on the ground, only occasionally flashing them at me. She draws closer, and there it is: the scent of incense. She drops to her knees and presses her forehead to the ground.
Boldness sometimes pleases me. It does tonight. You are so rarely bold.
“Good evening,” I drawl.
“Good evening, Your Majesty,” she murmurs to the floor.
Your Majesty. My own folk have called me that for years. Soon enough, the whole system will. The knowledge intoxicates me. Like wine. I am so very, very close to my goal.
I reach out and stroke my fingers through her hair. As soft as a silken scarf. It would feel as soft as that on my skin. “Do you dance?”
“I do, Your Majesty.” Without my bidding, she raises her face. I see no imperfection there.
“What else do you do?” I ask and wonder, in the back of my mind, if I am really about to do this. If I am about to bed another for the first time in two years.
Well—why shouldn’t I? You are my lover, not my official consort. We are not married, you and I. And even if we were, who are you to gainsay my desires? Who is anyone? I have my needs. And given who I am, given what I must accomplish, I think it’s only fair that they be attended to.
It’s not wrong to do this. It can’t be. It was never wrong before.
“I will do anything you desire, Your Majesty,” she replies. A rote response, and yet it thrills me. This girl is in my power, in a way you have never been since you said, “Will you really not let me go?” A paramour wouldn’t dare say anything of the kind. She’s not my equal. Not in the least.
She can’t just leave me if she happens to feel like it.
Gold studs shine in her earlobes, gold bangles clink around her wrists and ankles. Kohl rims her enormous eyes. Her top is filmy and slit nearly down to the navel; her skirt is little more than a loincloth. What a pretty piece she is. She is petite, shorter than you, but her legs are lean, and her whole body is beautifully neat and compact. It would fit well beneath mine. I know exactly how I would hold her down, splay her, use her. And something about those eyes, the pout of those lips, tells me I would not be disappointed.
She’s not the first I’ve ogled. I’ve been quite restless in the last month. Perhaps it’s because we hurtle so quickly toward the completion of my grand design. Perhaps I just have a lot of nervous energy. But of all the women I’ve watched, she is the loveliest, the most tempting.
“Anything?” I inquire.
“With joy.” It’s probably not much of an exaggeration. The chance to service the pirate queen would rocket her to the top of her set. Who wouldn’t want to spread for me? Or let me spread for them?
This time, I caress her chin. Her skin is petal-soft. Not a trace of topsoil anywhere. Not a single stray leaf. Her enormous eyes fall shut, her lashes moving like butterflies over her cheeks.
Then, all at once, I imagine your face before me.
I see your brown eyes, so faithful and true, widen with dawning horror. Just like they did on the day I left you, on my last day as a slave, when I saw your heart break right in front of me as I told you I was going away. When you realized I was abandoning you, who had only ever sought to love me, to give me a better and safer life than the one you thought I’d led. And you weren’t far wrong.
In my mind’s eye, your cheeks go pale. You bite your lip as you look every which way just so you don’t have to meet my eyes anymore. You twist and wring your hands, wondering why, yet again, you were not worth enough for someone to keep.
I see you leave. I see you leaving me. Because, tired of being left, you would leave first. I am certain of that.
“Go,” I say, my voice thick and heavy in my own ears. The paramour looks up at me in clear surprise, and then in fear, wondering if she has offended. I turn away from her and wave my hand irritably. Her sandaled feet tread lightly on the floor as she scurries away.
I stand up, move to look out the window of the lounge, and try to find peace in