Page 48

It makes me breathless, and my heart constricts almost painfully. It’s one thing to be called queen, but to be called empress , a title reserved solely for the emperor’s wife…a perverse little thrill runs through me at the way it manages to both exalt me and mock Rome all in the same instant.

Yes, I do believe I like it.

I head for the main tent, where I can hear conversation coming from within. Inside, many warriors are gathered, the most elite of them sitting around a central firepit. They laugh and drink, yet this tent, too, grows quiet as the warriors notice me one by one.

I meet Memnon’s eyes across the fire. In them is a look of abject desire and pride.

Empress, you came.

I didn’t want to miss out. Especially not when the alternative was staring into the darkness, alone with my thoughts.

The corner of Memnon’s mouth curves up, and he rises from the ground. Eyes move to the Sarmatian king, the room further quieting until the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the celebration beyond the tent.

Memnon lifts a hand and thumps his armor right over his chest. Once. Twice. Three times.

The other soldiers join in, and my gaze skims over them—solemn Sattion and watchful Zosines; Itaxes, who howls out along with the sound, and a grinning Katiari. Someone begins chanting the title empress , and the name catches like fire until the whole room is saying it.

Memnon’s smoky-amber eyes blaze with pride. He grabs a white bowl resting on a wooden tripod. With it, he approaches me.

“A toast to the woman of the evening,” he says, his voice battle roughened, “who at great cost to herself fought off our enemies when we were outnumbered, our empress !”

Shouts go up, and Memnon hands the bowl to me. I nearly drop it when I realize this is no mere bowl but a skull chalice. Not even in death do our enemies get relief from conquest.

I stare down at the thick red wine, uneager to place my mouth on old bones and taste death upon my lips.

But all eyes in the room are on me, and if there was ever a moment not to ruin, this would be it.

So I hold the skull chalice before me. “To Sarmatia.”

The room cheers as I bring the rim of the skull to my lip, and I force myself not to flinch when I do taste the bone. I manage to choke down the wine, though its potent taste turns my stomach.

The noise in the tent rises to a roar, and I hear empress being chanted again. Memnon’s eyes are luminous with love and pride.

When I finally lower the drink from my lips, he takes it from me.

Come, Empress , he beckons, heading back to his seat. Before he gets there, he hands the skull cup to Katiari, who is on his left. Sit beside me.

I do, settling on the ground between him and his sister while the skull chalice makes its way from warrior to warrior.

Thus begin the tales of battle. At least, I think they are tales of battle. Soon after Memnon sits, his hand comes to my leg, and he strokes it absently. A line of his magic spills from him and slips down the collar of my shirt. I feel it brush my breasts before moving lower.

Much, much lower.

I bite back a gasp when it strokes my slit.

I grab the hand on my thigh and squeeze it hard. For the love of the gods, Memnon , I say down our bond, if you make me come during your war celebrations, I will make you come in front of your friends too.

Memnon glances over at me, a devious look in his eye, his power still caressing me.

Do you promise?

Don’t , I warn, giving him as menacing a look as possible.

His eyes come alive then, and his power, his godsdamned power, intensifies its ministrations, a portion of it slipping inside me.

Oh no.

I let out a ragged pant. I’m still half dead from battle, in a room full of warriors, and he thinks to continue teasing me?

I reach for my own magic to make good on my threat…and it’s not there.

I meet Memnon’s eyes right when the realization hits, and he grins.

Aren’t you going to punish me, my queen? he cajoles.

More of his magic plays with me, teasing me, testing me. Because he knows I cannot.

Sweet Elysium, Memnon.

Would you like some relief? he asks, his gaze darkening. I can feel the ache in you. We can do this in here if you’re really set on us coming in front of our friends, or we can leave…

I catch the whispered edge of his thoughts, most of which revolve around getting me on my back. But it’s hard to focus when his magic is so persistently touching me.

Katiari leans around me, her gaze fixed on Memnon. “Brother,” she says softly, “go bother someone besides your wife for once. I’d like to actually celebrate with her before your libido ruins it all.”

I don’t know how Katiari knows where Memnon’s mind is, but I am equal parts amused and embarrassed. And I would say as much, except it’s taking all my concentration to stifle the noises I want to make.

Memnon, the bastard, is biting back a smile. “I don’t think she wants me to bother anyone but her,” he says knowingly.

“I do,” I rasp out. “ Please bother someone else for a bit.” I didn’t come here to promptly leave, and I’m beginning to sweat in my attempt to keep myself behaving appropriately.

“See?” Katiari says, quirking a smile. “Leave your wife alone.”

And take your magic with you , I add. It comes out as more of a plea than an actual command.

I can sense Memnon’s suppressed laughter and, beneath that, his own building desire.

“I will leave my wife alone—for a bit.” With his words, his magic blessedly stops tormenting me.

I exhale a ragged breath.

Memnon leans in. If you grow tired or wish to leave, say as much and I will take you home.

I give him a curious look. Was this all a plot to get me back in bed and resting? I ask him.

Back in bed? Yes. Resting? No. With that, he removes his hand and rises, moving to the other side of the circle and embracing a grizzled warrior.

“Finally, thank the gods,” Katiari mutters, still watching her brother from across the fire like he might double back.

Now that Memnon has left his seat, the circle around the fire seems to break down, with warriors now getting up and moving about.

My gaze moves over Katiari, noting that her earlier wounds have disappeared.

“Memnon healed me,” she explains, noticing the direction of my eyes. “He does that after every battle—goes around and heals those he can.”

Sure enough, as I take in the room of warriors, I notice that precious few actually look like they survived a battle.

“He’s a good king,” I say, my heart swelling, my gaze touching on him again as he laughs at something one of his kinsmen says.

“Eh, he’s decent, I suppose.”

When I glance at Katiari, eyebrows raised, she laughs.

“I jest ,” she says. “Of course he’s wonderful. I reckon he’s the best king we’ve ever had.” She bumps my shoulder. “And I have a feeling you might just end up being the best queen—don’t tell my mother I said that.”

I mock gasp. “I would never .” My lips twist into a wry smile, and my eyes sweep the room once more. “Where is your mother?” I ask.

“You want to know where my mother is right after I managed to scare off my other family member?” Katiari gives me a look, one that makes me laugh.

After a moment, she joins in. “She’s old, Empress ,” she says, emphasizing my new nickname. “She made an appearance earlier, then took to bed.”

My eyebrows rise again.

“Okay, she’s not that old, but she’s definitely in bed.”

I bite back another laugh, finding it hard to imagine the hardened former warrior queen tucking herself into bed early.

Seeing my expression, Katiari’s eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Sister, there are plenty of open secrets here between all us Sarmatians.” She leans into me.

“For instance, Xartamos,” she says, nodding to a brawny man with dark brown hair and pockmarked cheeks, “is particularly lethal with the, uh, battle-ax, but unfortunately, he knows it and wishes us all to know it too.”

Now I do laugh again.

My sister-in-law flashes me a capricious smile. “Want to know more?”

“Yes.”

“Borena is a formidable opponent, but she lies ceaselessly,” Katiari says, pointing an inked finger toward a dark-eyed woman who’s speaking casually to a man I think goes by the nickname War Cry. “The only truth you can count on is that the end of her blade will find its mark.”

I study the warrior with a bit of trepidation.

“You’re well acquainted with Zosines,” Katiari says, pulling my attention away from the woman, “so you know a bit about him already.”

“Only that he likes women a little too much,” I say, remembering his appeal to Memnon for a second wife.

Katiari snickers. “Rumor is that he’s interested in acquiring a third wife, even as we speak.”

Right as she says that, Zosines looks directly at me, then smiles and lifts his goblet.

I glance at Katiari, and after a pause, the two of us burst into more laughter.

“You better be careful, Roxi,” she says. “He might try to acquire you one day.”

“I would sooner put a blade in his belly,” I declare.

“Maybe that’s part of your appeal.”

The two of us laugh all over again, leaning against one another.

I feel a brush of power in my hair, then around my neck like a touch. Then between my breasts.

I sense Memnon, right at our backs, though I neither saw nor heard him approach.

“It’s been a bit,” he says softly. Without further preamble, he lifts me from where I sit and hoists me over his shoulder. Fellow warriors whistle and hoot at the action.

Memnon , I chastise.

He gives my backside a slap. No more back talk from you , he says.

I yelp, my ire rising. I swear, if I had a weapon in hand, I would use it , I say.

Would you? He sounds delightfully curious, damn him. Shame that you don’t.

It is.

Tonight , he says, crossing the tent, once I lay you out on our bed, you’ll spread your pussy for me so I can taste it, and then you’ll take me any way I please it.

The audacity.

And you’ll enjoy it , he adds.

My disbelief and anger rise, but not nearly so fast as my lust.

I swear to the gods, Memnon— In the heat of my emotions I’ve accidentally slipped into Latin.

I sense his smile. Oh, I know, little witch. You’ll get your revenge. I’m eager for it. But unfortunately for you, it won’t be tonight. Until your magic returns, you’re at my whim. And I’m sorry to say, I’m not very merciful.

As he speaks, his magic returns in full force, touching me in all those erotic places it stroked earlier.

I gasp against him as he strides out of the tent and takes me back to our own.

And he’s right. He’s not merciful with me.

But in this, I don’t mind.