My stola ripped, and Paulinus was a panting, sweating beast on top of me. I raked my nails, drawing blood that shifted colors in my eyes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Emperor doing something to Thea, Thea half-clothed and turning her head away on the cushions . . . Paulinus was hot hard invading flesh above me, diamond drops of sweat falling from his face, his eyes two dark pits, his mouth a square agonized hole. I rolled my eyes dizzily to look at Thea, crushed under a panting sweating beast of her own, and her eyes snapped open and met mine.

Eyes locked while our bodies writhed. The world cleared around Thea’s face; Thea’s white, hating face not two feet away. Blood on her lip, her hair a tangle of sweat and silver chains, her eyes dilated by the drug. Hated her—hated her—a leap of answering loathing in her eyes—speared down by hard male flesh, both of us, or we’d have leaped for each other’s throats. Rocked and pinioned, we still reached out, clawing across the space. Her fingers crushed mine, trying to break bone, and I sank my nails deep into her knuckles and neither one of us would look away. Her eyes were the last thing I saw before the colors crashed in around my head.

I’M going to be sick again,” Calpurnia wailed, stumbling against Marcus’s crooked shoulder.

“Then go ahead and be sick,” he told his prospective daughter-in-law. She retched, lurching against the doorway, and Marcus steadied her. “Here, into the atrium. Fresh air will clear your head.”

“I—I should get home—”

“Sit first.”

She staggered into the atrium and collapsed onto the first bench, cradling her head. Marcus called a slave, sent for a flagon, and pushed a goblet into her hand. “Drink.”

“No more wine, I can’t—”

“It’s water, not wine. Sip slowly.”

She drank. Four hours ago, she had been a fresh-faced young girl in a new blue dress; now she was a wine-stained mess with her tangled hair descending down her back and an earring missing. She looked down at herself, flushing as she brushed at a vomit stain on her hem. “Oh, gods, I look like—”

“Never mind. How do you feel?”

She drank again. “My head feels like Vulcan’s own anvil.”

“That should pass. You threw up most of the drug.”

“Thank you—for getting me out of there.”

“You looked a trifle overwhelmed.”

She shuddered, and Marcus thought of her shocked face as the Emperor’s mouth bore down on hers, all wet sharp teeth. “Is he always like that?” she burst out.

“No.” Marcus sat himself beside her on the marble bench. “Tonight was . . . exceptional.”

“I can’t go back there.” Brushing uselessly at her gown. “Not ever.”

“You saw the Emperor at his worst tonight. Tomorrow, when the effect of those Indian leaves wears off, he will have forgotten all about this evening and will treat you exactly as he treats all other women: he will ignore you.”