by Nadia Aidan
A Total-E-Bound Publication
www.total-e-bound.com
My Spartan Hellion
ISBN # 978-1-78184-023-8
©Copyright Nadia Aidan 2012
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright June 2012
Edited by Stacey Birkel
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 2.
This story contains 259 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 16 pages.
The Spartan Chronicles
MY SPARTAN HELLION
Nadia Aidan
When a spirited, Carthaginian slave and a noble Spartan general are thrust together, passion flourishes between the unlikely pair. But is passion enough to weather the turmoil of treachery, war and murder brewing in Ancient Sparta?
Ripped from her home and forced into slavery, Lamia escapes from one master only to find herself the prisoner of another—handsome Spartan general, Thanos Aristaeus. Lamia vows never to surrender to Thanos, who openly desires her body. Yet, she never imagines he will also threaten to steal her heart.
General Thanos Aristaeus couldn’t have anticipated that his brief trip to Athens would yield him a spirited Carthaginian beauty…who despises his very existence. Lamia defies him at every turn, but Thanos soon learns that lurking beneath the surface of her vehement denials of him is desire—a desire which she fails to disguise and is equally matched by his own passion for her.
Unable to deny the scorching attraction between them, the pair find themselves embroiled in a heated affair, one that is doomed to meet a bitter end when faced with the political turmoil brewing in Ancient Greece.
Torn between their two worlds, Thanos and Lamia must ultimately decide if they are willing to sacrifice everything for a love they never imagined they would find.
Treachery, war and murder—can an unexpected and unlikely love flourish when faced with such obstacles? Lamia and Thanos are about to find out.
Dedication
This is dedicated to Heather Snow, Dianna Love Snell, Mary Buckham, my wonderful editor Stacey Birkel, and the amazing writers of Passionate Ink. Without all of you this book would never have been possible.
Chapter One
Athens, 165 BC
Bones shattered beneath her blade, the warm ooze of blood coating her hand as she twisted her wrist and plunged deep. The man fell clutching his chest, the bright glow of life fading from his eyes like waves retreating from the golden sands of the Aegean.
Lamia did not spare the fallen soldier her pity, or a measure of remorse. The steely glint of determination hardened her gaze and she whipped around, her sword slicing through the air, a deadly warning to the remaining Athenian soldiers to hold their ground. Three of their men lay dead, and those who still lived hesitated on the other end of her blade, their fear wafting so strongly through the air she could taste its bitter flavour upon her tongue.
A dull hum echoed in the distance, the tiny reverberations whispering through her, even as every muscle grew rigid with the sound. Her pounding heartbeat matched the even thud, as steady as the faint clip-clap of horses’ hooves, the subtle quiver stirring the dirt beneath her bloodied feet.
The trembling of the earth grew, while a chilling silence descended upon the agora of Athens, which only moments before had bustled with a cacophony of clashing voices and the din of music.
Her gaze remained riveted on the Athenian soldiers who took several tentative steps backwards. They were retreating, the fear in their eyes heightening her own, and her blood turned cold as if ice water now raced through her veins.
Squinting against the bright glare of the sunlight, she scanned the golden horizon, curling her hand tighter around her sword when she caught her first glimpse of the blurry figures in the distance.
A curse trembled in her throat but she clamped her lips tight.
More soldiers—at least a dozen.
Nausea clawed its way into her belly, insistent and violent, forcing her to battle against the bone-chilling fear that wove its way through her body. She could never hope to defeat a dozen men, but neither would she simply lie down and await defeat.
She had survived this long…
A cloud of dust rose like a pre-dawn fog around the advancing soldiers, their sandalled feet stirring up the arid dirt with every step they took towards the public square. These were not Athenian soldiers. Their movements were too efficient, the even staccato of their marching feet far too precise.
Her lids shadowed narrowed eyes as the soldiers drew nearer. Their bronze armour shimmered beneath the rays of the mid-dawn sun, the reflective glare illuminating the flag that bore their distinct crest. Spartans. Her heart beat wildly as if trying to escape from her chest, the dull throb of fear coiling inside her once again.
They had sent Spartans to kill her and she would have laughed had her situation not been so dire, her fate so clearly sealed. She was nothing but a simple swordsmith of the Meshwesh. Yet Attalus had sent soldiers of the finest army the world had ever seen to dispatch her. That he thought she was a dangerous threat to be quickly and efficiently eliminated was clear.
The Spartan soldiers marched forward until they were no more than five body lengths away. Corinthian-style helmets obscured their faces, the ominous masks of sturdy iron revealing only their eyes—all focused, full of determination, and centred solely on her.
A lone soldier stepped away from the phalanx, and, even though he wore the crimson horse hair crest atop his helmet that proclaimed him as their leader, she would have known he was the one who commanded them by his long strides and the confidence of his gait. His powerful build drew riveted gazes, and authority clung to him, surrounded him, emanated from him, as if he owned the entire world.
“Put down your sword,” he demanded when he stopped before her, the deep timbre of his voice resonating with unyielding strength. The arrogance of his tone told her he was used to having his commands instantly obeyed.
This dawn he would be disappointed.
She tightened her grip around the hilt of the sword, her bruised knuckles red and chafing beneath the harsh sun. Holding his gaze, she stubbornly shook her head.
“We do not wish to harm you. Simply put down your sword.”
She did not trust his assurance that no harm would come to her. After all, Atallus had sent him. She twisted her head from side to side with another defiant shake.
With a certainty, she knew she was going to die, and had she been alone she would have cried at the injustice of it all. She’d done nothing to deserve death, while the one whose hands were forever stained red with blood would probably draw breath for many annos.
She blinked at the tears that burned in her eyes as her breath came out in ragged pants, dragging through her lungs. She refused to cry, for she was not afraid to die…not if that was her fate…
The one who’d spoken, the one she’d decided was their leader, turned towards his men then and nodded. His silent command was enough—the phalanx retreated, leaving him standing there before her…alone.
Beneath her breast, her heart did a quick flutter then thundered, sending blood rushing furiously through her veins, filling her with equal measures of dread and determination as she waited.
He faced her again, his clear blue eyes intense as he unsheathed his sword and approached slowly, hovering just beyond her striking range. Gripping her weapon, she began to circle, her wary gaze darting back and forth as she tried to focus both on him and on the men standing behind him. She did not trust them not to attack if she should wound him.
Circling like two caged tigers, they regarded each other warily, watching, waiting for the other to attack.
“Drop your sword!” he shouted again.
“If you are going to kill me, then so be it. I refuse to go back to Attalus.”
His gaze flickered and he stilled. “I will not send you back to him. You have my word.”
She studied him with narrowed eyes, searching for just the tiniest kernel of deceit shadowed upon his face. He was trying to trick her. As soon as she relinquished her weapon he would strike and she would be dragged back to Atallus where he would beat her, rape her, do whatever else his perverted mind could conjure.
“I do not believe you.”
“I speak the truth. You need only to put down your sword.”
She wanted to believe him, trust his word that he spoke the truth, but she trusted no one. Lamia shook her head. “No.”
His eyes turned grim, the pure crystalline orbs darkening until they were a stormy grey, and for but a moment she had the strangest of thoughts—that a man with such beautiful eyes would be the one to bring her the ugliness of a violent death.
“Then you leave me no choice.” His voice was resolute, the finality of his words breaking through her thoughts and forcing her back to the present just in time.
The force of his first blow nearly knocked her to the ground when his sword crashed down heavily upon hers. Metal crunched against metal as she parried his attack. She jumped back, trying to gain her footing, the scorching earth burning the soles of her feet.
She stumbled, nearly falling to the ground when his knee struck her in the ribs. Holding her side, she gasped for air. Every single breath was like drawing in fire as it burned through her lungs, but she managed to stay on her feet despite the agony. Every muscle in her body spasmed from exertion, until even her bones ached, but she refused to surrender. He would have to kill her if he wanted to win this fight.
Her opponent charged towards her, his sword raised high in the air and with both hands she grasped her weapon tighter, deflecting his next blow with a hard shove. Her teeth rattled and the muscles in her arms grew weaker from exhaustion, his overpowering strength slowly wearing her down.
She grunted, pushing back another attack, and he stumbled, his eyes wide as if he could not believe she still had that much power left inside her. She seized the opening he’d given her and swiped at his chest.
But with expert skill, he dodged her sharp blade and she missed. Her failed attack left her exposed and her body off balance. He did not hesitate. His powerful hand slashed downwards. She tried to duck to the left, but was too slow, fatigue weighing down her limbs until they were sluggish.
Something hard slammed into her jaw, and she felt as if she’d clumsily hurled herself against a large boulder as the wind rushed out of her. She staggered then stumbled, her vision blurry. Lifting her hand to her lips, her fingertips came away stained with her blood.
Then her world turned black, just before she collapsed in a heap to the ground.
* * * *
Thanos studied the sleeping woman, praying to the gods he had not seriously injured her. The physician had said she would be fine but that had been shortly past midday. Now it was dusk and yet she still remained motionless.
While she slept, he took his first real look at her. His gaze travelled the length of her body, drinking in the hills and valleys of her womanly figure. When he’d come upon her earlier, she had been filthy. Her abundant, sable locks had been a tangled, matted mess, her garments ripped and soiled, and her feet chafed with blisters.
With a slight grimace, he gently touched her swollen mouth. The blow to her lip had not helped, either.
Before leaving Athens, he’d hired a couple of slaves at the boarding house where he’d been staying to bathe and clothe her. He had not been able to tell then, but now as he gazed upon her washed form in clean garments, he could easily see she was a beauty. The rich sienna of her skin glowed beneath the burnished embers of the dying firelight as a gentle breeze from outside curled around them to carry her fragrant scent through the air.
A wisp of hair curled along her high forehead, and he brushed it back, grazing the soft tendrils with his fingers. Unlike the fierce woman he’d encountered in the agora earlier, in her sleep she was oddly vulnerable as her obsidian eyelashes rested against beautifully sculpted cheekbones. He should have pulled away—he should have folded his hand into his lap and waited until she woke. Thanos could not say what drew him—what compelled him to touch her—only that he could not seem to stop. Stroking a single finger across her cheek, his callused fingertip glided across the smooth silk of her skin. He then trailed it across the delicate flesh of her bare shoulder, before skimming down her arm.
The traditional Athenian peplos covered most of her sensual figure now, but the tattered clothing she’d worn in the square earlier had revealed ripe full breasts, a taut middle and rounded hips. A smile furled his lips as a wayward thought found purchase within the corners of his mind—that a figure as lovely as hers would be better suited by Spartan clothing.
The women of Sparta revelled in the magnificence of the feminine form. Unlike the women of Athens, Spartan women enjoyed displaying their beauty in revealing garments, sometimes even choosing to go nude at special occasions.
He started when she shifted beneath his fingertips, and, glancing up, his gaze settled upon her face. He stared in silence as she struggled to awaken, a low moan escaping her lips when she fought to prise her eyelids open.
“Take it easy,” he whispered, resting a gentle but firm hand atop her shoulder.
She resisted his touch, her hand shooting out to push him away as she scrambled back against the sturdy wall of the tent, her ochre eyes flashing.
“Who are you?”
The hoarse croak of her voice didn’t go unnoticed by him, and he frowned, worrying again of any lingering discomfort from his strike even as he answered her.
“I am General Thanos Aristaeus of Sparta,” he offered in a gentle, hushed tone, not wanting to frighten her. “You should take it easy. You suffered a nasty blow.”
She studied him with those lovely, piercing eyes of hers. And when they darkened, he knew she recognised him.
“You’re the one who fought me,” she stated, the accusation heavy in her voice.
“I apologise for striking you but it was the only way I could subdue you without hurting you. My intent was not to kill you—”
“Well, you should have. I will not be a slave to that madman.”
He knew exactly of whom she spoke and he tamped down his rising fury towards Atallus for whatever ills he’d done to this woman, and he imagined there were many.
“And you shall not be.” His voice was firm. He wanted to assure her she was now safe with him. “You are no longer his slave.”
“How is that possible? If you do not plan to return me to Atallus, then why am I not dead?”
A good question—one he’d known would come the moment she awoke to discover she wasn’t to be returned to Atallus. His small militia of Spartan soldiers had been in A
thens for a fortnight, gathering information on the movements of the Roman army. He’d just concluded his meeting with Atallus, the pompous and arrogant governor of the city-state of Athens, when several Athenian soldiers had rushed in with the news that Atallus’ newly acquired Berber slave girl had single-handedly killed three of his men and was trying to escape.
What could he possibly tell her? That he’d been intrigued? That in a moment of impulse he’d offered to purchase her from a very grateful and relieved Atallus? It seemed ludicrous, and yet it was the truth. As soon as his coins had settled in Atallus’ palm, Thanos had marched off with his soldiers to try to capture her.
He chuckled to himself. Ludicrous indeed, but in all of his thirty-five annos Thanos had always trusted his instincts. And as he’d set off to find the ‘spawn of Hades’, as Atallus and his men had named her, he knew he was being guided by the gods to seek this spirited woman out.
“You’re not dead, because I have no reason to kill you,” he answered truthfully.
“But I killed all those men.”
“They were not my men, so you are not my enemy. Those soldiers meant nothing to Atallus. In the end, all he cared about was making a hefty profit out of you—”
“So it is you who has purchased me.” Her eyes darkened. “It is you I now belong to.”
“I did,” he acknowledged, his belly twisting with her last words. The way she said them, the melodic lilt of her voice caressing him even as it brimmed with anger, did something to him. What would it be like to have this woman belong to him? Though not in the way she spoke of. She thought she was still a slave, but he needed no slaves—nor did he want one. What he wanted—what he truly needed—was something more.
“I will not deny that I acquired you from Atallus, but you do not belong to me. I have no desire to make you my slave, or my servant.”