by Nadia Aidan
“Right about what?” he asked, pretending he had no idea what Ulysseus was referring to. The struggle he’d faced with Cleomenes, his brother and Basha—even the gerousia—had been a constant one. He needed an heir, but he’d refused to take a wife for that purpose alone. Thus far, Cleomenes and the gerousia had been tolerant of his position, but with war on the horizon, their patience had been starting to wane. Sparta’s two kings needed heirs, and he was long overdue in producing one.
He’d resisted their pressure because he was looking for more than just a woman who would simply bear him sons. The mother of his children, his wife, had to be a woman strong enough to lead in his absence, strong enough to mould his sons into Spartan men if he was not there to do it. Yet her strength could not come at the expense of her tenderness, her compassion for others, the very essence of her femininity. He’d almost given up his ideal—that such a woman even existed—until he’d met Lamia.
To say that everyone else had already given up on him ever finding a wife was an understatement. So when he’d shared with Cleomenes and Ulysseus the prophecy of the Oracle, and the news had spread, all of Sparta had rejoiced. They’d seen it as a sign that he’d finally take a wife, but Thanos had not been so certain. He trusted the wisdom of the Oracle, the truth of his own dreams, but he’d still wondered if maybe this woman was a figment of his imagination. Not until he’d met a fiery-eyed beauty on the other end of his sword had he realised she was indeed real.
“Do not act as if you have no idea what I speak of. You finally realised everyone was right about you taking a wife, having an heir.” Ulysseus took a sip from his cup, wiping the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. “It is good you’ve heeded their advice, but could you not have found a Spartan woman?”
Thanos clenched his jaw tight at the censure dripping from his brother’s voice, although Ulysseus’ reaction was not wholly unexpected. Most Spartans were not particularly welcoming when it came to foreigners, although, with Lamia as their queen, those who were likely to have a problem with that would be wise to hide their displeasure—but not Ulysseus apparently. “You know what the Oracle said.”
Ulysseus shrugged. “I know, but I still think Sparta’s queen should be…well, Spartan.”
“I disagree. I believe Lamia is Spartan at heart. And besides, I believe Lamia and I are well suited. That is more important to me than where she was born.”
Ulysseus eyebrows arched. “You believe?” his brother questioned.
“I know,” Thanos said firmly, struggling to bite back a groan at the image that flashed in his head of Lamia writhing beneath him, lost in the throes of pleasure, as he thrust into her supple body. Physically, there was no doubt that they were well suited, but it was more than that. It was her passion, her fire, her strength of character—all of which had drawn him to her, convincing him she was strong enough to stand by his side and face the perils that lay ahead of them.
“You know.” Ulysseus snorted. “You don’t know this woman at all and yet you bring her here as your wife. Sparta has waited for you to give her an heir by a suitable woman, and this is your choice?”
Thanos tensed, Ulysseus’ words igniting a hot spark of fury inside his belly until his vision blurred into a crimson haze. Separated from him in age by just two years, his brother was one of the few individuals who was not afraid to challenge him, who did not fear his wrath. For most things, he relied upon Ulysseus’ sound judgement, but in this instance he needed no such help. He’d already made his decision, and his brother would simply have to accept it.
“Do you have a problem with my choice, brother?”
Ulysseus stared at him, apparently noting the sharp, icy edge to Thanos’ voice. He narrowed his gaze.
“What is it about this woman that has you so enamoured? You have only just met her and yet you are ready to strike me for some perceived insult. Do not try to deny it.” He smirked. “Your hands are balled into fists. You only do that when you’re fighting to rein in your temper.” Ulysseus leant back against the couch, studying him from above the rim of his wine cup. “I just hope the faith you’ve placed in her is justified. Sparta faces many challenges on the horizon and she will need a strong queen to support her when you are off fighting to defend her.”
Thanos thought of Lamia the dawn he’d met her, her eyes full of determination, and then the dawn they’d been attacked by thieves. She was courageous, fearless even, and he had no doubt that she was strong enough to lead Sparta in his absence.
He had no doubt that she could lead… His only worry was that she would not follow.
Lamia enjoyed making love with him, but she was not tied to him. There was nothing but her promise to him that she would stay with him in Sparta until the threat from Rome had passed. She may be his wife, but by all accounts, she was not truly bound to him…to Sparta, to his people.
He could plant his seed in her womb, and with any other woman that would keep her by his side, but Lamia was unlike any other woman he’d ever known. That was what drew him to her, and yet it was what made him doubt her, made him unsure of himself before Ulysseus.
She was strong enough to lead Sparta as her queen, but was she strong enough to be his wife, when she truly had never desired to be?
* * * *
Lamia rode Thanos, her body tensing above his as she took him inside her one last time before heat whipped through her and she splintered into pieces.
She cried out at the same time that his hands clutched her hips, a hoarse moan spilling from his lips as he shuddered. His warm seed stirred in her womb and she collapsed against him, curling herself into a ball, like a sleeping kitten, as she lay in Thanos’ arms basking in the warm, contented haze of their lovemaking.
Basha and Ulysseus had departed a short while ago and she and Thanos had wasted no time in intimately reacquainting themselves with one another within their bedchamber.
She sighed as she snuggled deeper into Thanos’ embrace, loving how his coarse hands traced the delicate curve of her thighs.
“You must admit, being my wife does have its advantages.”
She lifted her head from his chest to stare into teasing eyes. “I cannot believe you dare to boast of your prowess in bed.”
He answered with a shrug, a smirk fixed upon his face.
“You are unashamedly arrogant, you know that?”
He chuckled and she shook her head. He may have spoken the truth—their lovemaking was one of the definite advantages to being wed—but he was incorrigible, she thought as she ran her fingers through the sprinkling of hair along his chest. Laying her palm flat over his heart, she bit back a sigh at the feel of it thumping beneath her palm in perfect rhythm to the pulsing beat of her own heart.
This…this thing between her and Thanos was becoming more complicated by the moment. At first she’d brushed his talk of dreams and the Oracle to the back of her mind, but as she’d stood in the courtyard earlier, defending her place in Thanos’ life before Basha, she’d been forced to admit they were seemingly a perfect fit.
What if the Oracle was right? What if their destinies were intertwined? She looked up at him and her heartbeat quickened at the desire that burned in his gaze. But it was more than that. In his eyes shone something deeper and it made every butterfly in her belly flap their wings.
She glanced away, unable to hold his gaze when she knew she would one day betray him. She so desired a real home, a real family, but the guilt that beat inside her was so overwhelming it threatened any happiness she sought to find. She did not deserve to be happy as long as the man who’d killed Darius still walked the lands. Her sense of honour, her need for justice, would not allow her to simply let her hatred go and seek bliss with Thanos. She just couldn’t.
As if reading her thoughts, Thanos tightened his arms around her and sighed. “I fear for you and these storms that sometimes rage in your eyes.”
She glanced at him, plastering a small smile across her face. “There is nothing to fear, Thanos. Al
l is well,” she lied.
He knew she lied, his penetrating stare told her as much. She’d forgotten how attuned he was to her. Yet he didn’t press her. Instead he nudged her head to his chest, placing a gentle kiss to her temple.
“You are not alone, Lamia. If you would but trust me with your demons, I would slay them all for you.”
She closed her eyes as he stroked his hand through her hair—his words nearly made her weep. Thanos was so good—so just. She was not worthy of him. She had no doubt he would fight all of her battles, without question. And yet, even now, she still plotted to leave him.
She hated that this battle she had to fight would cost her the happiness she knew she could find with Thanos—would cost her Thanos himself—but she would never be truly happy if she did not do this.
She didn’t answer, for she could not speak. The words stuck in her throat as unshed tears choked her voice. Thanos just did not understand—he never would.
There were just some battles one had to fight alone—even if this one cost her everything she was starting to hold dear.
Chapter Twelve
Lamia glared at the offensive garment in Thanos’ outstretched hand. When he’d told her she would wear the traditional attire for her formal presentation to the nobility of Sparta, she’d been expecting something far more…substantial.
The crowning of Sparta’s queen was steeped in a myriad ancient customs, and while she’d barely accepted that she was now his wife, and still inwardly rejected the notion that she was officially Sparta’s new queen, she would not embarrass Thanos by electing not to participate in the ceremony. However, she refused to attend the ceremony without proper garments, no matter what tradition dictated.
“No. Absolutely not,” Lamia protested, shaking her head vehemently.
“Lamia, we talked about this.”
She searched her brain, mulling over the conversation they’d had last eve just before they’d fallen asleep. Not once did she recall him telling her she was to dress herself as an Egyptian harem girl.
She’d barely arrived in this new land, only to be thrust into an awkward and humiliating public ceremony. At the least, she should be allowed to wear attire that would affect a sense of courage, not garments that would leave her feeling completing exposed in every possible way.
“No, you told me there would be a coronation ceremony in my honour. You never said I would be expected to prance around naked, too.”
She once again stared crossly at the garment he held—if she could even call it that. Besides the bejewelled necklace that encircled the neckline, the rest of the peplos was sheer white silk that fell to her ankles.
“You will not be naked. You will be clothed in the traditional attire of the newly crowned queen.”
She was incredulous as she stared at him. That was easy for him to say because he was fully clothed. He was clad in a white tunica that was draped by a scarlet robe. She would be expected to walk in there nearly nude, while he wore two layers of garments. Now that was not fair, and she said as much.
“Lamia, my mother wore this, just as my grandmother did, and the queen before her and the queen before her… It is tradition.”
She balled her hands into fists as she bit back a snappish retort. He was trying to charm her. His eyes were soft, along with his voice. He was trying to coax her out of her garments—literally.
“What if we broke with tradition just this once? After all, I am not Spartan—”
“Lamia.” She could tell he was reaching the end of his patience with her. Already they were late, and her continued resistance was only delaying them further, and she knew Spartans hated to be tardy.
“Given how liberated you are, I did not expect you to put up such a fight about a simple peplos.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are not clever, Thanos. I can see what you are trying to do, but insulting my character will not yield a favourable response from me.”
His brows lifted and he sauntered towards her. “I am merely pointing out that you fought me so bravely, and then battled a band of thieves, but now you are somehow cowed by a simple little garment. I thought you were stronger than that. After all, you are not afraid of anything.”
Lamia glowered at him as she gnashed her teeth together. His antics were transparent—just like this peplos, she decided—but, accomplished general that he was, he knew the right tactics to ensure a victory.
“You will pay for this, Thanos. I promise you,” she snapped, snatching the flimsy garment that was a poor impersonation of a peplos out of his hand, all the while ignoring the smug grin on his face.
* * * *
Lamia blew out a long breath as she walked down the corridor with Thanos.
As they neared the kapelia, she could feel the energy radiating from the room, raucous voices mixing with the festive music of the performers. She tightened her hand around Thanos’ palm, trying to ignore the nervous jitters that settled in the pit of her stomach. Up until that moment, she’d been mostly anxious about walking into the dining hall wearing the translucent peplos, but now, as she neared the kapelia, other nagging doubts began to creep in.
Thanos had explained to her the brief ceremony. He’d made it seem so simple—all she really had to do was stand there and recite a few words swearing her loyalty to Sparta, its people, and her king. Still, she couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. Thanos was used to this—he felt comfortable in a room full of the wealthy nobility. She, on the other hand, was out of sorts.
It seemed only yesterdawn she’d sat astride Thanos’ horse, looking down upon the city-state of Sparta. She’d been Lamia—the simple orphan from Carthage. And in less than a full dawn she’d become Thanos’ wife—the new Queen of Sparta. It was all a bit overwhelming, to say the least.
“If you squeeze any harder, I will not be able to use my hand for several dawns.”
She started at the sound of Thanos’ teasing voice against her ear and relaxed her grip, flashing him a sheepish smile.
“I am nervous.”
He grinned. “I never would have guessed.”
They stood just outside the kapelia, their bodies obscured from view by the archway. Thanos tugged her into his arms, holding her firmly to his chest.
“You will be fine, agapetos. And if you need reassurance, just look to me.”
He kissed her gently, the intimacy of the moment doing more to assuage her nerves than anything else had.
“Just remember, I am right here,” Thanos whispered when he lifted his head, softly stroking her cheek with his hand.
She nodded. Taking his hand once again, she allowed him to lead her into the kapelia.
As soon as they stepped into the dining hall, silence descended upon the room, the attention of every guest arrowing in their direction.
Beneath the dancing firelight, glimmers of appreciation flickered in the gazes of the men as they regarded the silhouette of her figure revealed beneath the translucent peplos. Gripping Thanos’ hand tighter, Lamia struggled against the urge to run.
Just as he’d told her to do, she looked to him for reassurance, but what she saw on his face did not reassure her at all.
Crimson splotches stained his cheeks, and his blue eyes were sharp as granite. When the circulation in her hand began to wane, she leaned into Thanos.
“You have to relax, Thanos. Now I cannot feel my hand.”
He didn’t look at her. Instead he glared at every man in the room, but the pressure in her hand eased.
The brief ceremony was mostly a blur, mainly because she could not get past the notion that Thanos was jealous. She would later recall that Cleomenes called her name, and she released Thanos’ hand to step forward and kneel before the older king. A golden, bejewelled crown was then placed atop her head as she recited her oath of loyalty, and when she stood, everyone in the kapelia were on their feet, clapping. In the distance, she heard Cleomenes proclaim her the new queen of Sparta, and Thanos grasped her hand once again.
Bu
t as she was led towards the dais by her husband, who was as rigid and stiff as a statue, her thoughts kept returning to the notion that Thanos was jealous because several men in attendance were treating her with appreciative stares.
It was surreal.
Men never gazed upon her with desire in their eyes—with fear or trepidation, maybe. Or even disgust. But never desire.
She glanced at Thanos as he settled her onto the couch, none too gently, she decided, given his preoccupation with glowering at a number of the male attendees. She snuffed a small grin, longing to tell Thanos his jealousy was unwarranted.
In all of her annos, he was the only man to touch that place inside her she’d thought long dead—the one capable of tender, intimate emotions, the place deep within that allowed her to care for another when everyone she’d ever cared for she’d lost. If Thanos knew just how deeply he affected her, he would have realised he had no reason to be jealous. Still, his possessiveness was endearing, and she certainly would not deny that she secretly revelled in the male attention, not after being told for so many annos that no man would ever want her.
Recalling all the cruelties whispered behind her back, Lamia wished those same people could see her now, for she would tell them they’d been wrong—the men of Sparta thought otherwise.
Lamia nearly jumped out of her seat with the sudden touch of Thanos’ hand against the small of her back.
“I am sorry.” Her smile was sheepish. “I guess I am still trying to get used to the attention.”
“It is because you are so radiant and beautiful,” Thanos whispered, biting back the mixture of lust and jealousy that seized him.
She was doing more than trying to get used to it—she was revelling in it—although, he could not fault her. Even if it was driving him mad, the attention was certainly warranted. There was no denying her obvious beauty as her shimmering copper skin glowed against the gauzy peplos that barely covered her ripe figure.
Several men in attendance could not tear their riveted gaze from the exotic queen, and Thanos did not know whether to beat his chest with pride or unsheathe his sword and strike them all down. Never before had he experienced such an overpowering sense of possessiveness towards a woman and he was astonished at how much of a struggle it was to rein in his primitive need to shield her. Now he wished he’d given in to Lamia’s demands and allowed her to wear something more substantial after all.