Free The Lost Centurion (The Immortals Book 1) by Monica La Porta Page A

the both of us, little thing.”
    He had left the venetian blinds ajar to let some of the outside coolness to refresh the air, and when he awoke, the sun had inundated the room. Noises and bakery smells from the busy city reached the quiet oasis that was his bed. Stubbornly keeping his eyes closed, he reached out to his side, feeling the untidy sheets for Diana’s form. She wasn’t there. A long-forgotten ache took hold of his heart and he pressed his hand over his chest.
    “Good morning, Marcus.”
    He opened his eyes at her voice and found her sitting on the couch under the window, both her feet perched on its edge, her chin resting on her knees. A small smile accompanied a mischievous look on her face, her eyes shining with a new light. She looked rested.
    “Good morning, little thing.” He sat on the bed, his back relaxed against the headboard.
    “Nice ink.” She raised her chin and her eyes roamed up and down his chest and right arm.
    His hand shot toward the Roman acronym “SPQR” and the eagle tattooed on his skin. “A reminder of my eternal shame.” Normally, he wore shirts with long sleeves to cover the design. The reminder was for him and him alone.
    She frowned.
    “In my time, only slaves, criminals, and mercenaries wore ink, so people knew right away of their station in life.” The distant memory of the shocked face of the medicus he had asked to perform the series of tattoos now covering his body came back to him. “Do you know what the Latin word for tattoo is?”
    She seemed to search for the meaning, then bit her lower lip. “No, I don’t.”
    “Stigma.” Saying the word conjured the millions of pricks inflicted with the pointed instrument. Marcus shivered as if the medicus were there in the room with him. It had taken the small, impatient man three long sessions to finish the design. At the end of each one, Marcus had been left bloodied and nauseated by the pain and the smell of the mixture used to make the ink. Acacia, gall, rusted bronze, and vitriol made one sick aroma when forcefully injected under one’s skin.
    Her eyes shifted from the tattoos to his face. “Why did you choose those symbols?”
    The Roman eagle and the initials standing for the Senate and People of Rome had seemed to Marcus the perfect choice at the time, several centuries after he had become an Immortal. Christianity had replaced his gods and hordes of barbarians had sacked his beloved city. “Because I would’ve preferred to be a slave and serve Rome rather than to be witness of her downfall and outlive her.” He felt exposed and left the bed in search of something to wear. With two long strides, he reached for the closet and grabbed a white shirt he donned over the jeans he still wore from the day before. He turned to look at Diana, who was silently studying him.
    “Are you hungry?”
    “Yes, but I can wait for you to have breakfast.” She rose with one graceful move. “Come to the kitchen.”
    He walked behind her, and only when they were close to the end of the hallway did he realize that the smell of bakery hadn’t come from outside, but from his kitchen. He stood at the doorway, his eyes on the marble surface of the table laden with two cakes and several trays of turnovers.
    “What do you think?” She smiled at him and walked to the table, reaching for a plate to serve him.
    His mind was immediately filled with worries. He took the plate from her, put it back on the table, then grabbed her by the elbows. “I told you it was dangerous to leave the house. Someone could’ve seen you. The nest could’ve found you.” He realized he was shaking her and immediately freed her and stepped back.
    She tilted her head toward the oven. “Relax. I couldn’t sleep and I baked the rest of the night away.”
    His heart still thrumming against his ribcage, he sat on the chair she was offering him and accepted the glass of water she then poured for him.
    “Have something to eat. You look a fright.” She pushed