My Spartan Hellion (16 page)

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.

But 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
.

Hundreds of guests filled the dining hall, the din of low chatter filtering through the room. The official announcement had been made, and Lamia had been crowned the new queen of Sparta. Now everyone celebrated in her honour as they indulged themselves with goblets of wine and an assortment of only the finest dishes that Sparta had to offer.

His gaze darted about the room, and he nodded at Basha and his brother before turning his attention to Cleomenes, who he raised his goblet to. He gestured politely towards several members of the
gerousia
, although, he noted with a tight frown, they could barely meet his gaze because their attention kept wandering back to his wife.

His wife.
The words shuddered through him, warming him. In the past, the thought of taking a wife had always filled him with dread, but now…

He glanced over at Lamia. She was still a bit nervous, but the twinkle in her dusky eyes told him she was enjoying herself. He could not stem the smile inching across his face. Whenever he gazed upon her, touched her, made love to her, a contented peace settled over him. Dread was the last thing he felt when Lamia was near, when he held her tight within his arms.

Still gently caressing her back, Thanos leaned his head into the curve of her neck. He knew the moment she felt his kiss because she drew in a sharp breath. He licked her flesh, kissing in the same spot. She tasted of the sweetest honey, and he teased her, nibbling her skin from neck to her shoulder.

“Thanos,” Lamia whispered brokenly. Closing her eyes, she arched into him.

He groaned within the curve of her neck and shifted closer, snaking one hand down the length of her body to stroke the moist curls that covered her womanhood. A moan brushed against his ears, and dimly he wondered if the guests could hear her over the noise.

He did not care.

Lovemaking in plain view was not uncommon in Sparta. No one would be shocked or revolted by their display.

Trailing his fingers through the soft curls of her mound, he gently stroked the lips of her womanhood, but he did not push inside her.

“Thanos,” she begged, and he knew she ached for him to slide his finger into her heat and bring her to climax, but he held back, wanting to continue their intimacy in private.

It took every single measure of his will to pull away from her. Resting his brow against hers, it was several moments before either of them opened their eyes. And when they did they discovered that silence had descended upon the
kapelia
and that every guest had stopped to watch them.

“I think it is time for us to retire.”

He grinned, pleased by the envious gazes of Lamia’s admirers. After such a display, there would certainly be no doubt as to whom Lamia belonged to—not that there ever was before. Any who knew Thanos knew he guarded what was his very closely…and when it came to his wife, that statement was never truer.

Others might look, but that was all, because Thanos would never share.

* * * *

How they made it to their home with their garments still intact would always remain a mystery to Lamia. As soon as they stumbled into the courtyard, they carefully removed the ceremonial attire and set it aside, before once again falling into each other’s arms.

Their movements were frenzied as Thanos backed her against the archway leading into the inner courtyard.