Unveiled for the Persian King

by Linda Skye

  “Myrine of Scythia,” Darius commanded hoarsely. “You will visit my bed tonight.”

  “Tonight, my king?” Myrine stepped forward and lightly trailed her fingernails down his bare chest. “I am ready now.”

  Darius raised an eyebrow at her boldness, which had caused the other concubines to gasp in shock. He reached out to cup her cheek and then pulled her close so that his mouth was at her ear.

  “Now, my dear?” he repeated, his voice a low warning.

  “Yes, my king,” she answered, sliding her palms over the sharp ridges of his abdomen.

  “Here?”

  “Anywhere you wish, my king.”

  Darius chuckled darkly. He wove his fingers through her hair and gently pulled her head back so that he could meet her sultry gaze. She was ripe with desire and he was ravenous with need—why not enjoy the fire while it was still burning?

  “Very well,” he said with a lusty grin.

  He stepped away, spinning around on one heel to march briskly away.

  “Follow me to my chambers, royal concubine Myrine,” he barked.

  Myrine inclined her head and, resisting the urge to smile at her first step to victory, followed a step behind. She trailed after him as he strode through the high-arched corridors of the inner palace and watched the way his shoulder muscles moved as he walked. She smirked at his stiff gait and bunching muscles; this was a man unaccustomed to letting his baser instincts reign. She could tell that he was sharply focused on ruling, dismissing simple pleasures in favour of the needs of his people. She knew the type well—once released from his self-imposed bonds, he would be furious in his lovemaking. She could easily coax him to the edge of a raging passion, bring him to a startling completion and then...then she would complete her mission while he was distracted in the throes of ecstasy, slip away and claim her reward from King Scylas.

  It was all coming together now.

  As King Darius brushed through a magnificent archway, a pair of guards hurried to pull open two gigantic doors, revealing an impressive suite of bedchambers. The walls were covered in skilful etchings and swathes of royal silk. Beautifully carved columns surrounded a luxurious bed covered in fine silks and plush pillows. Darius paused to mutter instructions to his guards as he waved Myrine forward. She stepped into the room, marvelling at its grandeur.

  The sound of the doors shutting startled her into turning to face the emperor.

  “And how do you like my bedchambers, Myrine?” Darius asked as he casually made his way to a table upon which sat a flask of fine wine.

  “It is fit for any king of men or gods,” she answered, smiling sweetly.

  Darius barked a dry laugh as he sipped from his chalice of wine.

  “Flattery does not suit those lips,” he tutted playfully. “You are much more interesting than that, I imagine.”

  “You are mistaken, my king,” Myrine challenged coquettishly. “I am but a simple girl.”

  Darius set his chalice down and leaned back against one of the pillars, folding his arms over his chest.

  “Lies do not suit your lips either, my dear.”

  Myrine grinned. Holding his fiery gaze, she turned and climbed onto his bed, slowly crawling to its centre on her hands and knees and giving him a tantalizing view of her bottom. Then, looking over one shoulder, she rose onto her knees and began to unclasp the hooks of her bustier.

  “And what would suit my lips, my king?” she asked breathlessly as she tossed the garment to the floor.

  Darius’s mouth went dry. She was presenting him only with a view of her slender back, but he could just make out the shadow of the side of her breast. She folded her arms over her chest and turned, easing herself into lounging on the pillows.

  “I can think of many things that I would love to have upon your lips,” he replied, suddenly hoarse. “And none of them are words.”

  Myrine laughed, and it was like the sweet ringing of silver bells. She sat up and pulled her arms away from her chest, letting her pert breasts sway as they fell from her grasp.

  “Come, my king,” Myrine invited coyly, “let me show you how skilful my lips can be.”

  Darius did not need to be further encouraged. In a few long strides, he had crossed the room and was clambering onto the bed. Myrine rose to greet him, her palms sliding under his silk vest. She gently pushed the jacket from his shoulders and trailed nibbling kisses from his jaw and down his neck to the veins bulging in his shoulder. Darius let out a soft groan, his hands fisting in her hair. Myrine’s soft lips dipped lower, her tongue outlining the relief of his muscled torso. He gasped as her teeth caught the edge of his nipple as she continued her downward exploration. When she exhaled her cool breath over his moistened skin, he could hold back no longer.

  Shrugging out of his vest, he pushed her down onto the mattress by her shoulders. Then for the barest of moments he paused, staring down at her with eyes gleaming with desire. She had been startled by the sudden change in positions, and her lips were slightly parted in surprise. Her golden hair fanned out around her delicate face like a halo of sunshine, accenting her ivory skin.

  “Your lips are divine,” Darius breathed.

  And then his lips descended upon hers, his tongue sweeping demandingly into her mouth. He palmed one of her breasts, circling its nub with his rough thumb, and she arched into his touch. As he settled between her parted legs, she began to twist her hips in a circular motion. The delicious friction sent his senses into a frenzy; so much so that he hardly noticed when she managed to flip their positions so that she straddled him as he lay on his back. He watched with hungry eyes as she rocked above him, the erect peaks of her bosom swaying in time to her thrusts. He dug his fingers into her hip and hooked his nails into her waistband, intent on ripping away the sheer layers of gauze that still separated them. His other hand reached up to cradle the nape of her neck, drawing her down for another searing kiss.

  The time is ripe.

  Through a haze of pleasure, Myrine admitted to herself that a better chance might never present itself. Here, in the privacy of his bedchambers, she could plunge one of her poisoned hairpins into his arm, slide away and slip out the open window, disappearing from Persia forever with Scylas’s help.

  But she groaned as the thick ridge of his shaft prodded the aching nub of her sex, sending flurries of tingling sensations up her spine.

  It really would be a shame.

  He was a good king. A powerful ruler. An able lover. And quite possibly the best man she had ever met.

  But it’s now or never.

  Slightly chagrined, Myrine knew she had no choice—for her life was on the line, as well.

  She brought her arms up and pretended to run her fingers through her own hair as if in blind passion. Then, as she continued to rock against him, she slowly began to pull one of her needles from her hair.

  A few more seconds...

  “Great King Darius!” a panicked voice called from without.

  Myrine froze in her actions as Darius gripped her hips and flipped her onto her back, still madly grinding against her.

  “What?” He bit out the words harshly. “Do you dare to interrupt? Do you want to die?”

  “But my king,” the voice continued hastily, “you instructed us to inform you the minute the scouts returned.”

  Darius stilled above her, his breath coming in short pants.

  “And have the
y?”

  “Yes, my king,” the messenger replied in a rush of hurried words from beyond the closed doors. “And they have brought back their wounded, just as you commanded.”

  Darius rose onto his knees, his eyes still dark with hooded passion. His hands left Myrine’s sweat-slick skin to clench furiously at his sides.

  “And who received them?”

  “I did, my king.”

  It was the voice of the vizier, Araxes.

  “And tell me, Araxes,” Darius commanded, his eyes still not leaving Myrine’s prone form. “In what condition were they?”

  “If I may enter, my king,” Araxes suggested mildly, “I could give you a full account.”

  Darius sighed deeply and willed his lust to cool. He leaned down to press an almost chaste kiss to her forehead.

  “I am not done with you yet, my concubine,” he grunted in a frustrated tone.

  Sliding away from Myrine and off the bed, he grabbed her discarded clothes and tossed them in her direction.

  “Put those on,” he told her. He waited while Myrine hastily pulled on her clothes, then turned to the doors and commanded brusquely, “Enter, Vizier Araxes, and give me a full report.”

  Myrine had just finished doing up the hooks on her bustier when the doors swung open and Araxes marched in, with a red-faced attendant in tow.

  “Greatest apologies, my king,” Araxes said, his eyes sliding briefly to Myrine, “for interrupting you at this most inopportune time.”

  “Get on with it, old man,” Darius said with a wave of his hand.

  “The northern scouts have returned, and they have brought with them nearly a dozen wounded or dying men.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “At the gates of the lower palace.”

  “Have them brought to the infirmary I had constructed last month,” Darius commanded curtly as he pulled on his vest once more. “I will come to supervise their treatment myself.”

  “Shall I call for the priests, my king?”

  “The priests?” Darius paused to regard his chief incredulously. “Why? So they can pray for them?” He shook his head. “No, send your boy to call for the apothecaries and doctors.”

  “Blasphemy, my great lord and king,” Araxes breathed, shaking his head gravely. “For how long will you continue on this path?”

  “Until we understand how to heal our men rather than wait and watch them die whilst we babble prayers,” Darius said sternly. “Now do as I command, old man.”

  With a sigh, Araxes sent his messenger boy off with a wave of his fingers. He turned back to face his king, his face now a mask of determination.

  “I shall go to oversee their progress,” Darius said as he strode away. “Send my concubine back to the harem.” He paused to shoot Myrine a lewd grin. “But you will come to me tonight, my dear,” he continued with a smirk, “and we will finish what we started.”

  Myrine nodded, struck mute. With that, the king marched away, his steps clipped with purpose, and Myrine was left alone with Araxes.

  “Oh, may the gods have mercy on us,” Araxes said fondly, his crackling voice exasperated. “What our young emperor will not do for the sake of his people.” He turned beady eyes on her. “Come now,” he said sharply. “I shall escort you back to the harem.”

  Myrine stood and obediently trailed after the vizier. She was puzzled, for she had never heard of a king who visited dying foot soldiers—much less a king who was interested in healing them. She was curious to see if she could wheedle a small morsel of information from the old man.

  “My lord grand vizier,” she ventured in a tiny voice, “what are the apothe...?”

  She pretended to forget the word, and the vizier exhaled condescendingly.

  “Apothecaries, my child,” he corrected. “Our king has created a body of apothecaries and doctors.”

  “Why?” she asked innocently.

  “He has dreamed of finding ways to cure illness, to fend off poison, to heal injuries.” Araxes clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “They practice—what does he call it? Medicine. He rejects the prayers of the priests and even thinks to share this so-called medicine with the common people!”

  Araxes stopped, remembering himself. He turned to wag a warning finger in Myrine’s face.

  “I have said too much,” he said angrily. “And you have heard too much. Remember this well, Scythian,” he warned menacingly. “You are no longer a princess—and even if you were, your life would not be spared if you let one word of what was said pass those pretty lips!”

  Huffing, Araxes turned and marched away. Myrine followed at a more sedate pace.

  No, she thought darkly, I am no princess.

  Only Scylas knew her true heritage, and he would never tell. And, unfortunately for Myrine, only Scylas could free her from her bonds. It was a shame, she thought gloomily, for King Darius seemed a much greater king than Scylas had ever been.

  Her heart heavy, Myrine began to wonder—had she chosen the wrong king?

  Chapter 3

  Darius was not pleased. He sat atop his throne, barely able to hide his simmering anger beneath a cold mask of indifference. His advisers had insisted on this banquet against his wishes, and he had been coerced into entertaining his high-profile guests. A few noble officials reclined on cushions in a large semicircle at the base of the dais, surrounded by plates of dried fruit and steaming delicacies. The most beautiful women of his harem had been summoned to dance for his guests—a show of good faith and generosity.

  And why?

  It was all to impress Atossa, the very marriageable daughter of Cyrus, a man with considerable wealth and military clout. Darius gritted his teeth. A political marriage was the very last thing he needed, especially given that Atossa was infamous for using her noble influence to promote her own kin and garner favours. She was a manipulator through and through, and he could not afford to have her in his court—much less as his wife!

  As she served wine to the imperial guests, Myrine chanced a glance up to the royal dais. King Darius’s mouth was set in a thin, grim line—despite being seated beside Atossa, a most beautiful woman indeed. She studied the woman covertly. Atossa was the epitome of Persian beauty, with luxurious black curls, large almond-shaped eyes and a thin, delicate nose. When she smiled, her scarlet lips parted to reveal a blinding flash of white teeth. Surely the king could ask for no more in a bride?

  But still, he was plainly unhappy with the situation.

  Atossa leaned over to whisper something in Darius’s ear, her hand lightly resting on his forearm, and Myrine felt a sharp pang in her chest. What was it? She did not have time to ponder the feeling as the drunken guest she was serving grabbed her upper arm.

  Jamshid quickly intervened.

  “You may look, but you are not to touch the concubines,” he said, pulling Myrine away. “They belong to his majesty alone.”

  The man guffawed and clapped his hands.

  “Dance,” Jamshid muttered under his breath, “so that he is distracted.”

  Myrine quickly set down her tray and rose. She took a few paces back and began to dance. It was slow at first; she rose to her tiptoes and twisted around with an elegant arch to her back. She stretched upward, her hands spread to the ceiling as she lifted one leg in front of her in a perfectly straight line. Someone gasped as she let her head dip back, low to the floor, executing a move that seemed to defy gravity. Her fingertips touched the floor and she fl
ipped backward into a handstand before spinning and landing on the floor in a perfect split. With a quick jerk she was back to her feet and performing another round of acrobatics.

  All mouths in the banquet hall had stilled, and all eyes were on the dancing concubine. Darius glanced at Atossa from the corner of his eye; she, too, was transfixed with Myrine’s amazing display. He had to admit that he was grudgingly pleased by the effect of her dancing; this was a performance meant to amaze and astound, not to arouse and titillate.

  “A foreigner?” Atossa whispered, her eyes not leaving Myrine’s form.

  Despite himself, Darius bristled at her disdainful tone.

  “A new addition to my harem,” he pronounced after a moment. “A former princess.”

  “You have quite the collection of women,” Atossa said coldly. “Is there no end to your wealth?”

  Darius sensed a potential opportunity to rebuff Atossa’s advances.

  “I plan to spend the evening in the harem,” he commented, casually lifting a hand to inspect his nails. “Perhaps you would like a tour of the inner palace, as I wish to retire shortly.”

  “Of course, my king.”

  Darius rose and lifted a hand to stop the celebration.

  “Royal concubines,” he announced, “the lady Atossa and I will have a short walk around the inner palace. Then I plan to spend the evening with one of you tonight, so make ready at once.”

  A wave of feminine giggles erupted as the concubines hurriedly pulled away from whoever they were serving. They filed as one out the banquet-hall doors, and Myrine let herself get caught up in the stream. As soon as they entered the harem, the eunuchs set about their work. The concubines clamoured for attention; makeup, clothing, bedspreads in their private quarters-everything seemed an emergency.

  “Come, Myrine,” Jamshid urged her, quietly pulling her aside. “I have prepared fine oils and paints for your use.”