Page 87 of Firebird
If I could’ve killed him right then for bringing her to the emperor’s attention, I would have. But I remained stone-still, even while I scowled at the bastard.
“Ah, I see,” said Igniculus. “Your pretty new plaything, Julian.”
“I think it would be appropriate for a conquered slave who once served our enemy to serve me her own blood.” Ciprian’s smile skated chills over my flesh. He turned his attention to Malina winding her way toward the kitchen with the wine decanter. “Besides, look at her. She’s a feast for the eyes, is she not?”
“You have no problem with that, do you, Julian?” My uncle’s question was not a question.
Through gritted teeth, I replied, “Of course not.”
“Good.” Ciprian clapped me on the back like we were friends. “I’ll see you on the terrace. I must prepare.”
My other guests were filing outside onto my wide terrace, which opened down toward the city. But I couldn’t remove my gaze from Malina and what I was about to ask her to do.
“I can understand, my son,” my uncle said in that familiar, intimate way when he had advice for me. “I had an obsession over one of my own slaves once, a long time ago. Best cunt I ever fucked.”
His crassness grated while I pretended it didn’t.
“What happened to her?” I asked, watching Malina disappear down the corridor.
“I had to kill her, of course.” He sighed like it had been a reluctant duty that pained him only a little. “She disobeyed me.” Then he turned to face me, his expression sharp and grave. “They can lead you astray with that pussy of theirs. It would be best you get rid of her soon.” He leaned closer and told me in that authoritative tone, “Ride her hard for another week, then sell her. Don’t keep that one.”
It was a command.
Swallowing the bile that tried to rise up my throat, I simply nodded. “Of course, uncle. Good advice.”
“Trust me. You can’t keep a crafty whore in your house.”
“You’re right,” I agreed yet again, forcing my expression to remain passive while I was dying inside. “I’ll go instruct her for what she must do.”
I parted from him and marched toward the kitchen, while dread twisted a knife in my belly. I now had a week to implement our plan. Because my uncle wasn’t making suggestions. He now thought me bewitched by a slave girl, and he wouldn’t have that. Not his prized nephew.
Of course, Iwasbewitched—body and soul. Happily, blissfully entranced by my mate.
I found her refilling the decanter beside Kara, who was plating more food for the feast to follow.
“Malina,” I called to her.
Nausea swelled as she came to me.
“What’s wrong?” she immediately asked.
“There’s something I need you to do.”
Tugging her to a corner away from the servants bustling through the kitchen, I explained the ceremony that was about to take place in my home and that Ciprian had requested she be hissanguis auctor,which was his right.
I waited for her to refuse, or at the very least, to show her disgust. But she did neither. She placed her hand on my arm, her touch a gentle warmth, then said, “Of course, Julian. Whatever needs to be done, I’ll do it.”
Then I felt that tiny hum of serenity pouring into me, an intoxicating tranquility. She was using her gift to keep me calm. She’d done it more and more of late.
“Thank you,” I told her, glancing around to be sure the hired servants didn’t hear me.
They’d certainly spread rumors if Julianus was thanking his slaves, something the emperor and most Romans disapproved of.
She leaned closer and whispered, “Whatever it takes to get through this night.”
Her green eyes glittered by the lamplight. She didn’t say more, but I knew exactly what she was thinking. We had to keep the farce going long enough to get through the night, to make sure everyone—most importantly my uncle—believed I was one ofthem.
I was not. I was woven from another cloth. The ghosts of my mother and father haunted me in my dreams. More than once, I’d woken drenched in sweat, the soft cries of my mother echoing from a nightmare, her shame of what had become of her son a constant, stabbing grief in my heart.
