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Memnon must hear my unspoken question because he explains, “In battle, you cannot solely rely on magic to save you. As you saw days ago, it can run dry.” He steps in behind me once more, his body heat warm against my own. “This, my queen, you must learn from practice and repetition alone.”

So it’s going to be like reading, he means. I try not to get dispirited by that because I know this means it will take a long time to master.

“Know your weapon,” Memnon continues. “Like your horse, it is another limb. Find your target, and this time, when you release your arrow, let your heart go with it.”

I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I focus on nothing but the tautness of my bowstring, my grip on the fletching, and the target.

I release the arrow and watch it fly across the field, then sink into the stuffed dummy’s low belly.

“Good, my queen. Very good,” Memnon says, and again, his praise feels like a stroke across my skin.

“Like sex, the point where arrow meets flesh is another sort of intimacy,” he says.

“If your essence is in that arrow, then when it finds its mark, a part of you is there, with your victim, as they die. It’s a holy moment. ”

He speaks of the act with such reverence that, for a breath, I almost believe him. But then, I have my own opinion of that moment, one that’s been tormenting me since the night of the attack.

“It’s murder,” I state softly. I’ve seen my share of it in callous Rome, and now I have done it myself. There is nothing holy about the act of taking a life. Memnon should know this even better than me, considering how he so recently invoked a curse to kill his enemies.

“It is death,” Memnon agrees. “An end point and a beginning, a crossing over from this land to another. It deserves respect.”

I stare at the straw dummy, my arrow still sticking out of it.

Memnon clasps my shoulder. “Let’s do this again, only this time, we’ll try it on horseback.”

We train for hours: on the ground, on an idle horse, and then on a moving one. I’m terrible at it all, but especially on the moving horse. I’d have better luck hitting my target blindfolded than actually aiming at this rate.

Unfortunately, I’ve also gained an audience, one that has laughed intermittently throughout my training today. Unlike me, most of them have practiced their fighting skills since they were children. Watching their queen fumble at what they can so easily do is apparently quite amusing.

After retrieving the latest round of spent arrows, Memnon rides up to me. Without preamble, he reaches out, wraps an arm around my midsection, and drags me off my horse and onto his. I yelp as I’m weightless for a moment, before my backside hits Memnon’s thighs.

I look quizzically up at him as I sit sidesaddle on the beast, but my warlord husband is busy directing his horse into a tight turn.

“The queen’s training is over,” he calls over his shoulder to the lingering onlookers.

Thank the gods. The day was starting to feel endless.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You made me a vow back on the battlefield.”

My brows rise at his unexpected response even as my stomach twists at the reminder of that night. It takes me a moment to recall this vow.

I’ll do whatever you want , I had promised him.

And now he’s collecting on that promise.

Despite my exhaustion, a thrill runs through me. My own pounding desire for Memnon began today when I first caught sight of him on horseback. It’s only been building since, and not even my recent skittishness around him can quell it.

Behind us, the other warriors whoop and whistle, like Memnon is racing away with some war prize, rather than his wife.

I thought a warrior wasn’t supposed to give into distractions. Or whatever horseshit line he fed me earlier.

Yes , he agrees, warriors shouldn’t give into distractions. Kings and queens, however…they can do whatever the fuck they please.

My mate doesn’t bother returning his steed to the corral. Instead, once we reenter camp, he steers the horse toward the tent we use for my reading and writing lessons. We’ve barely reached it when Memnon swings himself off the horse and wraps the reins around a nearby post.

Before I can finish dismounting, Memnon pulls me from the saddle, turning me in his arms and wrapping my legs around his waist as he carries me into the tent, heedless of the looks we’re getting.

I raise my eyebrows as I twine my arms around his neck but say nothing.

Inside the structure, the wax tablet and scrolls from our last lesson still sit out on the table. Memnon sweeps the items aside, letting them clatter to the ground so he can lay me out on the wooden table.

So what is it you want me to do? I ask. That, after all, was the big promise.

He places a hand on my chest, pinning me to the hard wooden surface. Many, many things.

Beneath his palm, his magic spreads, dragging my tunic off. His power moves down, tugging at the pants and boots I wear and shucking them off too.

No sooner have they left my body than Memnon steps between my legs. His arms come under my hips, and the table groans as he lifts my entire pelvis up, dipping his head to?—

I cry out as his lips meet my folds, then try to snatch the sound back. We didn’t place a spell on the tent to muffle our sounds; anyone could hear us.

Memnon places one of my legs, then the other, over his shoulders, then dips his head back down. I bite my lower lip hard to stifle another cry.

Louder , Memnon commands. I want everyone to hear you, my queen.

There’s no magical compulsion in the order, but…

Whatever you want , I told him. I meant it too.

So when he sucks that extra-sensitive fold of skin into his mouth, I don’t muffle my cry.

My hands grapple for purchase, but there’s nothing but the edges of the table to hold on to.

Memnon’s mouth stays right on that spot, swirling, teasing, even nipping. I whimper at the flood of sensation as it builds and builds and?—

His mouth moves away from it, and I gasp out a wordless protest. I’m close to climaxing.

Please, Memnon , I beg.

Say it out loud , he commands, his grip tightening.

“Please, Memnon,” I pant. My fingers move to his hair, twisting in his short locks as I try to maneuver his mouth back to where it left me most breathless, but still, he resists.

Louder, so our people can hear you.

This insufferable king!

“Gods take me, Memnon! Give me my orgasm!”

He grins. I love it when you get commanding. His mouth returns to that place just above my opening, and lazily he sucks on that small fold of skin. It’s so much sensation yet not quite enough.

I suppose I can give you an orgasm , he says down our bond, but only if you promise to be loud.

My face heats at the prospect. I know everybody in this city hears everyone else, but I’m still unused to this.

Whatever you want . I throw my earlier words back at him.

He smiles wolfishly at me, unrepentant, before returning to his ministrations. Memnon redoubles his efforts, his magic slipping into my pussy like phantom fingers. That’s all it takes.

With a scream—a fucking loud one too—I shatter against his face.

Now that he got exactly what he wanted, Memnon is merciless , teasing that sensitive point above my core, wringing out every last bit of my orgasm.

The last echoes of it have only just abated when he lowers my hips to his own. I don’t know when he loosened his own trousers, but now I feel the press of his cock against my opening.

“Did you think we were done, little witch?” Memnon says, amused. “We’re only beginning.”

He drives his cock forward then, seating himself in a single surging thrust. I gasp at the sudden intrusion, the pressure and fullness somehow erotic when it should simply be uncomfortable.

My body barely has time to adjust to him before he pulls out and slams back in, hard enough to make the wood groan.

He begins to fuck me in earnest then, his hips pumping in and out in a dizzying rhythm, the table creaking and shaking as it bears the load, that slick sound of sweat and fluids filling the tent beneath our louder gasps and groans.

My breasts bounce with each thrust, and the friction of our bodies meeting at that single point has me consumed. I’m about to sit up when Memnon’s hand wraps around my throat, pinning me in place.

He shakes his head as he continues to thrust. “You’re going to lie there and continue to obey me.”

I raise my eyebrows. Am I?

Yes. And when you come, and you will come again, you are going to be louder than you were during your last orgasm.

If it didn’t feel so good and if I hadn’t made that cursed promise, I might argue with him. As it is, I get a perverse thrill at Memnon’s commands.

Memnon’s magic comes out again, teasing my nipples before moving down to that sensitive knot of flesh. I feel the soft brush of power against it, and even that light touch is nearly too much after Memnon’s earlier attentions.

“ Memnon .” There’s a pleading note to my voice.

He adjusts the hand on my neck. There’s a wicked gleam in his feverish eyes.

I did not become a king because I was merciful , he says down our bond, and I cannot help but recall his recent, terrifying cruelty toward the Dacians. So take it.

And with that, his power moves over every sensitive point I’m aware I have. It’s an unnatural amount of sensation, and I’m helpless to fight against it.

I moan, giving myself up to the numerous touches.

Memnon squeezes my neck lightly.

Say my name again , he orders.

I can do better than his name.

“My king,” I whisper. “My king, my king, my king…”

Memnon slows, looking at me like I’ve used my own magic on him. When he composes himself once more, he rebuilds his pace.

He squeezes my neck again, this time a little harder, then bites his lower lip when he feels me tighten around him.

That’s not my name , he says, but the accusation has no fire behind it, not when I can feel his pleasure at my words.

The next time he drives into me, I lock eyes with him. “Memnon,” I breathe.

Louder . He punctuates the command by deepening his strokes.

My orgasm builds rapidly, so rapidly?—

“ Memnon! ” I cry out his name revoltingly loud as I come.

That seems to do it for the warlord. His hand reflexively tightens on my throat, heightening my release as he pounds into me harder, deeper. Then he’s coming, an echo of his climax passing across our bond.

He collapses against me, his chest sweaty and heaving as his hand falls away from my neck. Outside, I hear someone whistle lasciviously, but I don’t care. I don’t care because what in the gods’ name was that?

We’ve had sex, we’ve made love, but until now, we’ve never done anything so…feral.

Memnon moves a lock of hair out of my eyes. But did you like it? he asks.

I…did , I say, surprising myself. I give him a look. But you must know that. Surely he felt all my reactions to his words and touches. To his magic.

He grins, then presses a kiss to my shoulder. “I did too.”

“Then it’s settled: every time you cheat death, I’ll ply you with perverse sexual acts.”

“Better be careful offering such things, little witch,” he admonishes. “Your definition and my definition of perverse are two different things.”

My feet touch the ground, and still naked, I step in close. “Then you better not die, so you can teach me the difference.”

Because, as it turns out, Memnon’s not a half-bad teacher after all.