King of Me (The King Trilogy #3)(18)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Life.

This King was alive.

So the question quickly shifted from wondering where I was to when…

Holy shit.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Like an animal on exhibit at a zoo, a nearly endless stream of people visited my wooden cage over the next day. Most of them had the same deep dark skin, hair, and eyes, and wore toga-style dresses—the women, obviously—pleated or gathered at the waist with a leather or cloth belt. The men walked around shirtless with blue fabric, trimmed in gold or red, wrapped around their waists.

Without a doubt, as impossible as it was, I had to accept what I saw right in front of me: I was in King’s time. This was goddamned crazy.

I’m in ancient frigging Minoa. Aka Crete, before it was Crete.

From the little I’d read, there wasn’t much known about the Minoans, either. They were mainly peaceful, traded broadly with other cultures, and were fascinated by nature. Then one day—poof—they disappeared.

Just like I might any second now.

An entire day had passed, and no one had offered me food or water. The cage they’d placed me in was underneath a tree, and I supposed I should’ve felt lucky for that; however, because of the heat of the day, coupled with my recent snake bite, I could no longer stand.

On the second day, as the late morning sun began to warm the air, I lay there, sticky and dirty, eyes half-mast, dreading the sweltering heat to come, and wondering how much longer I’d last. The only thing for me to do was sleep and hope I wouldn’t wake up.

But, of course, that’s not what happened.

I awoke to being poked with a sharp stick.

“Go the f**k away,” I grumbled.

The guard who stood at the mouth of the opened cage offered a small clay jar and gestured for me to drink. I toyed with the idea of lifting my head, but it just wasn’t going to happen, so I opted for groaning instead.

He grumbled angrily—I imagined he was saying, “Get up, you lazy ass!”—but gave up on the verbal encouragements quickly and decided instead to get his hands dirty. He pulled me toward him, propping me against the rough branches that formed the sides of the cage before forcing the jar to my lips. The liquid tasted of water mixed with juice and olive brine, or some weird crap like that.

I took several sips and pushed it away. “It’s missing the vodka.”

He forcefully urged me to take another sip, but my stomach wasn’t having it. I threw up right on his chest.

“Oops.” I flashed a little smile. Assholes.

He called out, and two more men appeared to drag me from my “box of misery.” They hurriedly hauled me by the arms through a garden filled with flowers and lush potted pomegranate trees, only to dump me in a small room. The little stone platform they laid me over felt like heaven compared to the hard, roughly-cut branches of my cage, but my horrible thirst and cramping stomach were torture.

King appeared almost immediately, looking down with a judgmental frown. He wore only a deep blue sarong that stopped just above the knees and some odd-looking sandals. His shoulder-length black hair was pulled back, giving him more of an untamed, fierce look compared to the elegant, clean-cut billionaire version I knew so well.

“Let me guess, this is why you’re so into commando,” I muttered deliriously, staring at his skirt.

He studied me with curiosity for a few moments until a woman, petite with wide black eyes and curly flowing hair, appeared and bowed. He instructed her to do something, and she pulled a sharp quill from a small leather bag, along with a few tiny seeds. She popped the seeds into her mouth, chewed, and then spat the mixture into her palm.

When she dipped the sharp quill into the spit concoction and then reached for my wrist, I began to understand that she intended to poke me with it.

“Uh-uh. No,” I mumbled in protest.

King held down my left arm while the woman chanted and jabbed my skin. With each poke my brain heard a weird sort of static, like a radio station trying to break through the noise. She jabbed away for several moments, forming a figure-eight pattern on my wrist just above my “K.” Then, suddenly, a sharp shrilling noise hissed in my ears. I yanked my hand from her and cupped my ears.

“Make it stop!” I screamed.

“There,” said the woman. “Now she may speak our tongue and understand ours.”

I blinked and looked at each of them. “How the f**k did you do that?”

King bent over me, snarling. It was then that I noticed the color of his eyes. Not gray, but a pristine sky blue. “You watch your tongue, or I will have it cut out.”

I snapped my mouth shut, but struggled to accept that any of this was really happening. However, fact was, I’d seen stranger things: living heads in jars; a ghost manifest himself, run an empire, and drive around in expensive cars; and the color of people’s souls, including their emotional imprints when they died. This situation really wasn’t so far out there, given all that.

“King?” I whispered. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I am the king. Who, by gods, are you? And why are you—a foreigner—roaming about our island without my permission?” he asked.

“I’m Mia. And…I have no clue.”

His head whipped to the side toward the woman, who wore a pale blue, floor-length dress with elaborate gold embroidery on the hem. “Hagne, make her speak the truth.”

Hagne? Oh shit.

The woman nodded and whipped out her quill again.

“Wait,” I protested with as much strength as I could muster. “Please, no more spit tats. That’s so unhygienic, it’s not even funny.” I tried to clear my scratchy throat, but I seemed to have run out of saliva. “Water. I need water.”

King jerked his head at Hagne, who disappeared out the door. Meanwhile, he studied me with his intense electric blue gaze, the muscles of his bare arms and chest bursting with menacing, flexing strength.

I wanted to tell him to stop looking at me, but I felt too fascinated by what stood before me: King. Masculine. Powerful. Intimidating as hell. But not evil. The green aura around him was almost blinding, and I had to admit, seeing him like this—so alive and untainted—made me want to reach out and touch him.

Hagne reappeared with a ceramic jar and held it to my lips. This time, it was watered- down wine. I didn’t think it would help my dehydration, but I felt too thirsty to argue. I took several small sips and then lay back down, unable to hold myself upright.

“Speak, woman,” King said, “or I will take you outside and beat you.”