Marcus stood by the kitchen counter, drying his hands with a cloth as I poured us each a glass of red wine. The dark crimson liquid caught beneath the warm overhead light, and I caught the way his brows furrowed with cautious curiosity.
"You are telling me this came from my land?" he asked as I handed him a glass.
"Well, not exactly from Rome itself," I corrected, leaning against the counter. "One of the former territories, technically. And before you start sounding offended on behalf of your empire, it's considered decent wine."
Marcus eyes it suspiciously before swirling the glass with surprising familiarity.
Of course he knew how to hold wine properly. The man had probably spent years drinking with senators and military officials while I survived off Tesco meal deals and hospital coffee and vending machine.
He lifted the glass and took a measured sip.
Then immediately grimaced. Violently.
I burst out laughing.
Marcus lowered the glass slowly, staring at it with genuine offense.
"Apologies," he said carefully, like he was attempting diplomacy, "but this is dreadful."
"Oh, come on," I protested through my laugher. "It's not that bad."
"It tastes as though someone left grapes to perish inside a soldier's boot."
That only made me laugh harder.
Marcus looked personally betrayed by the entire experience as he placed the wineglass back onto the counter with visible disappointment.
"In Rome," he continued, still sounding deeply disturbed, "a host serving this to geusts would be considered an act of aggression."
I grinned, taking a sip from my own glass just to spite him.
"Well, welcome to modern Britain," I said. "Where we drink cheap wine and pretend it tastes sophisticated."
His dark eyes narrowed slightly at me, though amusement flickered there now beneath the disdain.
"Your people conquered half the world," he murmured, stepping closer, "and somehow forgot how to make proper wine."
"It's more your people than mine," I said lightly before I could stop myself.
The words lingered between us longer than they should have.
Marcus's expression shifted almost immediately, because now we both knew. That despite how Marcus mourned for what could've been between us, I had not entirely belonged to his world. I was not truly Roman.
The amusement faded from his face as he slowly rounded the kitchen island toward me.
"Elena," he said quietly.
I looked away first, suddenly far too interested in the wineglass between my fingers.
Without another word, Marcus slid both arms around my waist and pulled me gently against him. The warmth of him surrounded me instantly, solid and grounding in a way I was beginning to depend on far too much.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
The question was soft, but there was something almost cautious beneath it now, like he feared the answer.
I swallowed, gazing up into his eyes.
"I don't know," I admitted quietly. "I think part of me is still trying to process everything Garrick had said."
Marcus's jaw tightened faintly at the mention of him, though his hands remained gentle where they rested against my waist.
"What happened after I left?" I asked. "Last night."
Something dark flickered across his face then.
"I nearly killed him," Marcus admitted calmly. "Had Samuel not intervened over the phone, I likely would have." He exhaled slowly through his nose before continuing. "Garrick eventually left on his own accord. Though not before warning me that his family would not abandon this matter easily."
My chest tightened.
"And you?"
His eyes softened slightly as they settled on me again.
"I cleaned your flat," he said simply. "Then I left because I feared seeing me would only anger you further." A faint, humorless smile crossed his mouth. "And because I have learned modern women apparently dislike men killing each other inside their homes."
I frowned. "He's never going to leave this alone, is he?"
"I am afraid not," Marcus admitted quietly, his thumb brushing slowly along my cheek. "Not unless I return to my own time."
The words hollowed something inside me instantly.
I shut my eyes and buried my face against his shoulder, my arms slipping around his waist as exhaustion finally settled heavily into my bones.
"I just want peace," I whispered. My fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of his shirt. "I want to go to work, come home to you and be held like this at the end of the day."
His arms tightened around me with startling firmness.
"You can," he said, his voice low with quiet conviction. "I will see to it myself."
I lifted my head slowly, resting my chin against his chest as I looked up at him.
The determination in his face almost frightened me sometimes. Marcus loved with the same intensity he probably once marched into battle with.
"I don't even know what to do anymore," I admitted softly.
His gaze softened immediately at that.
"You do not need to solve everything tonight," he murmured. One of his hands slid into my hair, smoothing it back gently before tucking it behind my ear. "For now, you rest. You have spent the entire day tending to others while carrying burdens that would break most people."
A faint smile touched his mouth then, quieter this time.
"Allow me to care for you for once, Elena."
"Marcus..." I breathed, my voice fading the moment his lips found mine.
The kiss was soft at first, then deepened as his tongue gently pried my lips apart. His hand slid to the side of my neck, warm and steady, drawing me closer until all I could breathe in was him. His faint scent of spice, the cold night air and the wine lingering between us.
My fingers curled against his shoulders as he guided me backward, my hips meeting the edge of the kitchen counter.
Marcus pulled back only slightly, just enough for his forehead to rest against mine, his thumb traced slowly along my jaw.
"Curious," he murmured, his voice roughened by the kiss. "That dreadful wine somehow tastes sweeter from your mouth."
A breathless laugh escaped me.
His dark eyes lingering on my lips before lifting back to my gaze.
"This," he said quietly, brushing another kiss against the corner of my mouth, "is how you should have introduced it to me from the beginning." A faint smirk touched his face then. "Perhaps then I might have been persuaded to tolerate it."
I rolled my eyes softly despite the warmth spreading through my chest.
"You are impossible."
"And yet," he murmured, his arms tightening around my waist once more, "you continue allowing me near you."
I couldn't help the smile breaking across my lips as he kissed me again, slow and lingering this time. His hand drifting to the waistband of my pants. With one firm tug, my scrubs slipped down my legs before he effortlessly lifted me onto the countertop.
The sudden movement drew a soft gasp out of me, my hands instinctively finding his shoulders as he stepped between my knees. His hands firm on my thighs, keeping them spread apart between his hips.
Marcus's gaze lingered on my mouth for a moment too long before slowly trailing lower.
"Now," he murmured, his voice dropping into something darker, roughened by want, "I begin to wonder whether the wine would taste sweeter elsewhere."
Heat rushed instantly to my cheeks.
"Marcus—"
A faint smile touched his lips, thoroughly pleased by my reaction.
"From between your thighs," he finished softly, his accent thickening around the words until they sounded almost decadent. "Like nectar worthy of the gods themselves."
Marcus held my gaze as he reached for his glass beside me, never once looking away as he brought it slowly to his lips.
I watched the way the wine slid past those lips, his throat working with the swallow, the movement of his Adam's apple drawing my attention in a way that felt almost obscene. The warm kitchen light caught against the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble shadowing his skin, the mouth that kissed me breathless only moments ago.
God, even drinking wine somehow looked dangerous on him.
His tongue swept briefly across his lower lip, catching the remaining taste before his darkened gaze lifted back to mine.
"Still dreadful," he murmured softly.
I laughed breathlessly, though the sound caught in my throat the moment he dipped his head lower, pressing slow kisses along the inside of my thigh.
Warmth bloomed beneath my skin instantly, my fingers tangling onto his dark hair as he settled himself between my legs like he belonged there.
"Marcus..." I whispered, my pulse already stumbling.
His hands tightened gently against my thighs, pulling me closer and keeping me exactly where he wanted me.
He glanced up at me from beneath dark lashes.
"There," he said quietly against my skin, his voice roughened into something almost reverent. "Far sweeter."
Then the world narrowed to the heat of his breathe, the softness of his lips between my thighs and the sweet, intoxicating blend of wine and flesh.