Free Athenian Steel (Book I of the The Hellennium) by P. K. Lentz

wisdom in doing likewise.
 Her fingers fell from his chin, and she sighed a nasal,
feminine sigh.  
    “I know it may not seem like it right now,
but I respect you, Demosthenes.  That's why I asked to see
you.  We are going to have a civilized conversation, you and
I, and if you're as smart as I suspect, it will go well.  But
I'm going to tell you right now how it ends, and that is with you
agreeing to take me to Athens.  Understood?”
    Clearly, she was no ordinary woman.
 Just as clearly, she could kill him if she wished.  But
under no circumstances could he simply yield to her threats.
 Still, there was no point provoking her with outright
refusal.
    “If I am to treat you as an equal,” he said
instead, rubbing his throat, “should we not both be on our
feet?”
    Fierceness gone from her features, Thalassia
offered an open hand to help him rise.  When Demosthenes
clasped it, she pulled him up as easily as a man might hoist a cup
of wine.  For a moment after he rose, he could not help
staring at her.  Thalassia's arms were perhaps athletic but
hardly Titan-like, her shoulder curved with a sculptor's
perfection.  A scrolled bronze pin nestled in the shallow dip
of her collarbone, from which point her pale orange chiton
descended in pleats that surmounted a smallish breast before
plunging to the floor.  His eyes lingered on her golden neck,
not because he wished to admire it, worthy as it was of such, but
rather only to forestall meeting her eyes.  Some men might
have got lost in the hollow of that throat, but not he, not after
what he had seen and heard, and at any rate, now was hardly the
time.  And so, collecting himself, he looked into Thalassia's
face, which, owing to the fact that her height matched his almost
to an inch, stood at his eye level.
    On it was, surprisingly, a look of
patience.
    “Sit down if you'd like,” she invited him
after they had stared at one another for the space of a few
breaths.  “Take my breakfast.  I ate on the island.
 With luck it will be a long while before I'm hungry
again.”
    Full understanding of her words eluded
Demosthenes, but he ignored that.  “Actually,” he ventured, “I
would prefer we continue our talk in public, where you might be
marginally less inclined to, ahem, kill me.”
    Thalassia shook her head.  “I'll stay
here until it's time to sail.  I won't kill you.”
    Demosthenes moved toward the curtain;
Thalassia did not follow.  “That is of some comfort,” he said.
 “But my throat still insists on witnesses.”
    “Wouldn't getting strangled by a woman only
be more embarrassing with witnesses?”
    Demosthenes looked at her sharply.
 “Who is looking for you?”
    “No one.”  Her insistence was rather
too forceful.
    “You wish to stay indoors.  You want
passage to Athens.  You are a fugitive.”
    As Demosthenes spoke, his eyes fell on the
scrap of spun bronze on the table.  He moved to retrieve it.
 Thalassia did not stop him, and he tucked it into the pocket
formed by the roll of his chiton over his belt.  
    When it seemed a glare was to be her only
answer, he offered, “I could escort you to the citadel, assuming
that my protection is of any use to you.  Conversation will
have to wait until later, though.  If our fleet is to depart
tomorrow—with or  without  you aboard,” he added
pointedly, “then there is yet much work to be done today.”  He
took a step toward the exit where, although his confidence was
returning, he paused and asked with only a minimum of irony in his
tone, “Am I free to leave?”
    Thalassia said nothing, and Demosthenes
passed through the curtain into the dwelling's front room, where
the three Messenian maids had gathered in a far corner.  Who
knew what ideas they had about what they had just overheard behind
the curtain?  Demosthenes caught at least one set of eyes
lingering on his neck, which undoubtedly still glowed red.
    “All is well,” Demosthenes reassured them
with a smile.