Page 63 of Axios
Howhisskin smelled, the softness of his lips, and the way he held me close as if fearful of my leaving. When he’d thrust himself into me, he’d bite his bottom lip and close his eyes, leaning his head back to expose his neck. And when his body shuddered into mine, he’d gasp my name and bury his face into my shoulder. No one could ever replace him. No one.
In that moment, it did not matter that I was angry with him. I needed to hear his voice and see his smile. I needed him beside me to feel whole again.
“I cannot,” I told the king, shaking my head and slightly pulling from his hold. “For I belong to another.”
Sadness momentarily shone in his eyes and he placed a bigger gap between us, staring down at his hands. “I suppose I should have known a man such as you would be taken.” He looked upon me once more. “How could you not be?”
Guilt burrowed itself in my chest.
“I apologize for not telling you sooner,” I said, feeling the numbing effects of the wine fading away as regret took over. “Perhaps it was selfish of me, but I was enjoying your company too much.”
He nodded as another sad smile passed over his handsome face. “He must be quite the man for you to refuse the advances of a king.”
There was no anger in his words or in his tone of voice—only disappointment. If my heart had not belonged to another, perhaps we could have been happy together, or as happy as a man could be in Sparta.
As I met his brown-eyed gaze, I was certain he was envisioning the same.
“I should leave,” I announced, standing from the cushion. “The men will be expecting me back in the barracks.”
“Of course,” Agesipolis said and stood as well.
We faced each other, both of our stances awkward and unsure. Where talk had come so easily once, it was difficult then, and I struggled for words.
Saying goodbye to him felt greater than a mere sentiment of temporary farewell. Once we parted ways that night, I doubted we would cross paths again. And if we happened to, then I suspected we’d give the other nothing more than a nod of the head and go about our business. It would be too painful for him and too remorseful for me.
One wonderful evening we’d shared of companionship, food, and laughter, but that would be all we’d ever share. We both knew it.
Taking my hands in his, he said, “Thank you for this day. It has truly been…” He searched my face, his brown eyes sorrowful yet also containing a small glimmer of his joy from earlier. “Unexpected and one I shall not forget. Today, I was not a king with the weight of the city on his shoulders. Worries of war and politics could not touch me, and I was able to breathe—truly breathe—for the first time in a long while.”
My stomach fluttered again with warmth.
I’d forever remember the day as well, but perhaps for different reasons. He’d given me attention when I’d felt myself slipping away, when it had seemed as if the world had been swallowing me whole. My time with him had also shown me that just because a man went to war did not mean he had to let go of who he was.
He’d given me hope.
“Today, I was only a man,” he said, bringing my hands up to his face and placing a kiss upon my knuckles. “And it is because of you.”
I said goodbye then and headed for the door, but before I exited his home, I turned to look at him. His stare was on my own, and he offered me a parting smile, which I returned.
The moment where our gazes locked seemed to last ages, both of us frozen in an instant of wondering and what ifs. And then it passed, the connection breaking as I turned my back to him and walked out into the night.
The king and the soldier—the life that could’ve been but wasn’t meant to be.
Chapter Sixteen
The journey to the barracks was peaceful. With the fading of the light and the reigning of darkness, the city fell into a quiet slumber. The stars above appeared larger and more magnificent, and I caught myself casting stares at the sky on the walk home.
Were the stars truly gods as some men liked to believe? Or perhaps, they were fallen warriors who earned their place in the sky for their heroic sacrifice.
I passed through the army’s quarters, slipping past open doorways where faint light pierced through the dark and men’s low voices softly murmured. Catching pieces of their conversation, my curious nature got the better of me and I stopped, standing beside the partly open door and hiding myself in shadow.
“Antalcides was just appointed as commander of the fleet, and the Athenians thought to intercept the ships carrying him to his new post,” a deep voice growled before breaking off with a somewhat sadistic laugh. “The scum surrendered and retreated when they discovered they couldn’t win. Then, we took four of their triremes.”
More laughs followed his statement. It seemed that was one of the few times most Spartans did find humor, at the expense of enemies.
Antalcides. The name ignited a memory. He’d been the one discussed years ago when our group had attended the syssition. He was a diplomat of Sparta. If he’d been returned to his position, then it was fortunate for us. I hoped.
Their conversation then shifted to their time in battle and to the women they bedded while traveling through the cities.
