Alexandra of Sparta vowed her sword and her heart to the goddess Artemis. And the goddess blessed her. But no warrior lives at peace, and soon, Alexandra loses her title, her troops, and all she holds dear, including the man who holds her heart.

Cursed by a Babylonian witch, she is forced to return to a city she once conquered to make amends, but is captured by the powerful Persian rebel, Artaxerxes. As his prisoner, she awaits judgment for her crimes. But Artaxerxes is not what he seems. With death approaching, Alexandra must face her violent past and discover the truth of her captor’s identity before it’s too late.

Excerpt

“So, Aristos, you come here as my willing slave?”

“Yes,” he said, though he did not seem sure.

“Well, go on then. Let me see what’s under your clothes.”

He blushed but did not hesitate to remove his tunic, pulling it quickly over his head and folding it. He placed it gingerly on the carpet near his feet. She admired his strong chest and the well-defined muscles in his arms. But to her dismay, his arms were bare, and he wore only one golden bracelet.

“What happened to your armlets? They were quite becoming on you.”

He reddened more than when she had asked him to undress. She suspected a secret had been discovered.

“I sold them, my queen.”

“Why? Weren’t you taken care of?”

“Yes, as well as could be expected.”

“What did you sell them for?”

He was silent, clearly not wanting to tell her and unable to lie. “Scrolls.”

“What scrolls did you trade your armlets for?” When he hesitated, she was even more intrigued. Pornography? Zoroastrian propaganda? There were scrolls circulating thinly veiled as fables, but they had a clear message to kill all Greeks and to return the satrapies to the hereditary rulers who had held them before Alexander. It seemed these would appeal to a boy like Aristos.

“I bought all the scrolls of note I could find. I wanted to get the ones I had studied in Rhagae before…before you came. My favorite ones are the biography of Alexander by Ptolemy the First and The Iliad.”

“In Greek?” she asked, surprised.

“I prefer to read scrolls in the language they were originally written in.”

“Alexander of Macedon? I would have thought you hated him.”

“I should,” he said. “Many call him the Accursed and despise him, but my father taught me to learn from our enemies.” He stopped abruptly. “Forgive me. I meant only—”

“The truth,” she said, amused. “Why don’t you hate him?”

“He did what had never been done before.” He gazed at her a moment too long. “One cannot help but admire someone who can do that.”

Her blood surged at his words and the way his eyes held her. “You flatter me, Aristos. I’m not sure if I believe you.”

“No, you misunderstand if you think I flatter you—if you think I am a flatterer, you are mistaken.”

She took her hand off him. His cheeks reddened, but he held her gaze.

“I meant only that for me, truth is paramount. I admire him, as I admire you for what you have done. But I say it because it is true, not because I am your slave and will say anything to be in your good graces—my queen.” He lowered his gaze as if he expected her to beat him.

She was amazed by his daring and was again struck by his integrity. “You say you never lie?”

“Yes. My people believe the light of truth is the only way to win over darkness.”

“Then let’s hope you have no secrets you wish to keep from me.” She stroked the strong muscles on his chest, his nipples reminding her of honeyed wine. She caressed his flat belly, trailing her finger over the little black hairs that led from his navel down into the waist of his trousers. “So, Aristos, did those stories keep your nights warm?”

“Yes, my queen. They helped me through many nights”—he gazed down at her hand, pale against his abdomen—“of loneliness.”

She untied the cord of his trousers and began to unlace them slowly, making sure to rub her hands against his manhood. She thought to remove his dagger and then remembered he was forbidden from carrying one.

“Go on, then,” she said.

He pulled his trousers off, folded them, and placed them next to his shirt. His face and chest flushed red, but he stood up straight.

“You’re very fit,” she said. “Tell me your secret. Most bed slaves are so weak.”

“My queen, I have already given you too many secrets for one night, please.”

“Oh no, Aristos. If you are to be mine, I will have all of you.”

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

Zenobia Neil was named after an ancient warrior queen who fought against the Romans. She writes about the mythic past and Greek and Roman gods having too much fun. She lives with her husband, two children, and dog in Los Angeles. The Queen of Warriors is her third book.

Visit her at ZenobiaNeil.com. You can also follow her on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.