Page 36 of Odette's Vow

I glanced at the bandages around his ribs. They were bloodied, but dry. I ran my fingers over them gently, waiting for him to flinch. He didn’t. My heart ached for him. Gods curse this wretched war they had thrust us into … and for what?

“I don’t think you’re going to be on the battlefield any time soon.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “No, not any time soon.”

His hand began stroking my arm again.

“So what are you going to do with all that energy, then?” I whispered, my voice trembling with something I couldn’t quite name.

He lifted my hand from his ribcage and kissed it. He stilled, as if waiting for an attack, waiting for me to slap him away. But for the life of me, I couldn’t. Instead, my breath skittered as his hand moved to cup my cheek and pull my face closer to his own.

Our lips cautiously brushed at first, but then the collision crushed us together, his tongue desperately seeking mine, and mine meeting his. Again and again and again. We met each other’s fervour with an intensity equal in tenderness and fierceness. The world around us dissolved, leaving only the sensation of his lips on mine, the warmth of his body against mine, and the unspoken understanding that, in this moment, wewere each other’s refuge. It was a kiss that promised nothing but the present, a brief respite from the pain.

I pulled back when it got too much, too intense, burrowing myself in the space where his shoulder met his collarbone. His hands continued to skim my body until they slid under my chiton and stilled, right over the entrance to my sex.

“I need you,” he breathed against my skin.

“I’m here,” I whispered back. “I’m here.”

I had never heard such a want before. Alcander had never said such things. He had not listened to me or heeded my instruction, instead wanting our final act his way – an act that stole both him and Lykas away from me. Meanwhile, here was a man who listened to me, who had taken action on my advice, who was still listening to what my body was telling him now.

Odysseus’ kisses trailed down my neck. His hands moved more desperately now, over my waist, my breasts, up into my hair and down my back, over my butt. I felt him lengthen against me, and the heat that pooled there made me want to whimper.

The outside world faded once again, and for a moment we were no longer enemies thrust into this pit of death together, no longer slave and master, spear-wife and Odysseus. We were just two people, desperate for some sliver of comfort, of solace, in a world that continued to demand more from us than we wanted or were able to give.

Then, three things pulled us from our stupor. First, Odysseus’ fingers slid between my thighs, drawing a sharp gasp from me as a jolt of pleasure surged through my body. Next, a sudden guttural snore erupted from the man beside Odysseus’ bed. And lastly, Odysseus’ wound started to bleed through the bandage again, the dark spreading stain the reminder we both needed that our actions were bound to reality.

In the following days, Odysseus’strength returned. By the eighth day, he sat up straighter, though he still winced as he did so and could only hold the posture for so long before breaking a sweat. Beside him, Agamemnon still lay in his bed, his colour pale, though behind his back the medics said there was nothing wrong with him. Diomedes, too, appeared on the mend.

I could hear him and Τ?ιλορ?α having a conversation between the partition divides that gave each man some sliver of privacy, when Nestor, one of the only remaining generals in prime health, broke the quiet atmosphere of recovery as he burst past the tent flap, his expression grave.

“Sire,” he said, walking past Odysseus, myself, Diomedes, and Τ?ιλορ?α, heading straight for Agamemnon’s bed.

“What is it, Nestor? Can’t you see I need rest?” Agamemnon snapped.

“The losses for the day have been recorded, my lord.”

“And?”

“They are … significant,” Nestor said, his voice almost trembling.

“How many?”

Nestor hesitated, and the air grew heavier in his silence.

“HOW MANY?!”

“Thousands, my lord.” The words fell like stones into a still pond, sending ripples of shock through the tent.

The silence that followed was potent, suffocating. Since the war began, the daily numbers of losses had been in the hundreds, but never in the thousands. We had now crossed a line that we might not be able to come back from. The Greeks, I reminded myself. Notus.

“We should set sail for home, then,” King Agamemnon declared, though ‘declared’ was too strong a word for the strangled, garbled word that tumbled from him.

“No,” Odysseus growled, rising once again, his hand pressed against his wound as he pointed at Agamemnon. “This decision no longer lies solely with you. We have all bled, sacrificed, and endured too much to abandon this cause now. We stand on the precipice. Victory is within our grasp if we can find the strength to persevere. We must endure a little longer, for the dawn of our triumph is near.”

“My eloquent friend is right,” Lord Diomedes added as he too sat up and looked over at Agamemnon. “This is not just your war anymore. It is all of ours, and I do not wish to be remembered as the king or the general that sacrificed so much for nothing.”

“Then what do you suggest I do?” Agamemnon practically whined.

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