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  “You are such a barbarian.”

  His mouth quirked. “I never claimed otherwise.” He gently brushed a palm over her throat. “Wine?”

  Her throat ached in reminder of the abuse it had suffered. “Water?”

  With a nod he brushed his lips across her temple and turned to retrieve it. She looked around the familiar room and noticed something that had been previously absent: the general’s armor and sword neatly waiting. Not his, really. The Galilaean armor he donned to blend in around the palace should he be seen by any of the Council members or guards moving in and out. She hadn’t seen or held her own sword in weeks, not even a wooden practice sword, nor her dagger. Both items she missed terribly. Since their forging, they had not been kept from her should she have want of them. Fingers twitching longingly, her entire being focused on that one point. In a moment of unadulterated recklessness she grabbed it.

  * * * *

  Augustine turned to see Persephone unsheathing his sword, her eyes fixed reverently to the blade.

  Gods fuck me.

  Bringing her back to his room had been unplanned so he hadn’t considered having it moved. Transfixed by the weapon, she hadn’t noticed him yet. Or if she had, she gave no indication. Testing the weight and balance, she twirled it once on each side before bringing it back to center, stopping expertly when it was perfectly vertical. Were it not so concerning that she had acquired a weapon – because of his own carelessness, no less – he would have admired her skill. Her form was impeccable.

  Setting the mug down, he approached her slowly, with both hands clearly visible. “Persephone.”

  She turned so that she faced him squarely and dropped into an attack stance.

  “Persephone, we both know you will not bring me harm with my own sword. Hand it over.” Words delivered with complete confidence and authority, despite the fact that he did not believe them himself.

  He was within striking distance now, and with an elegant flourish she spun, landing with the blade of his sword pressed to his throat. Her control was impressive. The blade nudged against his neck just under one side of his jaw. Tight enough that he felt its sharpness, yet his skin remained unbroken. He didn’t flinch.

  “You think me incapable?” Not a shred of softness lurked behind her eyes.

  “I think you would stab me in the back while I slept if you had enough to gain by it.”

  The corner of her mouth curled almost imperceptibly and a sense of déjà vu washed over him, her expression reminiscent of the one she’d worn upon their first meeting. Cold. Calculating. Bitter. This was the real Persephone, of that he had no doubt. The pieces of herself that she masked equally well behind indifference and platitudes were laid bare in this moment.

  “Just so,” she agreed quietly.

  A tiny adjustment and the blade pressed harder. Augustine had to tilt his chin to keep his throat intact. It was quite clear that any emotional attachment she might have displayed toward him was all just a pretty illusion. Well-executed, but a farce all the same.

  Knowing an emotional appeal would mean nothing to her, he turned to reason. “You and I both know that even if you strike me down, you will not make it past all the soldiers between you and your family to the freedom you seek outside these walls. This knowledge is why you agreed to our terms and it will stay your hand now.”

  Before he could blink she had swung the sword so that it faced point down. Holding it with one hand, she offered the hilt to him. Every nerve on alert, he reached out, relieving her of it without incident. Their gazes remained locked the entire time. Holding the sword in his off hand, he struck without warning, snapping the back of his right hand against her cheekbone. Palm firmly pressed to the offended cheek she stumbled sideways at the force of the blow, but maintained her feet. Remarkable in and of itself. He’d not hit her softly.

  Sword still grasped firmly behind him, he grabbed her chin, dragging her face to his as he forced her backward, where she connected hard with the edge of the bureau. Her slight flinch upon contact was the only indication of her discomfort. Otherwise, her expression bore pure rage. She’d abandoned her cheek and held his wrist in one hand. The other was thrown behind her in an attempt to brace herself against the berm currently digging into her.

  “What. The. Fuck. Persephone?” His body pressed into hers, forcing her further back with every word. Angry heat poured off of him. His ire was matched by her own, though she had the sense not to retaliate nor defend herself. “Say something!” he demanded.

  “Apologies,” she ground from between clenched teeth.

  “Apologies? Is that all?”

  With a final shove he stepped back from her, and without letting her out of his sight retrieved his sheath, securing his sword in it before turning the key in the lock and pounding once on the door. Seneca opened it, looking both surprised and alert, hand on the hilt of his own weapon.

  “Take this and the rest of my effects back to the armory.” Augustine ordered, his watchful gaze never leaving Persephone.

  “Sir,” Seneca acknowledged before taking the proffered sword and indicating to Lucius with a nod of his head that he should grab the rest of the armor.

  Lucius did so quickly while Seneca’s gaze flicked back and forth between the two of them. Persephone had not moved. Her face was painted red across her chin and cheek. Both would bruise. Augustine tired of seeing her skin marred at his hand, and yet he knew he could not let certain offenses on her part go unchecked. She would undoubtedly exploit any perceived weakness.

  As soon as the two were gone, Augustine closed and locked the door and stormed back to Persephone. To her credit she stood her ground.

  “Are you truly so eager to brand me a monster and yourself a martyr, or did you decide you no longer give a shit what fate I concoct for those dearest to you?” Still she said nothing. He wanted to pummel her. “Give me one reason why I should not.” But whether he referred to pummeling her or taking his ire out on her family, even he could not say.

  That finally did it. Her breath shuddered and her eyes watered. But was it real or fake? “Please do not. There is little I can say to defend myself. I do not know what came over me. I saw the sword and I grabbed it without thinking. Please?” She tentatively reached out to brush her hands down his sides. When he didn’t push her away, she leaned in and kissed his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. Her soft hands explored the vee that disappeared into the top of his briefs. “Let me make it up to you,” she murmured into his throat, following the breathy whisper with her tongue.

  His body knew hers and eagerly responded in kind. His mind was not so ready to forgive. He stood immobile.

  “I would be well within my right to execute your punishment against Seraphime,” he reminded her. “You know this.”

  “You stand unscathed.” She spoke confidently, but her hands stuttered.

  “And you enjoy your semantics.”

  She grabbed his hand and with a gentle tug she pulled him toward the plush chairs in the lounge. Undecided if he was going to allow her to placate him with sex or not, for the moment he allowed himself to be led. She grabbed a goblet of undiluted wine on the way.

  Leaning over to set the wine down on an end table, she grazed the top of his hip with her teeth, sending pleasant chills radiating in every direction. Of its own accord his hand cupped the back of her head as she continued to trail kisses and tender nibbles across his stomach. The braid she wore was unfamiliar and foreign. When he would have untied it, she stopped him.

  “Leave it. Just for a little while.”

  She ran her tongue up the center of his abs from his naval to his sternum, deft fingers loosening the ties on the front of his briefs. When she hooked her thumbs in the sides to push them down, she looked to him for approval. Still undecided about how he wanted to proceed, he neither gave nor withheld it. On the one hand, he wanted to ensure an incident such as this never occurred again. On the other, if he did what he threatened, he would destroy all possibility that wh
at was between them could one day be real. He wanted it to be real. He hadn’t expected to develop any genuine feeling for her when he’d devised this scheme, but he never could have hoped or dreamed for someone like her, because he didn’t know that a woman such as her existed. Persephone was one of a kind. A woman that was wholly and completely feminine while still maintaining all the best traits of a warrior. The melding of the two sides of her held irresistible appeal to him.

  When he still offered no indication as to whether he wanted her to proceed or refrain, she pushed his briefs over his hips, continuing to feather light kisses across his jaw and neck all the while. Guiding him into the chair, she dropped to her knees and settled herself between his thighs. Recognizing her intent, he leaned forward, meaning to pull her onto his lap. But with one hand firmly wrapped around the base of his cock, she shook her head.

  “Trust me,” she implored.

  “Not even a little.” Uttered unbidden, it was still true.

  She looked amused rather than offended. “I promise.” Her expression was warm. Inviting. It was faked – it had to be – but it looked sincere. That was the problem: she always appeared sincere. “Relax, Augustine.”

  Though he knew she only used it when she wanted something, his name on her lips was his undoing. So with her warm hand on his chest, he allowed himself to be pushed into the back of the chair. She started with teasing kisses and licks, her hand stroking him leisurely the entire time. Both her hands working in sync, she didn’t concentrate all her attention on his shaft, simultaneously cupping and fondling his sac. The first small tug nearly sent him bolting from the chair. It felt incredible, the way pleasure and tension coiled and braided themselves together.

  By the time she finally enclosed him in her lips, he felt desperate to fuck her mouth. Something he’d wanted to do since their first night together. He valued his cock too much to slip it between her teeth, so despite his desires, he never had. That he allowed her to do so now was foolhardy, especially in light of her recent behavior. Still, it took every bit of control he possessed not to thrust into the back of her throat. She looked up at him, the inklings of a coy smile barely visible. After bobbing at her leisure, she released him with a pop.

  Green eyes locked on his face. “Such restraint. It is not necessary.”

  His stomach clenched. She didn’t wait for an answer before taking him fully into her mouth. There were no teasing preliminaries; she swallowed him as far as she could. Head dropping back on a groan, his hips bucked. She didn’t gag or cough, not that he was convinced he could have stopped himself at this point if she had. His body aching to relieve the tension spooled tightly in each of his muscles, he set a demanding rhythm. Persephone took it all. And when he erupted in her mouth, she swallowed every drop.

  He lounged, attempting to slow his breathing and heart rate when he felt her lean over him. Lifting his head, he looked to see she had the chalice of wine to her lips and she was smiling at him over the rim. She eyed him appreciatively as she set it down.

  “Better?”

  It felt like he could melt into the chair. Rather than tell her that, though, he grabbed the back of her head and pulled her mouth to his for a possessive kiss. He could taste himself intermingled with the wine on her tongue and voiced his approval on a moan.

  “Sit with me,” he mumbled against her lips.

  Persephone settled herself straddled across his lap with her arms tucked between them in the warmth of his chest. Even if it wasn’t real, it felt nice. She fit against him as though she belonged there. With his chin resting comfortably on the top of her head he pulled the leather thong out of the bottom of her braid, raking his fingers through her hair until it flowed in loose waves down her back. Her hair was as soft as her skin. He continued to run his fingers through it while he traced random patterns across her exposed back with his other hand.

  “I would ask you my question now.”

  Her body went rigid against him. He’d been curious about the reasons for Persephone’s training since she was first captured and he learned her identity, but his curiosity and desire to hear it from her own lips had reached epic proportions following his conversation with Adonia. The queen’s mysterious suggestion that it was related to an injustice Persephone had experienced, that he should ask her himself, and that she wouldn’t tell him readily had his curiosity near to bursting. He’d even limited his interrogations of Seraphime to information he needed to know, so invested had he become in hearing the story from Persephone’s lips.

  Though he asked her frequently, she gave only answers he knew to be lies or refused to say anything at all when he openly confronted her dishonesty. He had hoped that with time, she would begin to trust him enough to share her tale, but it was clear to him that day would never come. She answered any and all personal questions with nothing short of great reluctance. Questions related to her fighting in particular were vehemently avoided. And although he knew she was doing it, whenever conversation turned to topics she wished to avoid, she successfully started a fight, frustrating him to the point that he sent her away rather than pry for information.

  When he hadn’t continued, she sat up to look him in the eye. Not surprisingly, she watched him warily. She braced her hands on his stomach. His own rested on her hips so he could grab her should she attempt to flee.

  “Even you must admit that your training in combat and politics is unusual,” he started.

  “That is not a question.” Her expression shuttered immediately, rending it completely unreadable.

  “No, but I wish to ensure you understand all facets of the question.” She waited for him to continue. “I’ve sought the reason behind your training from your own lips as well as the mouths of others.”

  “You’ve still not asked a question.” The tension underneath his fingertips continued to grow, though for the moment, she remained rooted.

  “When I asked your mother about it, she said it was your story to tell.”

  “You’ve still not said anything we’ve not already discussed.” He could see the small dimple that indicated her jaw was clenched, but her face offered no other indication as to her emotional state.

  “She also referenced a grave injustice. I want the story. Why did you seek this training? What was the injustice? Why did your parents allow it, in Galilae of all places, where women are little more than chattel?”

  “I agreed to answer one question. You’ve asked many. Pick.”

  It was only his grip on her that kept her in place, so sure he was that she was ready to flee.

  “All facets of the same question. What is the story behind your combat training? All of it. No lies. No half-truths. I want everything.”

  Her breathing had turned shallow and she looked to the side of his head rather than directly at him. When she finally did meet his gaze, he could practically hear her teeth grinding. “That is not a pleasant story.” Her resentment was palpable, so he was surprised when she softened and molded her body to his. Kissing his neck and his ear she curled into him. “I can think of much more pleasurable ways to spend our time.”

  It was hard not to be distracted by her. Only because of the knowledge that distraction was her intent did he muster enough discipline to grab her shoulders and push her away. “We can still enjoy such pursuits. After. The story.” The last was a command.

  “Then you shall find yourself sorely disappointed. After, you will no longer want me.”

  “There is nothing you can say that would quell my desire for you.”

  “We shall see.”

  Chapter 2:

  The Prettiest Smiles

  Not much is sadder

  than seeing a butterfly

  broken on the ground.

  – From the poem “Delicate Things,” by Sappho of Galilae

  She spoke with such vehemence and conviction that for the first time Augustine found himself wondering if he actually wanted to know the story after all. Persephone pushed off of him. He didn’t stop her. He
r destination was apparent when she grabbed the wine urn and a fresh chalice. Returning to the lounge area with both, she did not take a seat in any of the cushy chairs. After pacing back and forth while drinking down a full cup, she poured herself another before hopping onto the bureau that held the king and queen’s special events robes.

  Looking almost childlike with her legs dangling off the side, she glared at him angrily. She tapped one heel agitatedly against the drawer behind it several times before she seemed to surrender, sitting back and drinking deeply from her cup. In all their time together, Augustine had never seen her drink anything but water. The wine she favored presently had not been watered down at all. As she likely had a similar tolerance for it as Seraphime – none at all – its potency would undoubtedly hit her quickly.

  “What are you doing?” The poor wording of his question was a reflection of his surprise. What she was doing was obvious. The thing he really wanted to know was why she was doing it.

  The anger didn’t return. But the bitterness he saw in its stead was far more disturbing. “I would be thoroughly drunk for this.”

  “Why?”

  When she looked back at him all the pain, anger, and shame he had caught only glimpses of before were completely visible. There was no faking such devastation; this was real. But he wished that it wasn’t.

  “You want me to retell things best left forgotten. And if I must, I choose to be mercifully numb. What do you know about the Battle of the Red Sea?” She took another heavy swallow.

  “What does the Battle of the Red Sea have to do with this?”

  “Everything.”

  He took a sip of his own wine. “The Battle occurred ten years ago between Galilae and Fortunata. Both were ruled by their present kings: your father and Barbarus ‘the Brutal.’ Conflict spawned over control of the trade routes in the Kingdoms of the East. The two navies fought. Yours decimated theirs. The Battle was so named because the Great Salt Sea supposedly turned red with the blood of mariners. Full war was avoided because your father, ‘the Cowardly King’ as he is known in the Finctus, refused to take the battle to land, too afraid of Fortunata’s army. So the two kingdoms remain in a tentative truce, them refusing to cross the sea and you refusing to cross the land.”