Authors: Julia Mills
Fury of Her King
Kings of the Blood ~ Book 2
No One Escapes Destiny…
Not Even the King.
© 2016 Julia Mills
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be
reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written
permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book
: This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of
the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This is an adult erotic paranormal romance with love
scenes and mature situations. It is only intended for adult readers over the
age of 18.
Edited by Lisa Miller, Angel Editing Services
Proofread by Tammy Payne with Book Nook Nuts
Cover Designed by Linda Boulanger with Tell Tale Book
Cover Model Christian Petrovich
Photographer Eric David Battershell with Eric Battershell
Formatted by Charlene Bauer with Wickedly Bold Creations
Dare to Dream! Find the Strength to Act!
Never Look Back!
Thank you, God.
To my girls, Liz and Em, I Love You. Every
day, every way, always.
To Kelli Smith, thank you for pushing me
to continue in this amazing world of the Kings!
You are the best!!
Also by Julia Mills
The Dragon Guard Series
Her Dragon to Slay, Dragon Guard #1
Her Dragon’s Fire, Dragon Guard #2
Haunted by Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #3
For the Love of Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #4
Saved by Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #5
Only for Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #6
Fighting for Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #7
Her Dragon’s Heart, Dragon Guard #8
Her Dragon’s Soul, Dragon Guard #9
The Fate of Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #10
Her Dragon’s No Angel, Dragon Guard #11
Her Dragon, His Demon, Dragon Guard #12
Resurrecting Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #13
The Scars of Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #14
Her Mad Dragon, Dragon Guard #15
Her Love, Her Dragon: The Saga Begins, A Dragon Guard
Kings of The Blood Series
VIKTOR: Heart of Her King ~ Kings of the Blood ~ Book 1
The ‘Not-Quite’ Love Story Series
Vidalia: A ‘Not-Quite Vampire Love Story
Phoebe” A ‘Not-Quite’ Phoenix Love Story
Zoey: A ‘Not-Quite’ Zombie Love Story
Index of Greek
as spoken by the Kings of the Blood
Fýlakas tis Kardiás Mou
……….Keeper of My Heart
……….I Love You
Símera kai gia Pánta
……….Today and Forever
I Kardí Mou
O Vasiliás Mou
Apópse eínai i próti nýchta tis mas gia
Tonight is the
First Night of Our Forever
I mitéra mou
O Aderfós Mou
Me óla aftá pou eímal
……….With All That I am
……….Family Comes First
Three Thousand Years ago…
Staring at the stars in the cloudless sky above, only the warmth
of his own life’s essence flowing freely from his gaping chest wound to warm
him against the cruelty of the desert after nightfall, the mighty General
prayed for the sweet release of death. The rattle of his own labored breathing
counted down the moments until he would join his beloved family on the shores
of the Elysian Fields. The stench and sting of betrayal was all that forced his
failing heart to continue to beat as the sounds of frivolity from the traitor’s
camp tainted an otherwise peaceful evening, which was to be his last.
Scenes of battles long past floated through his mind…a litany to
his legacy. Romanus the Warrior, man of prophecy, leader of the downtrodden.
The man who sprung from the womb with a spear in one hand and a shield in the
other. Victory after victory in his long illustrious years of devoted service
all fought in the name of his homeland, all for the people he sought to free,
were there to usher him into the afterlife. There was not a memory to be found
that did not center around the blood of the unrighteous staining his blade or
the shouts of war ringing in his ears. His dry, cracked lips curved into the
smallest of smiles as he remembered how the mere mention of his name struck
fear in the hearts of those who stood against the great Grecian army.
Then came the recollection of his most recent crusade. Cruel and
brutal in its unabashed recount of every detail of the bloodbath he and his
troops suffered at the hands of the enemy within. The perfectly planned ambush
sprang up just seconds after the Persians aimed their spears and drew their
bowstrings. Those he had thought comrades, the men he had trained, had fought
alongside, had in some cases pulled from the jaws of death, turned their backs
on Romanus and the few hundred hoplite who remained loyal to him and their
beloved Greece. In the blink of an eye they were fighting a war on two fronts,
outmanned and attempting to regroup with a third of their original force, the
Grecians suffered massive casualties at the point of the spears held by friends
and family before the first Persian arrow flew.
He should have seen it coming. The tides of change were upon the
legendary army. The wounds of the loss of their dear Supreme Commander to
treachery and deceit within the government were still festering among the
ranks. The years since his death and the continued corruption had only served
to blacken the hearts of many good men. Seeing one so revered, so loved, so
loyal to each man, woman, and child of every city-state stripped of his
identity and left to die the foulest of deaths was a betrayal many could not
tolerate. Their ranks had dwindled to minimal numbers. Those they had fought
alongside they now fought against. Cruel were the hands of fate, but through it
all Romanus believed those who remained by his side were faithful and true. His
miscalculation of events resulted in not only the spear that protruded from his
chest and the gaping wound in his side but the death of five thousand loyal
Visions of the bodies still littering the battlefield, left
like skoupídia for the vermin, swam in and out of focus as his head, now too
heavy to stay upright, fell to the side. His feet and legs itched from the
dried blood of the fallen where it had caked upon the leather of his caligae
and coated the metal of the greaves meant to protect his shins.
He knew they had fought valiantly, had attempted to push back the
enemy and slay the traitors, but it simply was not meant to be. The life
essence of so many soaked the ground as if it were rain from the heavens, while
he and those few still devoted to their beloved Greece continued to fight,
dispensing justice with their swords as if Zeus himself handled the blades.
But the King of the Gods was nowhere to be found; neither was his
petulant son. Romanus prayed repeatedly to Ares, the god of war. He begged and
bargained, finally offering his mortal soul for the lives of the brave Greeks
still standing. To his utter despair, his pleas fell upon deaf ears. The hateful
deity had turned his back on his loyal followers and left them as fodder for
Climbing over more bodies of the fallen to fight the advancing
hordes, the mighty General called to the goddess of war and wisdom, “Sweetest,
Artemis, show favor upon your chosen warriors. Smite those who would connive
and conspire to overthrow the justice of your most honored city.”
But again, his prayers went unanswered as the war raged on and the
carnage continued. Only his iron will and refusal to accept defeat kept Romanus
on his feet. One foot in front of the other, another slash of his blade, more
blood and more death, the dead eyes of young men who had trusted him to lead
them to victory stared up at him from where they had been struck down by their
Finally, the General was the only Grecian left standing.
Surrounded by the enemy, he readied his sword against at least fifty men. Long,
tense seconds ticked by as his heart beat like the thundering hooves of a
stallion. Looking into the faces of the Persians, he saw hatred. Staring into
the faces of those he had called brother, he saw sympathy.
“Don’t pity me, you soulless dogs. May you spend eternity in
torment on the banks of the River Styx without an obolus to pay Charon for your
treachery,” he spat, baiting them to attack. His need to put an end to the
damnable waiting outweighed all thoughts of self-preservation.
Still they did not attack. Opening his mouth to shout another
insult, Romanus instead spun to the right as the sound of approaching hooves
reached his ears. There, sitting atop his mount was Xenophanes, his
half-brother and apparent leader of the prodités.
“You?” the General hissed.
With a smug laugh and evil grin, the one-time battalion leader
answered, “Yes, Romanus, me.”
Xenophanes directed his stallion forward until the horse’s snout
almost touched the General’s cheek, then leaning over the animal’s neck, the
rebel leader boasted, “I now command an army of five thousand and you, dear
brother, will die in the sand like the plebian you have always been.”
“Face me like a man, you coward. Dismount and face me, blade to
blade,” Romanus shouted. Then narrowing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he
growled, “Or are you afraid, dear brother?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Romanus, you will not bait me into a fool’s fight.
We all know who is superior with a blade. I have no qualm conceding that honor
to you.” He chuckled sarcastically. “I will even have them bury you with it.”
Turning his horse, the bastard son of Romanus’ father started back the way he
came then over his shoulder commanded, “Kill him and make it quick. I owe him
that at the very least.”
Before the General could respond he was engaged in the fight of
his life against ten Grecian swordsmen he himself had trained. The Persians had
backed away and stood cheering on his opposition. Steel clashed, sparks flew,
more blood soaked the earth under his feet as one by one, Romanus cut the
At the count of fifteen dead, the General saw no end in sight. As
one conspirator hit the ground another took his place. The muscles of his arms
and legs burned from the exertion. The weight of his sword seemed to double and
then triple. Sweat poured down his face, neck, and back, wetting his woolen
tunic and causing his hands to slip on the hilt of his sword.
Stumbling over the bodies of the dead while crossing blades with
Daidalos, another of his former pupils, Romanus fell to one knee. Blocking the
defector’s downward strike by holding his sword over his head with one hand on
the hilt and the other on the blade, the impact shook the mighty General to his
core as blood rained down on his face from the gash across his palm caused by
the razor-sharp edge of his weapon.
Rolling away to the side, Romanus was barely on his feet when the
traitor struck again...over and over, just as the General had trained him to
attack. Romanus could do no more than defend against the masterful attack from
the determined swordsman. Looking his foe in the eye, the General saw true
regret. It was then he knew these men, his men, had defected not because of
their beliefs or convictions, but under coercion and—he imagined—threats to
those they loved.
He knew what had to be done. It had to end here. He would not kill
a mere child who was being forced to fight. A calm unlike any other filled his
body. He nodded and smiled then dropped his sword to his side.
Daidalos stopped mid thrust. With a look of utter confusion upon
his face, the young soldier whispered, “Master?”
Another nod and Romanus answered, “Do what you must. I go to the
Elysian Fields with a clear conscience and light heart. It is you who must pray
from your soul, dear boy.”
“But…” Daidolos’ words were lost as a large Persian pushed the
young soldier to the ground and shoved his short spear through Romanus’ chest
plate while sneering, “Die already, you Greek bastard.”
The sounds of cheers and laughter reached his ears as the mighty
Grecian General crumpled to the ground. The last rays of his last day on earth
glittered off the metal armor of the fallen as far as his eye could see. He
listened to the Persian’s exaggerated retelling of his victory. At least the
cur was a good story teller for he was the poorest of warriors.
The sound of footsteps in the darkness floated on the wind,
pulling the General from his musings. He immediately assumed the intruder
approaching over the far ridge opposite the enemy camp was one of the many
beggars who haunted the abandoned battlefields in order to pilfer from the
fallen as a means of survival. Closer and closer, louder and louder, the sounds
of stiff leather striking sand echoed through his mind like the beat of the
drum in the coliseum.
“Finally, the grim reaper has come to take me home.” He wheezed
the slurred words as the long shadow of a man covered his body a moment before
a voice he had been sure he would never hear again sadly chuckled, “Look what
has become of you in my absence, agapité fíle.”
“Commander?” Romanus rasped, sure he was seeing ghosts in the past
moments of his life.
“Yes, Romanus, it is I.” Viktoras’ image blurred in and out of
focus as he knelt at the General’s side.
“How can this be? Are you demon or are you specter?”
“I am neither, General. I am man, as I always was.” Viktoras did
indeed sound as he had before his death, the steel of command coloring his tone
even as Romanus could feel the other man’s regret at the fate befallen him.
“This cannot be. I saw you dead. I lowered your broken body
into a hole in the earth and prayed for your soul’s release. Please torment me
no more. Leave me to fade in peace. I have seen Zeus’ eagle in the sky and know
he will return to carry my soul home.”
The vision of his Commander slowly shook its head. “You always
were the most stubborn of all my men, Romanus.” The specter pulled a knife from
under his cloak and sliced across the palm of his hand. “Do I not bleed?”
Struggling to catch his breath, Romanus weakly nodded then gasped,
“But…” Unable to complete his rebuttal as he spat blood at the ghost of his old
friend, the General’s head rolled to the side. Shadows framed what was left of
his vision as he strained to see what the memory of Viktoras would do next.
The specter placed his hands on either side of Romanus’ face and
raised it from where it lay on the ground until their noses actually touched.
Through gritted teeth, the ghost growled, “It is not your time, Romanus of
Greece. You have many battles left to fight. The time has come for you to
embrace a new future. I know this is beyond all comprehension but be assured,
all your questions will be answered when you revive anew, ready to live the
life befitting a warrior of your stature.”
“Enough, Romanus,” the Supreme Commander’s likeness ordered. “You
have remained loyal unto the end. You have been betrayed and left for dead.
Yes, the life you have lived thus far will soon be forfeit, but you, great
warrior, are destined for things only the gods have dreamt of. You have lost
much blood. Your soul seeks the release only Zeus’ mighty eagle can provide. I
am going to remove this spear.” Viktoras touched the wooden shaft protruding from
the General’s chest. “Your heart will cease to beat. Your lungs will no longer
draw breath. You will be buried here in the desert by my own hands.”
The Commander shifted as he spoke, looking over his shoulder with
fury at the party raging in honor of Romanus’ death. Taking a deep breath, he
continued, “Thirty days will come and go while your body rests and transforms.
As the sun touches the horizon on the night of the thirty-first day, you shall
rise. Your heart will again beat. Your lungs will again draw breath and you, my
friend and loyal General, will be made immortal. You will serve Zeus himself as
a King of the Blood. You will serve a higher purpose. You will smite the
enemies that mortals cannot, those who threaten the world so generously given to
us by the gods. You will live in resurrection as you have lived in life—a
warrior amongst the masses with a worth beyond measure.”