THERE WAS SOMETHING JEZEBEL'S MOTHER always said before Prince Calix had her tongue cut out.

"Spartan men don't know how to love."

In Egypt, her mother's homeland, every high born man had at least one concubine.  Concubines had servants, ladies who attended to their every whim and desire, an entire wing of the house dedicated them. They ate off gold plates, draped themselves in jewels. They were queens of a sort, though they had to share the same king, and no concubine was more prized than the Pharoah's favourite.

There were no favourites in Sparta. Here, the men kept slaves, women and men they had stolen amidst the throes of war, and if you were cursed with beauty, you became a slave of a different kind.

This is what happened to her mother. This is why Jezebel existed, and Prince Calix has never let her forget it.

She stood beneath the cover of an olive tree deep in the heart of her father's alvì, sweat pooling underneath her arms and dripping down the back of her neck. Her thick, coarse hair was gathered into a bun at the top of her head and tied off with a stained red scarf, while her short white chiton barely came halfway down her thighs. Jezza was barefoot, the soles hardened from years of walking on hard stone and gravel, and her ebony skin gleamed as if it had been infused with gold, as dark as her mother's, so Egyptian that she could almost forget who her father was.

It was the eyes that gave her away. Cerulean blue, with hints of sapphire. Eyes like the Greek God of Thunder and lightning, Zeus, though she only had one master in this life: Amun-Ra, God of the Nile, of life, the huge ball of fire that rained its powerful rays down upon her even now. She had no loyalties to Sparta. In fact, she wanted nothing more than to erase the Greek half of her, and never more than now, when she heard Prince Calix's wet, heavy breathing behind her.

She shifted the woven basket that she carried at her side, reaching up to pluck another ripe olive off a branch closest to her. Calix watched her, hawkish grey eyes fixed on his prey as if he was tasting her, touching her already. To look at him would be to give him power: he would see her fear, the slight tremble of her shoulders, and he would mistake this for what he always did--lust.
It didn't matter that her father, Eritreus, was brother to the Spartan King Damen, Calix's father. The Prince had wanted her almost since birth, and he would never stop wanting.

"Sweet cousin," he said, speaking at last, "would you like me to help you with that?"

A shudder went through her at the sound of his voice, this monster who had convinced her father to have her mother's tongue ripped out with hot pincers two days past. All because her mother had cursed him after she had caught him secretly watching Jezza bathe in the river. Eritreus had allowed it on King Damen's command, fearful that she would be burned at the stake after his nephew named her a witch. Jezza still didn't consider it to be a mercy. Death or torture, which was worse?

All she knew was that Calix's cruelty knew no bounds, and now that her mother was no longer here to protect her, Jezza was more vulnerable than ever.

"It's okay," she told him, willing her voice not to break. "I'm fine."

Silence reigned between them for a few moments, and Jezza welcomed it. She moved to another tree, and Calix followed her, his red chiton rippling in the humid breeze like a river of blood. Her heart was a wild, erratic thing inside of her chest; she kept searching for Elia's golden head of hair, but her friend was nowhere to be found. The other slaves that laboured away at the cornfields to her right would be of no help; no one would dare question the prince, lest they suffer the same fate her mother did.

"I suppose you hate me now."

He said it as if this was news. She had never liked him, not since they were children and he had thrown sticks and stones at her, saying she was as dark as Nyx's waters. Something had changed when she had turned fourteen he began to see her as a woman, rather than a simple dirt coloured creature, one that could be exploited.

He hadn't touched her, yet, but she didn't know how long that would last.

"You must understand, Bella," he said, his nickname for her like poison coming from his lips, "your mother deserved it. My father and I are both sons of Ares -- I couldn't let her disrespect a god's kin and get away with it."

"Of course, my lord," she murmured, moving onto another tree.

"Bella, look at me." When she didn't, he stepped in front of her and grabbed her face, his nails digging into her flesh like the claws of some rabid animal. "Look. At. Me."

He used his left hand to hold her jaw in place. She dared a glance upwards, into his stormy eyes, afraid of the combination of madness and desperation she saw there. Her cousin wasn't fit to rule over anything, least of all her.

"I'll make it up to you, you hear me? By the time I'm done, you'll have forgotten all about her."

Before she could protest, he covered her mouth with his, lips rough and abrasive. She struggled against his chest but he held still even as tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. By the time he released her, she was gasping for air, and stumbling away from him, dizzy with disgust.

Calix only stood there, handsome and smiling. "That will be the first of many, sweet Bella. The first of many."

He left her, heading in the direction of her father's house, a new bounce in his step. Jezza watched him go, chest heaving, vomit swirling in the pit of her stomach.

The Prince would die amidst hell and fury, even if she had to kill him herself.

AUTHOR'S NOTE :

Thank you so much for reading my story! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter as much I loved writing it, and be sure to add this to your library so you never miss an update. The next chapter will be up this Saturday, since my updating days are Wednesday and Saturday. 

Thanks again!