Unveiled for the Persian King

by Linda Skye

Myrine fought the urge to avert her eyes; though it was indeed fascinating, healing was perhaps the least among her priorities at the moment.

  “Yes,” she breathed, sliding her hands up his sinewy forearms.

  Darius cupped her thighs in his palms and slid her up the pillar so that her legs had to wind around his waist for balance. She braced herself by wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders, and he pressed in close, his lips soft against her neck.

  “How refreshing,” he murmured against her sensitive flesh. “A woman who is genuinely interested in the application of science.”

  “I am but a humble servant,” Myrine whispered at his ear. “One who wishes to please her king.”

  Darius slid his hands up her gauzy skirt, and she gently scraped the edge of her teeth down the ridge of his ear.

  “And how could I ignore such a woman,” he grunted as he began to grind against her, “when she has gone to such lengths to please her king?”

  His fingers trailed up her inner thighs, and she gasped as he found a particularly delicate spot. He began to tease her mercilessly as her breathing grew short and needy. She twisted in his grasp, her jaw falling slack with pleasure.

  Suddenly he pulled away, and Myrine nearly sank to the floor in disbelief. She looked up, almost wounded with unspent lust. Darius was an imposing shadow above her, his tawny eyes dark with desire.

  “Any more,” he said gruffly, “and the whole courtyard will hear you.”

  Myrine’s eyes widened. Had she been so lost in sensation?

  “Come,” Darius commanded, holding out a hand, “I would retire immediately to your quarters. I wish to revisit some of the...techniques you showed me last night.”

  Myrine eagerly took his hand and pulled herself up. He led her through the winding corridors, her arm tucked through his in an unusual display of affection.

  “So,” he said, his voice soft, “do you truly wish to learn about medicine?”

  “Truly,” she answered quietly.

  “If it pleases you,” he suggested, “I could allow you to assist my physicians and apothecaries. I would insist that you cover your body fully, of course, but you would learn to heal common injuries.”

  “You would allow me this freedom, my lord?” Myrine asked disbelievingly.

  Darius shrugged one shoulder.

  “It pleases me to do so,” he said simply.

  They walked the rest of the way to the harem in silence, he contemplating the pleasures to come and she marvelling over his proffered opportunity. Would a king really allow a concubine to learn alongside his learned men? Would he truly stand by this promise?

  For a moment Myrine allowed herself to daydream about what her life could be like if she were indeed a simple concubine in Darius’s court—and not trying to take his life.

  I could be happy, she admitted to herself. And perhaps...

  Myrine began to turn over several courses of action in her mind—ones that did not involve either her death or Darius’s death. She could not simply abandon her mission, for Scylas would certainly return to kill her or expose her to the king. But if she could just find a way to turn the king against Scylas, perhaps she could preempt such an attack.

  A simple seed of doubt...

  She could confide in Jamshid that Scylas had tried to convince her to kill the king—knowing full well that such news would instantly be carried to the king, thus incriminating Scylas and making her look the heroine. A devious plan began to take shape in her mind, and she allowed herself a tiny smile.

  Yes, she thought, it could be done.

  As they reached the entrance to the harem, Jamshid appeared silently, his brows rising incredulously.

  “Have this concubine’s rooms prepared for our arrival,” Darius commanded imperiously. “I wish for her to entertain me immediately.”

  Jamshid responded with a quick nod and ran ahead, while the couple strode into the harem’s main foyer. They were greeted with gasps of surprise and the wide-eyed stares of eunuchs and concubines, all wondering how the foreign concubine had managed to meet their king outside the sanctum of the inner palace—and how she had managed to catch his attention for the second day in a row.

  Darius and Myrine were about to head for her suite when Farida tumbled into the hall. Her hair was dishevelled, her face streaked with kohl and her clothes a mess.

  “My king,” she wailed despairingly, “I have bitter news!”

  Darius stopped, his lips turning down.

  “Speak, woman,” he commanded. “What news could possibly interest me now?”

  “I am a wretched woman,” Farida said, tearing at her clothes, “that I must be the bearer of such news, such horrible news!”

  “Of what?” Darius barked, growing more and more impatient. “Speak your piece and be done with it, woman!”

  “My king,” Farida announced with a high-pitched whine, “it is my sad duty to denounce one of your royal concubines as a deceiver and assassin—Myrine of Scythia!”

  Darius’s expression grew stormy, his honey eyes darkening with anger.

  “You dare to accuse my favoured consort?” he hissed, taking a menacing step toward the cowering woman.

  “My proof, my king!” Farida proclaimed, not quite hiding the smirk behind her tears as she lifted her hands.

  Myrine felt her heart stop beating in her chest. Her fingers went numb, and her blood turned to ice.

  For in her hands Farida held three golden hairpins.

  Chapter 5

  “And what proof could these hair ornaments possibly offer?” Darius scoffed, his tone threatening.

  “Good King Darius,” Farida confessed, her words dripping with false remorse, “I have been watching this foreign whore. She always wears these hairpins without fail. And last night, whilst she was entertaining you in her chambers, I watched her raise these pointed daggers against you!”

  Myrine’s knuckles went white as she dug her nails into her palms. Thankfully, the oversized silk robe hid both her clenched fists and her trembling knees. She struggled to contain her breathing, sure that her racing heartbeat could be heard by all.

  What awaited her now? Torture? Execution?

  “You watched?” Darius accused angrily, “You have greatly overstepped your bounds, woman.”

  “I saw nothing but the murderous gleam in her eye as she raised these to stab you, my king.” Farida backpedalled desperately. “If you would but examine them, I am certain you will find them to be weapons!”

  Darius imperiously held out a hand, and Farida carefully placed the three incriminating needles in his waiting palm. He took them impatiently, holding each one in turn up to the light. Myrine watched as he balanced them in his fingers, testing their weight and inspecting the flower tips. Then he slowly brought them up to his nose and sniffed at the sharp ends. Finally he clasped the three hairpins in one hand and glowered down at Farida.

  Myrine held her breath.

  Farida suppressed a grin.

  And then Darius sighed loudly.

  “You have committed a grievous error, Farida of the house of Otanes,” he announced gravely. “By plotting against a rival, you have instead condemned yourself.”

  “But my king,” Farida sputtered, blanching, “have I not saved you from this assassin?”

  Darius shook his head, his frown deepening.

  “Slander my favoured concubine no longer,” Darius threate
ned.

  “But—”

  The king held up the golden hairpins.

  “Your true nature and untruths have been found out,” he declared, tone severe, “for these hair ornaments are not weapons. Rather they were a gift to the concubine Myrine.”

  Myrine closed her eyes.

  Yes, she thought despairingly, a gift from Scylas.

  All Farida had to do was point out that Scylas wanted Darius dead—and the ruse would be over.

  But Darius had not yet finished talking.

  “Yes, a gift,” he was saying to a stunned Farida. “From me.”

  Farida gasped. Myrine reeled, her head suddenly swimming.

  “So you see,” Darius continued with a shake of his head, “these cannot possibly be the tools of an assassin—unless you suspect me of wanting to kill myself.”

  “My king,” Farida pleaded, pressing her forehead to the floor, “surely you know that I only wished for your safety and—”

  “It is too late,” Darius said, his tone sharp and implacable. “I no longer find you worthy as a concubine.”

  “My king—”

  “Take her away,” he snapped. “Return her to her father’s house.” He looked down to glare at the prostrate woman, who had begun to sob. “Be grateful,” he said softly. “I could have had you whipped and executed for this insult. But I am only sending you away.”

  As some of the eunuchs pulled Farida away, Darius looked over to Jamshid.

  “Jamshid,” he instructed curtly, “escort Myrine to my bathing pools. Do not let her out of your sight until I arrive.”

  “Yes, my king,” Jamshid replied with a bow.

  Myrine hardly noticed her surroundings as Jamshid brought her through the imposing halls of the inner palace; her head felt too light, and she had to blink her eyes repeatedly to keep from seeing white spots.

  What had just happened?

  She knew that Darius knew that he had not given her the hairpins. She knew that he knew he had just told a lie.

  But why?

  Questions swirled in her mind as she struggled to maintain some sort of calm—and to keep her legs from falling out from under her. It was a surprise, then, when she suddenly found herself standing in the bath houses, a thick fog of steam clouding her vision. She peered around nervously; the bathing hall was enormous and completely empty of servants. Several large rectangular pools at varying levels filled the hall, each connected by trickling waterfalls. Steam rose in billowing clouds, coating the walls and filling her throat.

  “You took longer than I expected” came a deep voice from the centre of the main pool.

  Myrine squinted through the layers of fog to see a regal figure standing waist deep in the water.

  “Come to me, my concubine,” he commanded, his voice full of dark promise.

  She crept closer to the pool, stopping when she reached the water’s edge.

  “Enter,” he prodded.

  Myrine swallowed nervously and let the robe slip from her shoulders before stepping into the warm pool. She waded slowly toward the waiting king, stopping when she stood before him. She bowed her head.

  “Tell me, Scythian,” Darius demanded, his words slow and deliberate, “what was your true purpose in coming to Persia?”

  “My king—”

  He stopped her by taking her chin between his fingers and lifting her face to catch her eyes with an intense glare.

  “Choose your words carefully, Scythian,” he warned, “for they may be your last.”

  “I was brought here by Scylas, king of Scythia,” Myrine answered softly, “to seduce the king of Persia.” She paused, her eyes slipping to the side. “And then to kill him.”

  “I thought as much,” he said, flicking her chin away.

  “My king,” Myrine asked, “if you knew the truth when Farida accused me, why didn’t you just—”

  “You are not permitted to ask me questions, Scythian,” Darius cut in shortly. “Only to answer them. So why did you not kill me when you had the chance? There were many times when you had ample opportunity to use your poisoned needles against me.”

  Myrine hesitated, pressing her lips together.

  “Because I could not,” she said quietly.

  “Foolishness!”

  “No!” Myrine protested weakly. “At first it was simply because of the heights of pleasure between us. But after...after today, I lost all desire to kill you. You are good to the common people—and to me! I wanted only to stay—”

  “Lies!” Darius accused. “What would a noblewoman know or care about the common people?”

  “I am more common than you think,” Myrine said vehemently. “And I have seen your kindness to your slaves and your soldiers. I have never known a king to visit dying men! Or to offer learning to a woman!”

  Darius narrowed his eyes, studying her carefully.

  “So are you in fact a princess of Scythia? Or was that also a lie?” he asked, his voice dry.

  “Yes, my king. It was a lie,” Myrine confessed, her voice dropping to no more than a whisper. “Scylas found me in a high-class brothel. I was in the process of being trained as an official’s bed slave when he selected me. No one but Scylas knows that I am not the daughter of one of his many concubines.”

  “And what did he promise you as reward?”

  “Gold,” she admitted. “And a ransom to buy my freedom from the brothel.”

  Darius glared down at her, the muscles in his square jaw working furiously.

  “How unselfish of you,” he bit out sarcastically, “to sacrifice your freedom for the sake of the common folk of Persia and their good king. Was that really the reason you spared me?”

  Myrine felt a choked sob rise in her chest.

  “No matter,” Darius said tiredly, pressing a hand to his forehead. “A life for a life. You have spared mine, and I will spare yours. You are to be sent away immediately. From then on, you are on your own.”

  “King Darius,” she began, only to be cut off again.

  “Do not speak,” Darius barked, “unless it is to explain the true reason that you did not kill me when you had the chance. I will hear nothing else from those lips.”

  Myrine’s face crumpled. She looked up, meeting his burning gaze. Hot tears welled in her bright blue eyes and then spilled over her cheeks, rolling down to drip down her chin.

  “I couldn’t kill you,” she said dejectedly, her sweet voice cracking, “because you made me feel things that I had never felt before. Your touch set my skin on fire, and you gave pleasure rather than only taking it.” She looked away helplessly. “And I dared to hope that you could offer me a new life, not just of luxury but of learning. I dared to hope that with you...I could be free.”

  She placed an open hand on his chest, and he felt the wild fluttering of her pulse through her palm. She was frightened and alone, and though she had originally been a tool to be used against him, he could not bring himself to hate her. Powerful men had always used beautiful women as weapons, and he was keenly aware that she had likely had no real choice at all in the matter. She had been nothing more than a pawn in another king’s game—a pawn that had dared to dream of escape.

  Myrine looked up again, her soulful blue eyes pleading for some sort of understanding.

  Still so beautiful...

  He was kissing her before he realized it, his arms winding tightly around her, completely engulfing her slight frame in tense muscles. A
nd she was kissing him back, her mouth working just as furiously as his. She gasped as he tried to pull her even closer. His hands were everywhere at once, and she was digging her nails into his back, desperately trying to find some purchase in the slick bath water. He cupped her face in his hands, and pulled away slightly to meet her fervent eyes.

  “My king,” she breathed brokenly, “if only I had not been born a Scythian, I would have served you well.”

  The admission was so simple, so honest, so true.

  “One last time,” he murmured huskily. “I will grant you ecstasy one last time before I send you away forever.”

  Darius groaned, catching the undersides of her thighs and lifting her so that she could twine her ankles around his waist. She began to roll her heat against him, her breath hitching in her throat.

  “Please,” she begged in a moan, peppering his temples with soft kisses.

  Darius obliged her, his fingers finding a place that had her wriggling wildly against him. She cried out passionately as he twisted his fingers within her. There was nothing but the stark and bitter truth between them now, and it made their lovemaking desperate. Cursed by circumstance, they poured raw emotion and desire into every aching touch, knowing that it was the last time they could take pleasure in each other.

  “Please, my king,” she said as she writhed against him, “make me yours.”

  “As you wish.”

  Darius walked them over to the edge of the pool, where the water was shallowest. He released her, letting her slide down the length of his body. Leaning her back against the pool wall, he showered her with fiery kisses, and she responded by hooking her leg around his hip. Circling her waist with his arm, he leaned in to capture her lips in a searing kiss.

  “Remember,” he grunted, “you asked for this.”

  He slowly nudged at her slick entrance with his hips, pushing into her at an achingly slow pace. He pulled away completely and repeated the slow dance until she begged for more, her fingers curling into tight fists of frustration. He spun her around then, so that she braced herself against the pool’s edge. Grabbing her hips, he plunged into her forcefully, his thrusts reaching a feverish, angry rhythm. Myrine writhed and twisted beneath him, her cries echoing off the marble walls. His palms slid up her abdomen to cup her bouncing breasts. Grasping them tightly, he pulled her up so that she arched back against him, her hair dangling damply between their bodies. Using his grip as leverage, he pounded against her with ever-increasing speed, her moans only spurring him on.