by Linda Skye
“Step down from my dais,” he commanded sternly.
They bowed their heads and began to descend the steps backward. Darius turned sharply and strode back to sit again upon his marble throne. With a flick of his fingers, he gestured to his eunuch attendants.
“Draw the curtains,” he commanded imperiously.
Several rich, purple velvet curtains were quickly pulled shut around the top tier of the dais, completely cutting off the throne from the rest of the hall. Even the sounds of revelry were muffled by the thick drapes.
And so finally the conquering king and his living tribute were alone.
Darius leaned back, studying the woman who had not budged a millimetre since being commanded to rise. She stood perfectly still, presumably waiting.
“So, Scythian,” Darius asked, his tone hard, “do you speak our tongue?”
“Who does not speak the language of the Persians?” she replied without lifting her head. After a moment’s pause, she added, “My king.”
Darius smirked. So there was fire underneath her docile facade after all.
“You speak well enough to be insolent, then?”
“I speak well enough to be understood.”
His grin widened. Her voice was sweet and high, her foreign accent lending a unique melody to her words. But there was an edge to her dulcet tones that he had not been expecting.
Interesting. He changed tack.
“Then do you also understand well enough to know why you are here?”
She glanced up, and the look in her eyes was all he needed to confirm that she did in fact understand her position quite perfectly. Yet still he waited for her answer in the long silence that followed.
“I am a tribute,” she finally said softly. “Given to be used for your pleasure.”
“Indeed.” Darius paused, leaning back. “And does your new position please you, princess of Scythia?”
She arched a delicate brow, cocking her head to one side.
“I am no longer a princess, as you have said,” she replied calmly, “And I am not here for my own pleasure but for yours...my king.”
“So,” Darius said, his tone deceptively light, “do you know why I have had the curtains drawn?”
Myrine struggled to quell the tremble in her thighs, keenly aware of his heavy stare. Out of habit, she dropped her eyes.
“I would not presume to know the mind of a king,” she answered quietly.
“Oh come now,” Darius chided playfully, “this pretence does not suit you.” His tone darkened. “And I am not one for games.”
Myrine heard the warning in his voice and raised her eyes to his.
“Apologies, my king,” she said loftily. “I am not accustomed to men who care to hear the thoughts of their women.”
“There are many things you will not be accustomed to in my kingdom,” Darius said pointedly. “But you have not yet answered my question.”
“You plan to examine my flesh to prove my worth as your bed slave,” Myrine said, her voice deliberately flippant.
Darius tutted and shook his head.
“Why so callous, my darling?” He said with a light frown, “You have misunderstood my purpose. The curtains were drawn to protect your modesty as my property. But yes, I would see what my battles have purchased.” He lifted a hand and beckoned her closer. “So by all means, please show me what you have to offer.”
Myrine considered this king. He was cunning—of that she was certain. And though she had heard of his ruthless savagery in battle and of his iron fist in dealing with his enemies, he did not seem to rule his people or his conquered vassals with a heavy hand. He had dealt fairly and calmly with both her king and his vizier—demonstrating a level head and exceptional self-control. She had not even expected him to speak with her before indulging in her flesh, much less engage her in a bout of verbal sparring. His courteous manner left her confused, forcing her to change her strategy in approaching him. He seemed driven by his kingdom, rather than drunk on power.
Darius the Great, indeed.
Myrine inhaled, her mind racing to formulate a plan. After all, she too had a duty to complete—and all her training had prepared her for this moment. Rolling her head back to stretch out her neck, she began. She daringly stepped forward until her legs were almost between his knees. Then, as she raised her arms, she twisted her hands in intricate patterns and bent forward and back, shaking her shoulders so that her breasts shook alluringly. With her arms still upraised, she held her upper body stiff and began to move her hips in sensual circles—at first slowly and then in tight, quick motions. Turning, she presented him with a view of her elegant spine.
Despite his impeccable self-control, Darius felt himself harden almost immediately at the sight. This dance was completely different from the last. While the latter had been slowly seductive, this was plainly provocative. She began to twist in place, lowering her gyrating hips until she barely touched his clenching thighs—only to rise again in an enthralling parody of lovemaking. She was so close that he could smell her sweet scent and feel her silky tresses brush against his bare chest. The proximity was both enticing and infuriating.
Of their own volition, his fingertips came to rest on her hips, and he trailed his blunt nails down her legs. She spun around and took his hands in hers, pressing his open palms on the backs of her thighs. She guided his hands up her body, moulding them to her curves as she continued to dance before him. With a grunt, he pulled her down so that she straddled his hips. Without missing a beat, Myrine began to roll her torso against his while rocking her warmth against his stiffened member.
“You seem far too experienced in this,” Darius commented gruffly, tangling his fingers in her long hair.
“Scythian women are not like Persian women,” she whispered, catching the ridge of his ear in her teeth.
Her hands left his so that she could lean backward, bracing her hands on his knees. He cupped her bottom to draw her even closer, and she arched back and presented him with a splendid view of her full chest. His lips dropped to the edge of her bustier, and he began to plant hot, openmouthed kisses on the mounds of her breasts. Myrine sank the fingers of one hand into his thick, dark hair and drew him in, encouraging his caresses with every undulation and stoking his passion with soft, mewling cries.
Darius felt the fire in his groin spread through every vein in every limb. He itched to tear away what remained of her gossamer clothing, to press her into the cold marble of his throne, to wrap her strange golden hair around his fingers and ravish her until they were both spent and sated. Intoxicated by her exotic allure—the smooth pallor of her limbs, the light blue in her eyes, the silken gold of her hair—and by her wanton expressions of desire, Darius revelled in the taste and touch of her skin. It was so hot, and there was only one solution.
He wanted release—and he wanted it now.
Acknowledging the thought made him pause, his hands stilling. Even if she had not meant to trap him, he had been completely caught up in his desire for her—and that simply would not do.
Darius stood suddenly. His eyes cold and distant once again, he carefully pulled her away from his body. Ignoring the surprise in her eyes, he stepped away stiffly toward the edge of the platform.
“Curtains!” he barked roughly.
The velvet drapes were pulled back sharply, revealing the dishevelled forms of the king and his newest acquisition. The crowd roared with delight—it was exactly what they needed to see
.
“This Scythian woman is acceptable,” Darius announced loudly. “I hereby take her as a concubine.” He turned to address a waiting servant. “Jamshid,” he commanded, “take her to the harem.”
He turned away as Jamshid took Myrine by the elbow, gently guiding her down the dais steps. Still somewhat shocked at her abrupt dismissal, she allowed herself to be led away, pausing only when Scylas stood to touch her arm.
“You have done well, daughter,” Scylas said, his eyes sharp. “Now make me proud.”
With that he released her—but not before pressing something cold into her palm. Myrine resisted the urge to look down until Jamshid had gently pushed her through the jeering crowd and into the marble corridor. Then she allowed herself a discreet look at what Scylas had given her in parting.
Three long, golden hairpins.
They were beautiful and of exquisite craftsmanship. The ends were shaped into beautiful flower buds, from which dangled thin, delicate chains of sparkling rubies. They would look stunning in her hair, but these hairpins were not meant just to complement her beauty—for the sharp ends of the golden hairpins were dipped in poison.
These were the tools of an assassin.
Chapter 2
Myrine was confused.
She had been living in the palace harem for nearly a month, but the king had not visited even once—not for her or any other girl, of which there were many. She thought it very strange that the king had not indulged in his private collection of women, as most men with power seemed wont to do. She also thought his prolonged absence made the women even more hostile.
It was obvious that many of the concubines were catty and manipulative, the equals of any brothel whore in cruelty to one another. Most were Persian women, daughters of lesser nobles or priests vying for influence, no doubt. A few were foreign women like her, and these poor souls were more often than not the victims of bullying and pranks.
The eunuchs tried to keep them from tormenting each other, but really—who could ever hope to outwit a scheming woman?
The highest-ranking concubine had tried to press Myrine into a corner, flaunting her superior status and trying to rip her jewellery away, but Myrine had simply slapped her full in the face. Farida had wailed and cursed while nearly rolling like a child on the floor, but thankfully Jamshid had taken Myrine’s side, having seen what had transpired. And so Myrine had established herself as nearly invincible—a foreign woman of unique beauty who could speak up for herself in Persian and was not afraid to hit back. It helped that Jamshid, who was himself a foreign eunuch from Ethiopia, had taken a special liking to her, and he lavished on her the most fragrant oils, the most beautiful clothes and the very best makeup.
But still, it had been a lonely few weeks, and she had managed to glean only a few garbled bits of information from the foreign concubines.
The king almost never visited the harem.
Some of the concubines had never even felt his touch.
A few of them had seen him only once—and that from a distance.
And so life in the palace harem seemed a decadent but dull experience. Myrine sighed as she lounged against silk pillows, trailing the tips of her fingers in one of the indoor ponds. The eunuchs had arranged a sort of garden tea party for the concubines—which really meant that the Persian noblewomen monopolized the sweet cakes, leaving the foreigners and peasants to skulk about the edges of the garden aimlessly.
Not that Myrine was concerned with such trivialities.
A palace to live in, beautiful clothes to wear and delicious food to eat—what more could she have asked for in life? Myrine sighed again, her fingers unconsciously reaching up to touch the three poisoned needles resting in her hair. It was all for naught if she could not accomplish what she had been sent to do—and she could not do anything unless she could be alone with the king.
The sounding of loud gongs interrupted her reverie, and Myrine looked up to see all the eunuchs stand to attention and all the concubines scramble into prostrate positions on the luxurious carpets. Though this had never happened before, she could guess what event the cymbals announced.
The king was on his way.
She, too, quickly slid away from her pillows, sank to her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor. It was not a moment too soon, for just then the king strode into the main hall of the harem, accompanied by two servants carrying feathered fans. He stopped when he reached an ornately carved bench at the apex of the hall. Sitting, he waved away his attendants.
“I feel it has been too long since my last visit,” King Darius announced. “Rise and entertain me, for I would enjoy your company.”
The women rose as one, each quickly adopting her own strategy to catch and keep the king’s attention. As expected, Farida quickly claimed a spot at Darius’s feet, gently sweeping his calves with her long dark curls. Others began to twirl around him, fluttering like eager butterflies. Some even adopted impossibly contorted positions on the floor in front of him, flaunting their flexibility as a merchant flaunts his wares on the streets.
But Myrine immediately saw what the others refused to acknowledge—that their king was bored. Though his eyes steadily wandered the room, his gaze was distant and his facial expression cool. She knew the look; it was the look of a man who had other, more pressing things to do.
Really, she thought to herself, is he so committed to his empire that he would even forgo a moment’s carnal pleasure with willing women?
Well, she knew of one sure way to make herself stand out when there were many women fawning over one distracted man—and that was to feign indifference.
Myrine slowly began to pace around the edge of the room, a slight sway to her hips and catlike grace in her steps. She let her arms dangle casually as she walked, and made it a point to look everywhere but at the king. Her red scarves rippled as she walked, and from the corner of her eye she saw that the scarlet colour had caught the king’s attention. Without changing her pace or looking back, she continued to sashay away until she reached the opposite end of the hall. She knew without turning that his eyes followed her. Smiling to herself, she began to dance. She swayed slowly, as if in time to music that no one else could hear. And when she turned, she kept her eyes closed, as if she were lost in her own world. She began to smooth her palms up and down her body, mimicking the movements of a lover. Parting her lips, she moistened them with the tip of her tongue as if she were about to find release on her own. She cupped her breasts and threw her head back, her hips twisting in jerking circles.
King Darius sat and stared, transfixed at the spectacle of a woman enjoying herself while completely oblivious to his presence. Just moments ago he had been counting the minutes, wondering how much longer he would have to stay in the harem until he could return to reading treaties, approving building plans and inspecting his troops. His advisers grew anxious if he did not visit the harem at least once a month, and while the concubines were not unpleasant, there were just so many other things he needed to do.
But all thoughts of kingly duties fled his mind the moment he saw his newest concubine begin to dance. His eyes had trailed her as she walked the perimeter of the room—a soldier’s habit, perhaps—and he had not been able to tear his gaze away since.
How he wished that
he could be her hands, sliding up that smooth flesh! How he yearned to have those perfectly plump, moist lips part for his tongue!
His thoughts ground to a sudden halt.
Why should he restrict himself to imagining? He was king, and she was his.
Darius stood suddenly, ignoring how the other concubines fell away in surprise. He stalked across the room with quick strides. The golden-haired woman, whose eyes were still closed, had the audacity to turn and face the other way just as he reached her, so he planted his hands on her hips and pulled her back into him.
“You are Myrine of Scythia, as I recall,” he whispered huskily in her ear.
“My king,” she responded, lazily opening her eyes but not turning.
She continued to sway from side to side, and Darius moved with her, hooking one arm around her waist to anchor her to him. She raised her arms above her head and arched backward so that she was pressed to his chest. She shimmied suddenly, her bottom grinding into his groin, and he barely suppressed a groan.
“Your talents never cease to amaze me,” he said, his lips dropping to her neck.
Myrine twisted in his arms and hooked one knee over his hip. Gripping his shoulders, she began to rub up and down his body just so.
“And I have many more talents that would please you, my king,” she breathed seductively, her breath warming his cheek.
“A tempting proposition,” he muttered as he moulded his palms to the undersides of her thighs, pulling her heat closer to his.
Myrine smirked to herself. One more trick, she told herself, one more trick and I will finally have him alone.
“I am here for your pleasure alone, my king,” she said, suddenly pulling away.
She stepped back and dropped into a bow with a flourish.
Darius felt as if his world had been wrenched away with the loss of her touch. He felt an aching, desperate need—hot and angry—crawl across his skin. The sensation was so intense it was almost painful. Business be damned; he would allow himself this one indulgence.