nuzzling against my side. Little witch, you are my wife. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I bite my lower lip, liking the possessive way he declared that.

“Your family wanted us to stay in separate tents before the wedding,” I whisper, glancing at the cloth door that separates this wagoned bedroom from the rest of Tamara’s tented house.

At least, I think this is her tent. Maybe it’s my sister-in-law’s.

I was told and shown so much after we arrived, and I’m still disoriented by most of it.

Yes, well, my family has wanted me to do lots of things over the years, many of which I ignore, so this is nothing new , Memnon says.

He lifts his head and smiles at me, his hair sleep tousled. “Good morning, my queen.”

I run my fingers along his cheek. “Good morning, my king .”

Memnon’s eyes positively heat at the endearment. He leans in, taking my mouth with his. The kiss has barely begun when he cuts it off with another groan, pinching his eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” I ask, pushing myself up a little.

He nods, still wincing and still lying like a stone on top of me. “Just a little hungover. There were a lot of toasts last night.”

At the feast I missed. A mixture of envy and relief rolls through me.

Now I press a hand to Memnon’s forehead, letting my magic seep from my palm and sink into his skin. The wordless healing spell is thick like honey, and I vaguely sense it take hold through our bond.

My hand slips from Memnon’s face as his expression sharpens from pain to something hungry and yearning. He kisses me once more, but this time, his body rolls against mine, the movement limned with lust.

I can still hear voices murmuring somewhere close by, and the conversation gets alarmingly louder and louder?—

The curtained doorway is pulled aside. It takes one inhalation for Tamara to see me, and one exhalation for her to notice her son on top of me .

Gods take me now.

“Memnon.” Tamara’s voice is full of disappointment. Not shock, however. “What are you doing here?” she demands, a harsh note to her voice.

Heat rushes to my face. This is her second impression of me, entangled with her son in possibly her own bed. And not even a day after she said all those nice things about me too.

“She’s my wife,” Memnon says, flashing me a smile and still not getting off me . “I’m doing exactly what husbands are supposed to do with their wives.”

“I would prefer my grandchildren were made after the wedding,” Tamara snaps.

“Oh, it’s definitely too late for that,” Memnon says.

Gods above and below. I close my eyes. Memnon, you are making this situation so much worse.

He grins down at me, unrepentant.

Tamara sighs. “I can trust you about as much as I can a wolf among sheep.”

Leaning forward, she tugs the blanket off us and swats Memnon’s backside. “Out, out. Your men are surely looking for you.”

Memnon leans in and gives me one more quick kiss before standing. “My wife is no sheep,” he corrects his mother.

Tamara makes an assenting noise. “If she’s willing to sleep alongside dragons and panthers, I suppose she can’t be.”

I grimace, my face still hot with embarrassment when Memnon backs away from the bed.

He presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek, and then he’s gone.

She and I stare at each other.

I open my mouth to say something, but words fail me.

Tamara raises an eyebrow. “Are you planning on catching flies?” she says.

My brows come together in confusion.

“No?” she answers for me. “Then close your mouth and get up, daughter. You have a wedding to get ready for, and we need to turn you into a bride.”

The morning is a blur of mostly unfamiliar feminine faces—with the exception of Tamara and Katiari.

Most are female relatives in Memnon’s extended family or friends so close they are considered family.

Some names are murmured to me amid the bustle, along with their relationship to the husband I’m remarrying today.

There’s Mada, Zosines’s heavily pregnant wife, who has rich brown hair plaited down her back, and there are Alde and Opoea, Memnon’s twin cousins.

There is Achaxe, Tamara’s aunt, who is nothing more than a wisp of a human.

There are others, with names and faces that all bleed together.

I’m far too overwrought with nerves to retain any of it.

Despite my weak protests, I’m summarily disrobed and ushered into a small tub.

Then, hands belonging to those unfamiliar faces scrub my hair and body and buff my nails.

So many eyes see my nude form that my alarm must draw in my panther because Ferox stays close to me, never much more than an arm’s reach from my side.

It initially adds to the tension in the room, but once the women realize Ferox won’t harm them, they mostly ignore the big cat.

Most Sarmatian women seem to wear their hair in braids, but once I’m pulled from the tub, the women insist on letting my long locks cascade freely down my back, save for a few thin, delicate braids at my temples that they weave together at the back of my head.

I’m helped into what must be a traditional Sarmatian wedding garment.

First, I pull on the pale, embroidered breeches, then a matching tunic, the fabric detailed with swirling, golden designs.

Lastly, the women slide my arms into a long, crimson kurta with a high collar and draping sleeves.

Edged in gold, the deep-red garment falls nearly to my ankles and fastens together just beneath my breasts.

Dozens of hammered gold plaques in the shapes of deer have been stitched onto the kurta.

I glance down at my outfit, smoothing a hand along my stomach.

It’s drastically different than the Roman wedding tunic I wore for months.

In fact, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever worn.

Strange and opulent, heavy and fitted, and every time I move, those gold pieces seem to shiver.

In the heat of summer, I can already tell it will be sweltering, but none of that seems to matter because I am getting married .

And well, okay, this isn’t the first time, but in Rome, it was a hasty set of signatures.

Brief. Transactional. Today, however, it will be a celebrated event. This feels like a true beginning.

Katiari comes to me and takes my hands, giving them a soft squeeze.

“Each of us sewed a part of this outfit, putting our love and hope into your marriage,” she says as the tent quiets around us.

Tamara and the rest of the women gather around the two of us as she finishes, “We wish you a prosperous marriage and welcome you into our family.”

My throat tightens with emotion. “Thank you… sister .”

The word is rusty and unsure on my tongue, but Katiari smiles and gives my hands another squeeze, nodding, and the two of us share a moment. Hopefully the first of many. I lost a sister long ago, but now I’m blessed with another.

Tamara steps in and places a hand on my shoulder, and I realize then that the three of us are a familial unit.

“You may have woken up a Roman woman,” my mother-in-law says, “but tonight, you will go to bed a Sarmatian one.”

“If she goes to bed at all,” Mada throws in. Some of the women titter at that.

Someone calls from outside the tent, “Is the bride ready?”

Tamara looks at me, her eyebrows raised in question.

I nod. “I am.”