Chapter 9
Grace remained still for hours, listening to Julian breathe, calmly, peacefully, as he slept behind her. He had one thigh nestled snugly between her legs and one arm draped over her waist.
The feel of his body around hers made her throb with longing.
And his scent...
It was all she could do not to turn over and bury her nose in the warm, spicy scent of his skin. No one had ever made her feel like this. So wanted, so secure.
So desirable.
And she wondered how that could be, given the fact that they barely knew each other. Julian touched something inside her on a level that went beyond the physical.
He was so strong, so commanding. And funny. He made her laugh and he wrung her heart.
She reached out and ran her fingers lightly over his hand that lay in front of her, just below her chin. He had such beautiful hands. Long and tapered. Even when they were relaxed in sleep, the power of them was undeniable. And the magic they could work on her body...
It was nothing short of miraculous.
She ran her thumb over his general's ring and wondered what Julian had been like back then. Unless the curse had altered his physical age, he didn't appear very old. Certainly, not much more than thirty.
How had he ever led an army at such a young age? But then, Alexander the Great had barely been old enough to shave when he'd started his campaigns.
Julian must have been fabulous on the battlefield. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine him on his horse, riding out against his enemies. She had a vivid image of him in his armor, his sword raised as he fought hand to hand against the Romans.
"Iason?"
She tensed as she heard him whisper in his sleep.
Rolling over, she looked at him. "Julian?"
He tensed behind her and started speaking in a jumbled mixture of English and ancient Greek. "Don't! Okhee! Okheel No!"
He sat straight up in bed. She couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep.
Instinctively, she touched his arm.
With a curse, he grabbed her and pulled her over his body. He threw her back against the mattress. His eyes were wild as he held her down, his lips curled.
"Damn you!" he snarled.
"Julian," she gasped as his grip on her arm tightened and she tried to make him let her go. "It's me, Grace!"
"Grace?" he repeated, his brows drawing together into a deep frown as he focused on her face.
Blinking, he pulled back from her. He lifted his hands and stared at them as if they were alien appendages he'd never seen before.
He looked at her. "Did I hurt you?"
"No, I'm fine. Are you all right?"
He didn't move.
"Julian?" She reached for him.
He pulled back from her as if she were poisonous. "I'm fine. It was just a bad dream."
"A bad dream or a bad memory?"
"A bad memory that always haunts my dreams," he whispered, his voice laden with grief. He got out of bed. "I should sleep somewhere else."
Grace caught his arm before he could leave, and pulled him back toward the bed. "Is that what you've always done in the past?"
He nodded.
"Have you ever told anyone about the dream?"
Julian stared aghast at her. What did she take him for?
Some sniveling child that needed its mother?
He'd always borne his anguish inside. As he'd been taught. It was only when he slept that the memories were able to sneak past his defenses. Only when he slept that he was weak.
In the book, there was no one to hurt when his nightmare came upon him. But once released from his prison, he knew better than to sleep at the side of someone he might inadvertently grab while in the throes of it.
He could have accidentally killed her.
That thought terrified him.
"No," he whispered. "I've never told anyone."
"Then tell me."
"No," he said firmly. "I don't want to relive it."
"If you're reliving it every time you dream, then what's the difference? Let me in, Julian. Let me see if I can help."
Dare he even hope that she could?
You know better.
And yet...
He wanted to purge the demons. He wanted to sleep one night in peaceful slumber, free of torment.
"Tell me," she gently insisted.
Grace sensed his reluctance as he rejoined her in bed. He remained seated on the side, his head in his hands. "You asked me earlier how I became damned. I was cursed because I betrayed the only brother I ever knew. The only family I ever had."
His anguish reached deep inside her. She wanted desperately to run her hand over his back in a comforting manner, but didn't dare touch him lest it make him withdraw again. "What did you do?"
He ran his hand through his hair, then balled his fist in it. His jaw more rigid than steel, he stared at the carpet. "I allowed envy to poison me."
"How?"
He paused for a long minute before he spoke again. "I met Iason not long after my stepmother sent me to live in the barracks."
She vaguely remembered Selena telling her about the Spartan barracks where sons were forced to live away from their homes and families. She'd always thought of them as a kind of boarding school. "How old were you?"
"Seven."
Unable to imagine being forced from her parents at that age, Grace gasped.
"There was nothing unusual about it," he said without looking at her. "And I was big for my age. Besides, life at the barracks was infinitely preferable to living with my stepmother."
She heard the venom in his voice and wondered what the woman had been like. "I take it Iason lived in the barracks with you?"
"Yes," he whispered. "Each barracks was divided up into groups where we chose the boy we wanted to lead us. Iason was the leader of my group."
"What did these groups do?"
"We functioned like a military unit. We studied, performed chores, but most of all, we banded together to survive."
She started at such a harsh word. "Survive what?"
"The Spartan lifestyle," he said, his voice laced with acrimony. "I don't know how much you know about my father's people, but they didn't have the luxuries of the other Greeks.
"The Spartans only wanted one thing from their sons. They wanted us to grow into the strongest fighting force of the ancient world. To prepare us for our future, we were taught how to survive with only the barest of necessities. We were given one tunic to last us the year, and if it became damaged or lost or we outgrew it, we had to go without one. We were only permitted a bed provided we made it ourselves. And once we reached puberty, we were no longer allowed shoes for our feet."
He laughed bitterly. "I can still remember how badly my feet would ache in the winter. We were forbidden a fire or blanket to keep us warm, so we tied rags around our feet at night to keep them from frostbite. Then, in the morning, we would carry away the bodies of the boys who had died of exposure in their sleep."
Grace cringed at the world he was describing. She tried to imagine what it must have been like to live in it. Worse, she remembered the fit she'd pitched at age thirteen for a pair of eighty-dollar shoes her mother had said were too mature for her, while at the same age, Julian would have been scrounging for rags. The injustice of it cut her. "You were just children."
"I was never a child," he said simply. "But worst of all, we were never given much food to eat, so we were forced to steal or to starve."
"And parents allowed this?"
He cast a sardonic look to her over his shoulder. "They considered it their civic duty. And since my father was the Spartan stratgoi, most of the boys and teachers despised me the instant they saw me, and I was given even less food than the others."
"Your father was what?" she asked, not understanding the Greek term he used.
"The top general, if you will." He took a deep breath and continued. "Because of his position and reputation for cruelty, I was a pariah to my group. While they would band together to steal, I was left on my own to survive as best I could. Then one day, Iason was caught stealing bread. When we returned to the barracks, they were going to punish him for being caught. So I stepped forward, and took the blame."
"Why?"
He shrugged as if the matter were of little importance. "He was so weak from his earlier beating that I didn't think he could survive another one."
"Why had they beaten him earlier that day?"