Women's Quarters look desolate in the grey morning light that streams through the narrow windows under the ornate ceiling. The stone baths have been emptied and the fountains stopped for the night, so the sound of running water that usually provides a backdrop to everything here is gone. It's eerily quiet save for the faint dripping noise from one of the fountains and the soft snoring coming from some of the rooms.

The doorways running along the walls are concealed with drapes and curtains made of silk, brocade or transparent chiffon—whatever each woman has chosen to preserve her privacy in the absence of doors. I walk past them, stepping softly, listening, wondering if Sagaristio has been right. If one of them could hate me enough to try and poison me.

Some of them do hate me, I know. They were all forced into marrying me, and while some have learned to love or at least tolerate me, others are still too proud to really give in. I remember the few lone figures standing in the doorways of their alcoves, not approaching me for a hug when I came back, and my fingers curl into fists. I have treated them well. So ungrateful of them. So ungrateful of Emilio.

I slow down by the last doorway, push aside the dark drape that covers it and step inside.

Emilio's room is as small as that of the others, allowing only a bed for a furniture, and some space on the floor for the servants to sleep. Most of the wives have two, but Emilio still has only one—the female servant who's now snoring softly on the floor, wrapped in several blankets. I step over her, approach the bed and sit down on its edge.

There's little light here, with all the windows in the Women's Quarters being high above and intentionally narrow to prevent unwanted visitors from climbing in. Yet enough of it falls on Emilio's face for me to see his calm features, the shadows of his eyelashes lying on his cheeks, the sensual outline of his lips. He breaths quietly and deeply. His head is turned to the side, facing his hand that rests on the pillow, the fingers slightly curled in their relaxed position, hiding the sensitive skin on the palm. I can imagine kissing him there.

I can imagine kissing him everywhere.

He looks so perfect in his sleep that I suddenly ache to break this perfection, to wake him up with my embrace, to ignite him with my fire, to see this serene face mirror my desire, to hear this mouth cry out in ecstasy.

But no. I promised.

Also, he may have tried to poison me.

I shake my head. Feigning a poisoning attempt just to win my favor sounds far-fetched, and yet since Messenio has put the idea in my head, I couldn't quite throw it out. It has woken me before dawn. I rose to call for Narin to come to my room and appease me, but then I have changed my mind. I didn't want to see her. I wanted to see him, hoping against reason that it would change something, would help me to understand something important.

Yet there's nothing but the sudden desire to wake the young man in front of me and claim at least the reassurance of his body, if I can't quite capture his soul.

But no. I promised.

Quietly, I lean in and kiss him. His lips remain unmoving underneath mine. I draw back, peering at him. Has a brief smile passed over his lips, or was it a game of shadows? I run my fingers down his cheek, brush away a wayward strand of blond hair, then trace the line of his throat. His skin is smooth, and hot, his pulse beating fast under my fingertips.

Too fast for a sleeping man.

I smile to myself, then lean in again, and press my lips to the place under his jawline where life beats so fiercely under the skin. I kiss him there, tasting him, my beard rubbing against the sensitive skin. A shiver runs through his body, and yet as I draw back, his eyes remain closed.

"You're playing with me," I whisper. "You want this as much as I do."

There's no movement, not even a flattering of the eyelashes, and yet the corners of his mouth twitch, suppressing the barest of smiles. I shake my head, feeling a similarly unbidden smile stretch my own lips.

My eyes travel along his body. The rising and falling of his chest underneath the blanket indicates breaths too shallow for someone asleep. I wonder if he would play along if I continued my little explorations of his body.

But no. I promised.

"Come to me, Emilio," I whisper, standing up. "Come to me when you're ready."

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