Delia Valea Marcellus lingered in the shadows of a colonnade, half-hidden by hanging silks and creeping vines, her hazel eyes sharp beneath the shade of dusk. From her vantage, she watched as the men were unloaded from the carriage, shackles clinking with each heavy step upon the blood-colored sand of the training yard.
Her gaze drifted over each of the new arrivalsβCelt, Gaul, Numidianβbut she was only truly searching for one.
The Serpent.
Her father hadn't stopped speaking of him since his return. Damocles Decimus, once noble blood, now reduced to flesh for sport. Her father had spoken of power, of control, of conquest. But Delia had not understood the fuss. Not until now.
He stood proud despite the chains, his dark eyes unreadable, and his body sculpted like something divine. Perhaps Mars himself had shaped him in the womb of war. Or perhaps it was Jupiter, king of gods, who had carved such mortal strength from lightning and vengeance.
Whatever the origin, he was beautiful in a way that made her breath catch.
Her gaze wanderedβlingeredβover the ridges of his chest, down the lines of muscle carved by battle and survival. A bead of sweat glided slowly down sun-kissed skin. She bit her bottom lip and licked it slowly, a wicked thought blooming behind her eyes.
She waitedβpatient, poisedβuntil the doctore finished his speech and her father turned away with that wolfish grin still etched on his face. As he disappeared into the villa, Delia stepped out from the shadows like a vision of night.
She was already dressed for the evening's celebrationβdark silks wrapped tight to her curves, gold shimmering at her wrists and throat, her dark hair pinned high but with strands artfully let loose to frame her striking face.
The doctore noticed her at once and turned, snapping his whip in the air with authority.
"Look lively, men," he barked. "Domina Filia."
The men straightened, their gazes falling on her with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
Delia laughedβa sound like velvet sliding over steel.
"Please, don't stop on my account," she said with a teasing glint in her eye.
She walked toward them with slow, confident steps, hips swaying with effortless grace. Her attention flicked briefly to each man, but soon, her gaze settled on Damocles once more.
"Tell me, men of blood and sandβ¦" she purred, her voice as smooth as silk and warm as wine. "What are your names?"
She let her eyes drift lazily over Damocles once again, lips parted slightly, as though already imagining the answer.
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