The General's Virgin Slave

by Georgia Fox

  As she pulled back the sheepskin to lie down, she almost jumped out of her skin. There, on the bed lay her phone. Amanda Adam's phone. It took her a moment to recognize it and make sense of how it came to be there. Someone had taken it from wherever Marcus kept it under guard, and they'd placed it there in the bed.

  Why? To cause trouble, of course.

  As she reached for it her hand trembled.

  If Marcus found Amanda's phone there he would think she'd sneakily stolen it back. He thought it was a weapon of some sort and therefore its reappearance here on the night he granted her freedom could only be bad.

  Was it dead? It hadn't been charged for a while. The screen was black. She pressed the power button, but nothing happened.

  Why did she think it would turn on anyway? This was first century Britannia. No cellphone towers. No internet. No batteries.

  Suddenly she felt confused, hot and faint.

  What the hell was this thing in her hand? She shouldn't be touching it.

  Marcus. She loved him. Her heart ached.

  Who had put this thing in his bed to harm him? To hurt them both?

  Axa was shivering. She dropped the object and it fell to the marble tiles. The face of it lit up with an eerie glow and it began to shriek at her. Nausea rose up in her stomach and it seemed as if the ground was falling away beneath her feet.

  Marcus. I love you. I will love you forever.

  She hadn't had the chance to tell him.

  What?

  Her knees hurt.

  What?

  She had a lecture early in the morning. Had to get an early night. Shouldn't even be at this party.

  Marcus. Fat-headed, arrogant son of a bitch.

  Don't let me go.

  That carpet was really filthy under her knees. Cigarette burns and crumbs.

  I do not mean to leave. I will stay, but as a free woman. Not as a slave.

  All she needed was a tampon.

  Great time to get her period.

  My virgin pet.

  "Why are you so stupid?" She stepped over the sprawling, jeering "Roman" on the stairs and looked at the queue for the toilet.

  She would love him forever.

  Forever.

  Someone was banging on the bathroom door. Banging and banging and banging. It echoed through her head until it became a roar. Like wind in a tunnel.

  * * * *

  When Marcus returned to his bed chamber the girl, Axa, was gone. Not a sign of her remained, but the sheepskin cover had been turned back, as if to welcome him into his cold, empty bed.

  He ordered a search of the villa at once, but she was nowhere to be found.

  At first he thought Gaius Damianus might be responsible, but the governor willingly threw his house open to be searched. He was, of course, greatly enjoying all of this, for he had warned Marcus, had he not?

  Yes. Axa had lied to him, after all. He granted her freedom and she stabbed him in the back. She did not want to stay with him. That was a lie.

  What a fool he had become to imagine marrying her.

  One of the guards later confessed that he had seen the woman, Julia, entering the general's bed chamber during the feast. They had thought nothing amiss of it until later, once they learned that the female overseer had been dismissed from her post and should not have been in the villa at all that night.

  So Marcus concluded that somehow Julia had aided Axa's escape. When that strange weapon was discovered gone too it was not hard to understand why Julia had slipped into his room and what she had left there for the other woman.

  He had been betrayed.

  Flavian was the only one who refused to believe Axa left on her own two feet.

  "She told me she loved you, master," he muttered bewildered.

  Marcus swallowed hard and shook his head. "She had you fooled too, old man." He stared out through the billowing drapes and up at the starlit sky. "She was a clever story-teller."

  Look at the stars tonight, Marcus. They are so bright. I don't know if I've ever seen them sparkle like that.

  The pain took his breath away, wrenched out his guts.

  Once the liar had even spun him a tale of being from the future, he mused bitterly. A woman that beautiful could say anything and be forgiven. Well, it wouldn't happen to him again. Ever.

  Briefly he covered his face with both hands and inhaled what was left of her scent.

  "It matters not to me," he snapped, terse. "I've plenty of women."

  "Indeed, general."

  Talons of pain and sorrow ripped into his throat and he could not speak again. With shaking hands he ripped those drapes down and closed the wooden shutters over his view of the sky. There was no reason to look at it now.

  Flavian discreetly backed out of the chamber and left him alone with his shattered pride and his broken heart.

  * * * *

  At the end of the summer Marcus Cassius heard the news of Rome burning in a mysterious fire.

  That was the night he opened his shutters again to look up at the stars.

  He still didn't believe her, of course. How could he?

  But the stars twinkled down at him in their knowing, gentle way. And he wondered.

  The ache was still there and it never lessened.

  Sometimes he was too busy to think of it and that was a blessing. Inevitably, when he was alone, the pain returned.

  Look at the stars tonight, Marcus. They are so bright.

  So bright.

  He had forgotten the rest of what she said after that, but his memory clung to those few words. All he had left of her.

  That night he stared up at the stars until they blurred and his weary eyes grew sore.

  "Good night, Axa," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Wherever you are, my wife."

  However far away she might be, she would feel his love for her.

  These days it was the only thing Marcus the Invincible knew was real. The one thing he never doubted.

  Chapter Nine

  "Well, you haven't missed much." Chrissy sat at the side of the bed, morosely picking through a box of chocolates. "Actually, your appendix explosion is the most exciting thing that's happened lately." She poked through the cards on the side table. "Everyone's been asking after you. I didn't realize so many people even knew who you were. I mean, people who aren't geeks. Nice flowers. Who sent those?"

  "My sister."

  "Want one?" Chrissy held out the box, but Amanda shook her head. "They going to let you out soon?"

  "Tomorrow. Hopefully." She didn't really feel like talking, but she couldn't sit there in silence and if she had to have a visitor she supposed Chrissy— who usually did most of the talking— was the best kind.

  "Anyway, you certainly spiced up the party on Friday."

  "I'm sure." She grimaced. "And it's not called explosion, you know. It's a ruptured appendix."

  "Now I know you're feeling better, since you've started correcting me again." Chrissy rolled her eyes, stuffing a caramel into her mouth.

  Amanda managed a smile and her gaze traveled slowly to the flowers in the vase by her bed. Orange chrysanthemums and dark lush red dahlias. Really gorgeous. And all those cards, crowded on so that some of them had fallen over and dropped to the floor. It was nice to know so many people cared enough to send something. Like Chrissy, she would never have expected it.

  But suddenly she was overwhelmed. Hot tears flooded her vision.

  "What's the matter?" Chrissy exclaimed in alarm, probably because it was so rare to see Amanda Adams cry.

  "Nothing." She took the tissue her friend offered. "I don't know. Must be the meds."

  I will love him forever.

  Oh god, it had all been in her head. All of it. All of him. Yet it had been so real.

  Her heart ached with the loss.

  All her life she'd been searching for a man like him and in the end, out of desperation, her imagination had made him up, had sent him to save her.

  She sank her face into the tissue and
sobbed, while Chrissy looked on in helpless horror.

  * * * *

  The doctor released her on Tuesday morning and Chrissy drove to pick her up. Amanda was amused to see that the car had been given a hasty clean up, inside and out, specially for the occasion. There was even a new air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

  "I hope you didn't go to all this trouble just for me," she muttered wryly.

  "Well, yes. And no."

  She looked at her friend who was wearing a suspicious amount of mascara and some new earrings. "What's going on?"

  "Oh, I have to pick up a couple of the new exchange students from the train station. Professor Collet was supposed to do it but something came up, so I said I would. You don't mind, do you? Besides you're good at languages and you can probably understand them."

  Amanda sighed. "Killing two birds with one stone. Pick my half dead carcass up and two stray French men while you're at it. Why should I mind?" They'd be awkward, sweaty, chatty boys probably. Nervous and bouncy. Chrissy would only volunteer to help out if she already knew they were good-looking.

  She stared out at raindrops hitting the car window. It was a grim, gray October day, but it should have been spring. She should have wildflowers in her hair and be waiting for Marcus in that big bed, staring out at the stars in the velvet sky.

  Amanda closed her eyes. He'd been so real, so full of energy. And this grief she felt was not fake, not make-believe. No more than the love that wrenched at her insides.

  Nothing would ever be the same for her again. How cruel life was, to put him into her mind, make her love him, and then drag her back to this cold, miserable, dreary reality.

  "They're not French anyway," Chrissy was saying as she swung her car across the lane to draw up along the curb outside the station. Two men standing there, huddled in big coats, dodged hastily aside, just missing the muddy splatters as the front wheel tore through a big fat puddle. "They're Greek, I think." She pressed her horn and waved through the windscreen.

  "I don't know any Greek," Amanda muttered peevishly.

  "Or Italian or something. I forget."

  The back door of the car opened and a merry face looked in. "You are the girls of St. Michael's, eh?"

  "Yes, we are," Chrissy called out. "Hang on, I'll open the boot and you can dump your bags in there."

  The second man had evidently had it with the rain. He dumped his rucksack into the boot and ducked hastily into the back of Chrissy's car without a word. Wet flecks of rain hit the back of Amanda's head and he bumped into her seat as he flung his tall form across the width of the small car. Not a word. Not even "Hello".

  Pretty damn rude.

  She glanced in the rear-view mirror.

  Black curly hair. Most of his face was hidden behind the tall collar of his coat.

  Amanda took a deep breath. The car bounced as Chrissy and the other man struggled to fit all the luggage in the tiny boot of her Ford Fiesta. Through the wing mirror she saw an excess of Italian flag patches sewn onto a duffle bag that was big enough to hide a body.

  It might take them a while to fit all that in.

  Well, she'd have to say something.

  "Benvenutti in Inghilterra."

  The man on the back seat looked up, his black eyes clashing with hers in the rearview mirror. His thin lips cracked open to mutter a surly, "Hi. I know English."

  Amanda stared. He stared back. "Have we met before?" she managed in a tight squeak.

  "Why?"

  Her heart was racing. "You look really, really familiar."

  His eyes narrowed. "I am Marcus."

  Oh. My. Sweet. Jesus. "Yes, yes you are." Her face flushed hot. Well he had warned her: He who lives well lives twice. "I mean. I'm Amanda. Amanda Adams." She reached back to offer her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

  He grabbed her hand and a slow grin eased cheekily across his face. It was like the sun coming out. His grip was strong, his palm warm, his fingers... long. What else would they be? Like the rest of him.

  "Miss Amanda Adams." He winked. "O...kay."

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Georgia Fox has lived in many different places, including a canal boat, but sadly never in a windmill or a lighthouse. Maybe that's next! She loves good company, spicy food, thought-provoking erotica and excellent brandy. She also enjoys pushing the boundaries.

  In her life she’s done a little bit of everything and somehow lived to tell the tales. Except those she's legally bound not to spill - for now.

  She doesn’t believe in fairies, ghosts, flying saucers or conspiracy theories.

  But she still believes in love.

  Twisted E Publishing, LLC

  www.twistedepublishing.com