While Delia huddled, she watched the shadow rise and fall from the high bed. She could barely make out his rugged face, the ruffled mane of salt and pepper hair in what little light spilled from the entrance.

The wait and the cool air had taken the edge off her resolve, but her head was still spiraling with feelings her rationale was having a hard time grappling with. She did not even consider being caught; the madness making her fearless.

The unreasoning fury that dominated every sense was mysterious and frightening. It had become almost an entity in itself, fueled by crushed desires, fear, and exhaustion. The delirium seemed to consume every thought, every feeling, every emotion until it left her empty inside. It had not grown from the confusion that left her sick and disoriented; it was not from the thrill, the longing, the fear­the contempt that this man had touched her. It was not even from the disgust that a Roman had tried to violate her, not once, but twice in as many days. None of those things mattered. Delia rose and crossed in a daze to the bed, lifting the knife to grimace at it, as if the dagger were a friend and yet a stranger. The dichotomy sent her head spinning.

The fury inside her came from knowing that she loved him, had completely surrendered her life to his touch, and would do so again­in a pounding heartbeat. That was what she could not forgive. That was what her enraged mind clung to when she raised the knife, and saw not only Marius’ face, but that of her brother, both of them intertwined in the Gods’ sick, twisted joke. They were the same...were they not?

Marius had to die. It was the only way to justify what she had done...what she had allowed.

As the rage took over her mind, Delia’s felt her face tilt a little to the right and she lifted the long dagger above her head. Whether she meant it to or not, a small moan escaped her lips and she brought the knife down.

That sound saved Marius’ life.

His eyes flashed open instantly, years of training taking over, and he saw first the blade, then the woman. He caught her wrists in both hands, the blade less than an inch from his nose. He was amazed by her strength. A sound, a whisper, escaped her lips. Delia’s eyes widened, struggling to push the blade into his head.

Marius twisted his hands once, making Delia groan in pain when her wrists bent backwards. The blade went flying across the ground. He pulled hard on her arms and threw her sideways. She flew off her feet and landed on her back next to him in the bed. In a heartbeat, he straddled her hips and pulled her hands above her head, pinning her effectively to the soft cushion.

Delia’s face changed, the angry light seeming to fade into confusion. She glanced up at the hands above her head, then swiftly around the tent. When she was finally able to focus on his face, his eyes­her expression smoothed and there was the faintest touch of a smile. The look he saw in her eyes was unmistakable.

Tentatively, carefully, he touched her cheek. Delia closed her eyes in pleasure, rolled her face against his hand, touching the palm with her lips. Marius could feel her tremble beneath him and it sparked his desire. He certainly did not trust her -­ she had tried to kill him -­ so he held her tight.

He grabbed her chin with the same hand and her eyes opened. The madness was gone, replaced by a languid green longing, a sparkling ardor. Delia opened her lips slightly, begging for his kiss.

“Will you behave yourself?” he whispered to her.

She smiled, and it was the most glorious thing he had ever seen. Delia finally shone from those tragic eyes and the sight was breathtaking.

“No, Marius,” she whispered, her voice deep with hunger and mirth. “Do you want me to?”

His lips curled into a grin, and he released her face and hands. “Absolutely not.”