“No!” Demetrius raises his eyebrows in surprise. Amara curls her hand into a fist, the nails biting her palm. In her mind’s eye, she can see Philos working at home, Rufina sleeping, and the thought of leaving them both is an agony beyond endurance. If she goes back now, she will never have the strength to give Demetrius the answer her daughter needs. “I mean . . . no, that will not be necessary.” She bows her head. “I am of course, honored to accept your proposal.”

Her turmoil has not gone unnoticed. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” His voice is sharp.

Amara forces herself to look at Demetrius, to stare directly into his eyes. “It is simply that such a change in fortune . . . is somewhat overwhelming.”

Whatever he sees in her face must reassure him. “If you are certain,” he murmurs, no longer hiding the desire in his voice. She only has a heartbeat to prepare herself before he takes hold of her, a moment to prevent herself from instinctively pushing him away. Perhaps Demetrius senses her reticence, or at least he does not grab her. He leans forwards and kisses her softly on the lips, running a finger along the base of her throat. His hand is warm as he lays it against her breastbone, and she knows he will feel the pulse thumping under her skin. His touch is not, in itself, unpleasant. She kisses him, crushing her guilt, blocking out memories of Philos, trying not to think about how different it feels to hold the man she loves. Demetrius becomes more passionate, pulling her body closer, and her training with Felix resurfaces. She has given pleasure to so many men—the movements, the way to touch another . . . all of it is ingrained. But as he starts to push the tunic from her shoulder, she stops him. “I’m not a brothel whore anymore.” She presses her finger firmly against his lips, as if to seal them shut. “You can wait until Stabiae to enjoy me.”

There is a note of command in her voice, a return to the coldness she showed earlier. When he smiles in response, Amara knows she did not misjudge him. Demetrius moves apart, picking up his wine. “Very well, my darling,” he says, a hint of amusement in the way he pronounces the endearment. “As you wish.”

Amara is awake long before the light starts to filter through the shutters. She had been unable to tell Philos last night. He had wanted to make love to her, and she was too selfish to refuse, knowing it might be the last time he ever touched her with that much tenderness, the last time she would ever feel that close to him. When she had wept that she was terrified of losing him, it was not a lie, even if she did not deserve his reassurance.