Page 64

My death, however brief it was, fundamentally changed Memnon. Almost overnight, he has become cold. Callous. Even cruel—at least in regard to the rest of the world.

Over the weeks, then months, that pass, he consumes himself with war, spending his days training and his nights in his war room, braced over his map, his eyes searching, always searching—for allies, for enemies.

All the while, our warriors watch Memnon uneasily, like he might take their lives should it be convenient for him.

And when there is a battle to be had—usually with Roman forces—Memnon has taken to facing them alone.

He refuses to let his fighters join him, and he won’t even entertain the possibility of me riding out at his side.

The few times I’ve tried, times like right now, I’ve headed out to the stables only to find myself back in our bedroom, perplexed at how I got here.

I stare down at my hands from where I sit on the bed, anger and hurt rising within me. Memnon promised me long ago that he’d never use his magic on me like this. I never imagined he’d break that vow.

As though my thoughts beckoned him, I hear my warlord husband’s footsteps down the hall. Moments later, his massive form fills the curtained doorway to our room.

There isn’t a speck of blood on his body, though I know he has killed. Nor does he wear the hollowed-out look that he used to in the aftermath of these…massacres.

“Empress,” he breathes, the tense lines of his body relaxing when he sees me, “how my heart has?—”

“What have you done to me?” I say softly.

“What have I done to you?” There’s a challenging look in his eyes—one that would almost be considered playful if Memnon could remember how to be so. “Many things, dear wife. Shall I speak of them, or shall I show you all over again?—”

I prowl forward, burning that he can be so cavalier about this. “Use your power on me again, dear husband , and you won’t like the results.”

Excitement flares in his eyes, my dark promise falling flat. “I hope you intend to follow through on that,” he says.

I know my eyes must flash with my anger. “Is that a threat?”

He moves toward me and leans in so close, I can feel his breath against me. “ Maybe .”

I glare at him.

At the sight, his lips curve into a sinful smile and his eyes alight. “Look at you, so menacing. My cock is harder than stone, just taking in all that hate.”

“Keep going, my king, and you won’t have a cock to speak of.”

Now he laughs—he outright laughs. “You love my cock far too much to ever remove it from my body.” He steps in even closer, his voice lowering. “Curse me, fight me, it doesn’t matter, Empress,” he breathes. “I won’t risk your safety. I cannot”—his voice catches—“cannot endure losing you again.”

At his words, a portion of my ire dissipates. Still, what he’s been doing is unacceptable.

I lift my chin. “Vow to me you won’t meddle with my thoughts again,” I say, “and maybe I won’t try to outmaneuver you.”

I see his jaw work, and I sense him weighing his options.

“Fine,” he finally says. “I will vow to not meddle with your thoughts, even for your own good.” He hesitates. “But there is something I should share with you. Something I should’ve shared with you long before now.”

My brow furrows even as Memnon reaches out a hand, a thin stream of magic pouring from his palm. The deep blue line of his power snakes over to one of the smaller chests in the room, wrapping around the piece of furniture and causing it to rattle.

“After the last battle you fought in, when we were celebrating our victory that evening, I was called away for a portion of the revelry. Do you remember?”

I nod slowly, searching his features. That was about the time Eislyn had entered the room.

“My warriors had come to tell me that they retrieved a letter that had been tucked into the Roman commander’s uniforms.”

As he speaks, the lid of the nearby chest swings open, and from it a small, blood splattered scroll drifts out, floating along the air until it looms right in front of me.

I reach out and grasp it, frowning a little. A red wax seal still clings to the edge of the letter, and pressed into it is the familiar profile of a man, one whose face I’ve seen many times on the surfaces of coins, but also once in person.

Nero.

I glance up at my husband. “The emperor sent you this?”

Memnon’s face is grim when he inclines his head.

My attention returns to the document. If this letter was on the Roman commander’s person at the time of the battle, then it likely made the long trek from Rome with the army. Which means it was written months ago.

What could Nero have possibly said all that time ago that was important enough for a Roman officer to deliver all this way?

And why is Memnon sharing it with me now?

“Read it,” he insists.

I take a shallow breath and unroll the papyrus.

Uvagukis Memnon, barbarian king of Sarmatians, how deep your grief must run. My condolences on the loss of your wife in today’s battle.

My grip tightens on the scroll, and my heartbeat quickens.

She was a lovely thing, and it pained me to order her death.

I remember how fond you were of her when we met in Rome, and I’ve heard of your continued ardor in the years following your marriage.

I will drink to her demise and enjoy it only a little.

You see, I cannot allow you to challenge Rome without consequence.

It is not too late to stop this foolish endeavor.

Relinquish the Bosporan throne and retreat back into the wretched hinterlands from whence you came and we will have ourselves a truce.

Should you ignore this peace offering, then fret not for the loss of your wife, barbarian, I will make sure you are hastily reunited. Then I’ll drink to your death too.

Imperator Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus

After I finish reading, I continue to stare at the document, though I’m not really seeing it.

“How did Nero know?” I breathe, finally lifting my gaze. He sounded so certain of my death in this battle, but that would be impossible to predict months beforehand.

Wouldn’t it?

Memnon’s eyes are stormy and his jaw is clenched. “I don’t yet know,” he admits. “When I peered into the commander’s head, the Roman officer had no idea of the letter’s contents, though he had separately been encouraged to attack you if you were sighted.”

I swallow, my hand moving to my neck. For a moment, I swear I feel a phantom throb beneath my fingers.

“I have turned these thoughts over and over in my head,” Memnon says. “The wards you wore in battle that day stopped working far too soon. That, along with this letter makes me certain that Nero has both knowledge of our powers, and some strategy to counteract them.”

I grow cold as I think over the situation. “This is why you’ve been consumed with war.”

Memnon’s eyes flicker as he stares at me. “It is why I have kept you away from battle,” he clarifies softly.

My throat constricts at that.

“But if Nero has any strategy at all to fight our magic,” I say, “then why are you riding into battle alone to face his legions?” By the sound of it, Memnon’s battle strategy has not only been risky, it’s been…suicidal. My panic rises at the thought.

Memnon’s eyes soften. “I swear to all the gods, Roxi, I have not been careless. If there were a worthy opponent to challenge my magic, I would’ve heard of them long before now,” he says.

“No, Nero may at best have a witch or two in his army, but none with the power to stop my attacks or remove my wards faster than I can replace them.”

I still don’t like it, though I cannot argue that since my brief death, Memnon has not once returned from battle wounded. What happened to me on the battlefield seems to have been a singular event.

I hand the letter to him. “Why did you never speak of this to me?” I try not to sound hurt by the secrecy.

He takes the scroll from me then lets his magic carry it back to the chest. “It made me unspeakably angry.” Memnon pauses as the lid of the chest thumps closed, sealing the letter inside.

“I read it before battle,” he admits. I raise my eyebrows. This is how he fuels his prolific magic—with his fury.

His expression gentles. “Enough talk of war, come here. I need you.”

I don’t even have a chance to respond before Memnon sweeps me into his arms and his mouth descends on mine.

I kiss him, biting his lower lip harder than necessary. He grins against me as he carries me to the bed.

Do that again, little witch , he says down our bond. I like your anger.

I don’t bother telling him that I’m no longer angry—the letter doused my fury like water to flame. My anger is not for your enjoyment.

Memnon grins at me shamelessly as he lays me out on our bed. But, Empress, forgive me, I do enjoy it. He follows me onto the mattress. Rather than undo the fibulae at my shoulders, he tugs one gathered strap down my arm, then the other, revealing my breasts in the dimly lit room.

At the sight of them, he groans. Memnon leans forward as though he can’t help himself and presses kisses to one, then the other. My breasts are unusually sensitive, and even these soft touches hurt a little.

One of Memnon’s large hands goes to my midsection, and though his magic must be exhausted, spindly blue wisps of it spread out beneath his palm, parting the linen.

The fabric falls away, revealing my bare skin. His palm skims up my flesh, between my breasts and over my neck, coming to rest at the back of my head.

Memnon gazes down at me for several moments, taking in every corner of my face.

“I have hurt you,” he finally says. “I have not wanted to admit it, but I know over the last months I have. I can see it in your eyes even now. Tell me what pains you.”