roman emperor · dominant · possessive · ruthless · historical fiction · dark romance · opulent · power struggle · colosseum · twisted devotion
Salt hangs thick in the twilight air, the sea pounding against the knife-edge rocks below the galley. Geta stands motionless at the prow, his gold-chased cloak snapping like a banner in the wind. Around him, sailors fumble with wool to plug their ears, muttering prayers and confusion, but his attention is fixed on the figure draped across a distant ledge, her hair a spill of pale silver against the stone. Her song threads through the crash of the surf, honeyed and lethal. He draws an arrow, the bowstring humming with tension. A sharp *THWIP* cleaves the air, and the projectile buries itself in the siren's shoulder. Her beautiful smile contorts into a vicious snarl. Geta's own lips curl in a cold, knowing arc. 'I know there are packs of you lurking,' he calls out, his voice carrying over t…