Astarte's Wrath Read Online Free PDF Page B

have grown up together: chasing one another in the palace gardens; swimming together in the sea; fighting for the last apricot, his favorite fruit. But I’m no longer a child. Nor is he.
    He’s a pharaoh. And I’m his guardian.
    The binding to him aches in my chest, tingles along my skin, my neck; the mark of the Kythan. The swirled ink engraved there forces me to obey his command to tell no one. But my heart aches. It’s the first time he’s ever enforced an order through a command. I’m not sure he understands how this has affected me— us . How it changes everything.
    Turning to face him, I say, “I’ll tell no one, master.” I bow regally. “And if you plan to be ready for the procession in time, I suggest dressing soon. I’ll be waiting at your chambers to escort you.”
    My eyes, narrowed and hurt, meet his before I turn and march out of the palace.

    I have just enough time to make it to the Rhakotis Quarter, change, and then enjoy a few free moments at the feast before I have to return to the palace.
    Rhakotis is where the majority of the Egyptian citizens live. Where the Kythan live. Though I spend most of my time in the palace, even have my own quarters, I prefer to reside here when I can. As my mother was one of Cleopatra’s handmaidens, I grew up in the palace. But being here keeps me grounded, reminds me that I don’t belong across the harbor.
    I’m still fuming over Xarion’s arrogance when I push through my creaky, wooden door. He’s never been one to let his station go to his head, but being raised as he has, it’s impossible for vanity not to seep through. And stubbornness.
    It’s like he forgets I didn’t choose this profession. I’m not his guardian by choice. I’m a slave, like any other slave working in the palace. Though I’d have gladly, willingly devoted my life to him, I was born into servitude. Not chosen.
    Ripping the tattered tunic from my body, I fling it to the floor. Then think better, and pick it up and toss it into the dim embers of my fire pit. They spark at once, blazing into a crackling flame. The garment is ruined. No reason to try and salvage the thread. It’s soaked through with blood and dirt. Sweat and grime.
    I walk to my basin and pour the hard-earned, filtered water from the Cisterns into the copper tub. I rag myself clean, mentally cursing myself for allowing Xarion to rile me so that I didn’t think to use the washroom in my palace chamber. A deep soak would’ve been heavenly.
    When I’m as clean as possible, I ransack my room, searching for the dress Lunia gave me yesterday. I find it tucked away between my armor and the half-finished glass vase I’ve been working on for Selene and Helios—Xarion’s younger, twin siblings.
    A pang hits my chest, but I fight it back. I’m a hypocrite.
    I lecture Xarion, and even Phoenix and Lunia, about our duties; our stations. But I still see the queen’s children as my friends and my family. I wish I didn’t. Especially since Xarion will be required to take a wife soon. When this war with Octavian is through—and it will be, by gods—he’ll be suited and wed.
    And none of Xarion’s cousins are good enough for him. Two are far too young, and the others are spoiled and weak-minded; nothing like the queen’s immediate family.
    “Isis,” I whisper. “Stop me from driving myself mad.” It’s the farthest thing I should be concerned with.
    “All decent? Not that I care if you’re not.” Phoenix’s voice sounds through my door. Then he’s cracking it open.
    “No—” I shout. “I’m not. Get out.” I grab up my red dress—so deeply dyed it resembles blood—and tuck it under my arms, covering myself. But only just.
    Phoenix’s deep voice booms with laughter. It makes me smile despite myself. “Nothing I haven’t seen before—Oh, wow.” He halts in the doorway. His eyes brighten, their glowing red irises flame. “Maybe there is some new stuff I haven’t seen.”
    “Out, Phoenix. Or I’ll