surge of longing, long suppressed, assailed her.
She saw his eyes lower to her mouth. She hadn’t been kissed in years, and she felt desire flare deep inside of her, rising to such an intensity it fairly took her breath away. She ached for him to draw her nearer, to kiss her, to stroke her body to life once more.
Then she saw his eyes narrow, harden, and Justina felt a rush of panic hit her. She was stupid to have come here.
She should have gone back to Herculaneum and lied to Quintus. Said she’d tried to gain an audience with Marsallas, but he had refused to see her. But she hadn’t, and instead she was standing no more than ten feet from him.
Totally at his mercy.
She wanted to flee, but she held her ground. Instead, she straightened her spine, and prepared herself for the ordeal that was to come.
And it would be an ordeal.
She forced a polite smile, desperate to keep to the plan she had mentally prepared whilst standing outside his quarter’s, waiting for Fabius to introduce her. Just go in. She had said, over and over again, like a mantra. Be cordial, say what you have to say, and then get out of there as quickly as you can.
“Thank…thank you for letting me see you. What…what I have to say won’t take long. I-”
“You have come a long way to see me, Justina, considering I said I never wanted to see you again,” Marsallas drawled, his mouth twisting in derision as he interrupted her faltering words. “And if my memory serves me right, I cursed you to Hades too.”
Justina felt a sudden chilling panic pierce her, but she kept her face impassive, refused to let him see how much he disturbed her. So she kept her hands loosely clasped in front of her, and made herself relax. She lifted her chin, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint trembling of her body that she couldn’t quite control, “I do remember, Marsallas,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “But I am not here to see you, I have come because I have a message from your uncle. Quintus is-”
She heard his breath hiss, before he cut off her well rehearsed speech with a violent slash of his hand. “Stop!”
She froze. Helpless. Unable to think, or do anything, she watched as he lowered his hand, her eyes taking in his long narrow fingers, fingers that Justina remembered so well…
“I do not want to hear about him – ever.”
His words were harsh, but Justina felt a surge of pity for him. She knew how much he hated his uncle, and secretly she couldn’t blame him. His uncle had never shown his nephew any love.
The words hung heavily between them, and wisely she said nothing, as she could see that he was holding onto his anger by a thin thread. His face was an implacable mask, devoid of emotion, and for several long moments he stared at her, his eyes unfathomable as he watched her. Then he stepped forward, and this time she couldn’t control her bodily reaction.
She shivered inwardly, when the warmth of his fingers cupped her chin, exerting enough pressure that she had no choice but to lift her face up to his. For years she dreamt of feeling his touch again, and now he was so close that she could feel the heat of his breath on her face, see the flecks of blue colour that made up his magnificent eyes. She had to fight the urge to close her eyes when the warm scent of his skin, a mixture of sandalwood and musk, floated over her, enveloping her like a cloak, bringing back memories long suppressed. Heat pooled in the pit of her stomach, as delicious sensations curled through her.
Then his fingers splayed out, and she had to bite back a groan of desire. Two of his fingers still cupped her chin, but the others feathered softly down the slim column of her throat, before they came to rest on the pulse that beat rapidly at the base of her throat.
This time the heat within her spread to every pore of her skin, making her hot and dewy, feverish almost, and when she saw the pupils of his eyes dilate, she could tell he was very much aware of her reaction to him.
The moment was broken when he casually dropped his hand, and stood back from her, breaking off all bodily contact. Inwardly she mourned the loss of his touch. A touch that brought back so many memories.
“You must be fatigued after your long journey. Would you like some refreshment?”
The sudden change of tone in his voice unnerved her. Gone was the anger, now there was a mocking edge to it, and Justina had to press her lips together to prevent her from saying anything. Deliberately she lowered her eyes, in case they showed any hint of defiance. She didn’t want to antagonise him, couldn’t afford to bait him in any way, she knew that.
That would be foolish. And she wasn’t a fool.
Desperate to recover her composure, she looked up at him with what she hoped was a neutral expression on her face. “No thank you. I had something to drink at the inn before I came here.”
“Do you mind if I do?”
Justina bit down on her lip in irritation. “Yes,” she wanted to shout, “I do mind.” But she held back her words. She knew he was playing some sort of twisted game. Teasing her, like a cat teased a mouse.
Shaking her head slightly, she smiled politely, “No, of course not.”
But when he moved closer to her, to lean across the table to pour some wine into a goblet, she lost all ability to think. Once again the heady scent of his skin brought back memories, and she closed her eyes briefly, remembering everything about him as if the past six years had only been yesterday.
It was only when she opened her eyes, and saw him watching her, with eyes so fathomless, that she realised he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
Justina blushed in mortification. How could he have affected her so quickly? She should be immune to him after all these years. She told herself to turn and leave, get out of there as fast as possible, but her body was incapable of moving.
Eventually Marsallas broke the tension, by raising his goblet in an unspoken mocking salute, before he drowned the contents in one swallow, never once taking his gaze off her.
Justina watched him, biting the inside her lip. If she needed proof that coming here was a mistake, then his false gesture was the final bit of evidence she needed. He wasn’t interested in anything she had to say. She could see that in every hard line of his body, by the coldness radiating out of his eyes.
Whatever emotions he had once felt for her had long gone. Wiped out by six years of bitterness.
She had to leave. Right now. And without a second thought, about the actual reason why she was here, she turned and bolted for the door, and hopefully, her escape.
She thought she had succeeded. Her hand was on the rounded wooden door knob, and the door had even opened slightly. But then she saw two hands slam above her head banging the door shut, trapping her between his two outstretched arms.
How had he moved so fast? She thought, panic coursing through her as she tried ineffectually to wrench open the door.
“Don’t go.” The words were whispered in her ear, so intense, so passionate that she felt her heart break right open.
Swallowing past the lump of emotion in her throat, she whispered, “I have to go, Marsallas. I shouldn’t have come. It was a mistake. I…I’m sorry.”
Still desperate to escape, and in what she knew to be a futile effort, she tried to pull open the door. But the door didn’t move, and with mounting desperation she lifted her hands, her nails digging into the hard muscles and tendons of Marsallas's forearms trying to pull them away.
But the door stayed shut, her strength no match for his, as he leaned his weight against the wood barring her escape. Eventually she stopped, her hands dropping to her sides, her chest rising and falling with exertion as if she had run for miles.
For several long moments she stood there, her mind racing, desperately wondering what to do next. She needed to be strong, not let him see how much his presence