The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  Chapter 19

  Aphrodite's Price

  MENELAUS SHOVED her down the private halls of the palace, a sting of curses accompanying every step as he led them toward their apartments. His fingers bit into her skin. He was moving so quickly he was half-dragging her, her wet slippers failing to find purchase on the stone floor.

  “Menelaus, please. You’re hurting me.” But her cries fell on deaf ears. Her husband was in a temper and he stank of spirits, the worst combination for her continued health.

  He kicked the door of their chambers open and tossed her to the rugs. The fall pulled the skin from her shins and she gasped from the pain. But there was little time to worry about such trifles. Menelaus was fast upon her, grabbing her legs.

  “No!” she kicked at him, trying desperately to crawl away. But Menelaus had strength and leverage over her. With a sharp pull, he slid her under his bulky frame.

  “Stop it! Leave me be!” she screamed as loud as her lungs would permit, balling up her fists and pounding on his chest and face.

  He reared above her and backhanded her. Hard. She saw stars again, and the room went out of focus. The blurred image of her husband raised his fist again, readying for another blow. But that hand never flew. There was a crash in the room and she was suddenly free. Helen pressed herself up, suppressing a wave of nausea as she moved.

  Menelaus was on the floor, the small table in their foyer crushed beneath his back. Sabineus stood above him, his arms held wide like an athlete in the midst of a wrestling match.

  “Point to me,” he teased her husband. “You’re losing your edge, ‘Laus.”

  Menelaus groaned, his arm darting out faster than she could blink, ripping Sabineus’ leg out from underneath him. The raven-haired man landed on the ground hard, an odd laugh following his fall.

  “Stay out of this.” Menelaus growled at his lover. “She needs to be taught a lesson.” He lurched towards her, his thick arms swiping wildly toward her legs.

  But Sabineus was fast on his feet, tackling Menelaus to the ground. The two men rolled until Sabineus pinned her husband to the floor. “She’s a woman.” He sneered at Menelaus.

  “She’s my woman.” Menelaus growled back, bucking against Sabineus restraining grip.

  But Sabineus was too strong, and he was clearly not drunk, a disadvantage to which Menelaus was fast succumbing. It was like watching a cat toying with a mouse. A very large cat with a very large mouse.

  “There’s no sport in besting her,” Sabineus purred. “I have a better use for that energy.” And he pulled Menelaus’ lower lip taut with his teeth.

  The fight fled her husband, sparking something primal instead. He pressed himself to his lover in a violent embrace.

  Helen was too afraid to move, too afraid to make a sound. But when Sabineus released Menelaus’ wrist, his loose hand waving at her to go, she leapt to her feet. She whispered the man a heartfelt ‘thank you’ as she raced for the back exit, fleeing into the raging storm.

  Paris watched the brute drag Helen from the hall, a burning rage clouding out his reason. He did not care if Menelaus was Helen’s husband, or that he had no right to intercede between them. The woman he loved was in danger—serious danger—and he had to come to her aid. He rushed into the hall after them.

  No sooner had he stepped one foot off the portico than a thick arm barred his way. Sabineus, the raven-haired huntsman, pushed him back onto the balcony. Paris shifted, his hand slipping to the sword at his waist.

  But the hunter held his hands out before him in a nonthreatening manner. “Don’t. I beg you.”

  Paris was through taking the blows that Agamemnon cast at him. He narrowed his eyes, mapping out the series of moves that would take the large man down. “Get out of my way,” he growled one last warning.

  Sabineus did not budge. “I promise you, no harm will come to her. I won’t let it happen. But if you go, blood will be shed. You won’t be able to protect her then.”

  His sober words doused the flame in Paris’ blood. Could he trust this man?

  “Please,” Sabineus begged. “Stay away. Let me go to them.”

  Slowly, against his overwhelming desire to rip the Mycenaean prince in pieces, Paris nodded. Sabineus backed into the hall and took off at a run.

  Paris stayed on the balcony letting the storm pour over him. He had no desire to retreat into the palace. His dark mood had no place in the halls of warmth and revelry. Instead he chose solitude and fled down the grand staircase to the court below.

  He walked aimlessly, tracing the perimeter of the palace until he became hopelessly lost. The sodden ground covered his legs with mud that even the heavy rain could not sluice away.

  Paris’ entire life had just been uprooted. He had no idea which direction he was meant to take. Priam, Agamemnon, Troy, the rest of the world... it no longer held any meaning for him. There was only the gaping question, that unknown purpose of his life, the maelstrom of dark omens and unexpected mercy that somehow all led to Helen.

  He had strayed from the western wall, his new path bogged down in underbrush and unkempt foliage. Yanking his sword from its sheath, Paris cut through the thin branches that tried to bar his way. He slashed and hacked, cursing the Gods, Menelaus, his mother, Aesacus and his host of temple cronies—he cursed them all and the cruel injustice they had made of his life.

  It felt good to strike back, even at an inanimate object. He had suffered in silence for too long, accepting their hellish treatment stoically, believing deep inside that he somehow deserved it. But if what Helen said was true, he had been deeply wronged. Paris wanted to scream. He wanted to kill. He wanted what he could never have.

  Curse you Fates. Why would you bring me to her only to give her to another man?

  It was one injustice too many. He lifted his sword and hacked through another thick tendril. By the time he cut through the growth, the rain had lightened to a soft drizzle and he finally could make sense of his location. He had hiked up the northern rise of the temple plateau and now stood beneath the apple grove, the shrine to Aphrodite directly before him.

  Paris stumbled to the temple, a man mesmerized. Was it only two days hence when he saw Helen dancing beneath the apple blossoms? Her sweet innocence beckoning him onwards, daring him to pay homage to the Goddess. He had thought her a temptation, a challenge to his duty, one he tried and failed to overcome. Paris had spent so many sleepless nights steeling his resolve, trying to deny his feelings for the princess. Never once did he stop and ask if he shouldn’t.

  He entered the shrine. A steady stream of runoff cascaded from a leak in the roof tiles. The water dripped down to the bust of Aphrodite, tears on the effigy made of stone. He knelt before Her, pressing his forehead to the altar.

  “Is this why I was sent here?” His throat clenched in the unfamiliar task of prayer. “Are we meant to be together?”

  A thunderclap broke above the temple and rain began to fall again. Softly at first, in small patters against the tiled roof, then heavier, more insistent, the steady drum of the Goddess’ heart.

  The pounding was too loud to alert him to Helen’s presence, but somehow he could feel her. He could always feel when she approached. The hair on his arms rose, and his chest constricted. If Helen did not display the same bewitchment, he would swear he was ensorcelled. He turned to the temple door and found her in the doorstep, soaked to the bone from the rain, her chest heaving as she watched him pray.

  Helen had fled her chambers in a panic. Her feet carried her, as they always did, to the temple summit. Perhaps it was the rain, perhaps it was the Fates, but she deviated, heading away from her rocky precipice for the sanctuary of the shrine. And when she found Paris there, she knew it was no coincidence.

  He knelt before the altar, a humble man beseeching the Goddess for guidance. Helen’s heart ached for him. Menelaus tried to hurt him, Agamemnon to manipulate him. Even his own mother had rejected him from her bosom. Paris was a man who had never known love. When she saw him kne
eling there, she saw herself.

  Then he turned abruptly to her, his eyes staring deeply into hers, laying her soul bare. She shuddered, her body registering the deep shock of his nearness.

  “The Gods never answer my prayers,” his husky voice rumbled with the gathering storm, “but I swear they have this night.”

  She raced to his side and Paris swept her into his embrace, his lips pressing hungrily for hers. Her touch was like lightning, igniting a fire within him. He twined his hands through her wet hair, crushing her body to his. He felt hers do the same. There was no room for coherent thought, only passion existed, and it would bear no resistance.

  They pulled at each other, hands roaming everywhere, each of them ravenous to take their fill of the other’s embrace. Helen attacked him with a ferocity she never knew she possessed, her lips savaging Paris’ jaw, his neck and back to his eager mouth. She attacked him with the desperation of a woman dying of thirst, a thirst only this forbidden man could slacken.

  Paris lifted her on the altar, sliding his hands under her chiton and pulling the sodden fabric over her head. A beam of moonlight showered down from the skylight, bathing her perfect curves in its silvery glow. He got his first glimpse of her naked body and groaned heavily, his loins constricting tight.

  Twin breasts, perky with rosebud nipples, stood erect. Her skin was the color of fresh milk, and a soft mound of tawny hair hid her sacred flower. She was breathtaking. He ran his hands up her chest, cupping each breast, pinching her nipples between his thumb and forefingers.

  Helen arched her back and pulled herself up to kiss him again. She tore at the laces of his tunic, releasing his cape and then the shirt, her hands desperate to remove any barrier between them. His chest was amazingly smooth, his lean muscles rippled beneath tan skin. She trailed kisses down his chest moving inch-by-inch closer to his loincloth.

  Paris’ hands wove into her hair, stopping her at his navel. “Wait,” he whispered, his voice heavy with desire.

  But she didn’t want to wait. She wanted him, needed him, her desire lending her strength. She pressed her face to Paris’ groin, breathing in deep his musky scent. She could feel the hard length of his phallus beneath and she nuzzled in closer, covering its shaft in soft kisses through the fabric.

  Paris almost lost himself. His entire body was on the razor’s edge of ecstasy. Panting, he pulled himself away from that ledge, stepping back from Helen and shuffling out of his undergarment. He pressed her gently back onto the altar and crawled up onto the stone table above her, his hands greedily pulling her close, reluctant to leave her body for even those few short seconds.

  He kissed her neck, savoring the soft groan that vibrated her throat. Lowering his head, he circled his lips over her breast to her nipple, flicking it in his mouth with his rough tongue. She gasped, a mewling plea escaping her lips. She pressed her hips against his, digging his stiff erection into her thigh.

  He had dreamed of this moment from the first time he saw her in the mist. A Goddess of incredible beauty and grace. And now she was here in his arms, yielding to his touch. He could scarcely believe this was actually happening. He wanted to savor it, and make her feel the exquisite pleasure she gave to him.

  He moved down her body with his mouth, trailing sensuous kisses around her navel, his tongue moving to her pelvis, to her thighs and further down. Grabbing her round buttocks in both hands, he lifted her up to meet his hungry mouth. She cried his name as he buried his face between her legs, his tongue spreading the soft lips of her sacred font, probing deeper into her hard nub.

  “Paris, please...” Helen begged him over and over again. For what, she did not know. She only knew there was something more, something beyond the wild sensations that had laid claim to her very being. Her loins were on fire, an aching emptiness inside her desperate to be filled.

  Paris felt the same urgency, the throbbing of his phallus demanding release. She pressed her pelvis into his face, her thighs squeezing his head as he continued pleasuring her. Her deep moans, heavy and filled with longing, urged him on to new efforts. He shifted his hand beneath her, parting her legs, and plunged his fingers inside, stroking savagely back and forth.

  A wild instinct took hold of Helen and she pressed herself harder on him, welcoming his touch, begging for more. His touch was magic, sending ripples of nerve-shattering pleasure throughout her entire body. A pressure was building deep within, the steam of his hot breath and the stroke of his rough tongue was pulling it out. She melted into his touch as wave after wave of pleasure rolled over her. It was the Goddess’ touch, but far stronger than she had previously experienced. She cried out in sharp gasps as the pleasure rose.

  Paris could not hold off any longer. He was desperate with need. He mounted her, sinking deep into her silk folds as she cried out. There was a magical sensation as his naked flesh penetrated hers, a melding, a blending. He could not tell where his body left off and hers began. In all his previous sexual experiences, the effect was the opposite. His body adapted to the unknown partner and the external pleasure of a foreign touch.

  But with Helen, the pleasure was internal. He rocked in unison with her arching thrusts, riding the waves of her orgasm. Her legs, her arms, her very font itself, tightened around him in a perfect fit. His body anticipated her every move, matching each of her thrusts as if it were his own. They moved as one, pushing harder, thrusting further, trying desperately to press into each other’s soul. Her pleasure was his pleasure. Any other memory of lovemaking was a pale shadow in comparison.

  The fiery touch inside her would not subside, and Helen felt herself growing weak from its strong grip. With every thrust, the ecstasy crested higher until she was sure she would shatter. She felt like a young girl innocent to the world of love. And Paris, her handsome prince, was awakening her to that new world.

  He lost his fragile grip of restraint and went wild, thrusting deeper and harder into her, until at long last, his body tensed and he cried out with a violent shudder. The sudden spasm pushed her over the edge of her mounting waves of passion. Helen cried out with him, and he pressed his lips to hers, sharing her gasping breath.

  They remained there for a long breathtaking moment, their bodies still entwined, simply savoring the intimate embrace. Paris kissed her tenderly, staring deep into her eyes, his own filled with adoration.

  Helen trembled. She had never felt more satisfied—more complete—in her entire life. Her fingers trailed over his sweat soaked skin, tracing his chiseled jaw, and over his arched brow. He was perfection. This was perfection. How could anything so wonderful be wrong?

  He dropped down beside her and she locked her feet around his, trying to delay the moment when he would have to pull free from her body. “Are you all right?” He kissed her forehead, pulling her in closer to his chest.

  Helen nuzzled into the crook of his arm, the steady drum of rain lulling her into sleep. “I’m perfect,” she whispered in his ear. “I belong here. Never let me go.”

  Chapter 20

  Questionable Conduct

  PARIS DID not return to his chambers until the witching hour when he was sure the palace household would all be asleep. He and Helen stayed in the holy sanctuary for as long as they dared. They rested, they laughed, and they made love, both of them drunk on the affection of the other. But the moon sank beneath the horizon and soon a new day would dawn filled with all the responsibilities they’d rather forget.

  It was Helen’s sober declaration that Agamemnon would kill them both if he found them together that finally forced Paris into action. As much as he regretted leaving her side, he returned to the palace alone, persuaded by Helen’s solemn promise that she could find her way back safely. Her nocturnal wanderings were well documented, but a missing prince...?

  It turned out her concerns were well earned. The moment he stepped into his darkened chambers, Glaucus tossed him against the wall, his right hand around Paris’ throat and his left holding a dagger at eye level.

  “You bl
oody bastards, what have you done with him!”

  “Glaucus! It’s me.” Paris held his hands up in a non-threatening manner.

  Glaucus was a temperate man, humble and well respected. But he once took down an entire crew of Dorian pirates when he thought Paris’ life was in danger. There was nothing more fearsome than the wrath of a man protecting his family, and over the years and their many travels, the captain had become something more than just the leader of Paris’ guard.

  Glaucus released him, little of his anger abated. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve had the guard out all night looking for you. We were beginning to suspect the worst.”

  Paris straightened his tunic, avoiding Glaucus’ scrutinizing eyes. “I... I wanted some privacy. I needed to clear my head.”

  “Privacy? Are you mad? I’m half-certain these Greeks want you dead. Or close enough to it.” He followed Paris into the sitting area, his eyes narrowed. “Where were you really?”

  Paris sped around Glaucus, walking to the balcony. “What does it matter? I am here now. You should call off the guard before they rouse any suspicion.” But he could not escape Glaucus for long. He followed Paris out, as swift footed as a jungle cat in the dark.

  “Look at me, Paris.” A cold edge of reprimand laced his words. Glaucus’ loyalty went without question, and so too did his steadfast adherence to speak the truth. Paris reluctantly turned to him.

  “You were with her, weren’t you?”

  “That’s none of your business—“

  “Wrong!” Glaucus snapped. “I was tasked with keeping you safe. What do you think will happen to you—to all of us—if this Mad King found you with his treasure?”

  “He will do as he pleases, as he already has planned to do!” Paris stormed past him, kicking the small table out of his way as he went. “He doesn’t care about Helen. He doesn’t care about anybody save himself, and no act of mine will sway his course. This was a bullshit mission from the start, Glaucus. Don’t deny it.”