The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War by Aria Cunningham Page A

barely caught Clytemnestra’s eye before she was tossed into the outer chamber. Her sacrifice was not lost on the queen.
    “You need to learn your place, woman.” Menelaus growled in her ear as they neared their apartments.
    “Yes, My Lord.” Helen’s reply was automatic now, devoid of emotion. He would hit her if she ignored him, he would hit her if she shouted back. There was no reason to fight back, not when it only made her situation worse.
    He tossed the doors to their apartments open, scaring the chambermaids near to death. “Out!” he shouted as they scattered.
    He tossed Helen down on the bed, pushing the skirt of her chiton over her back. He lifted her hips, spreading her legs roughly as he fumbled at his breeches.
    “I am your lord.” He growled into her ear. “And You. Will. Mind. Me.” With each word he shoved himself violently into her, mounting her from behind. His engorged phallus was a sword that ripped her apart.
    She grasped the furs on her bed, trying to stabilize herself. It was difficult to stay balanced. Menelaus was a powerful man and he never held back when he took her. She thanked the gods how rare those events were.
    When he had spent himself, he collapsed on top of her, the weight of his body crushing the air from her lungs. “I will put a son in your belly. That should teach you to mind your mouth.”
    “Yes, My Lord.” She struggled to breathe. He rolled off her, and she pulled her legs up onto the bed, tucking into a small ball. She wished she had the fortitude to sit up, to shout her defiance at him from the rooftops. But everything inside her hurt. It took all her strength to not cry.
    “Get back to your duties.” He sneered, lacing himself back up and storming out of the room.
    The room was eerily quiet when he left. Helen sat unmoving for a time beyond her counting. The silence flooded through her, allowing her a brief moment where nothing existed. Not Menelaus, not Mycenae, and not her broken dreams.
    You should not provoke him , a little voice inside her warned. Agamemnon treats him like a child. How should he react when his wife affords him no respect either?
    She propped herself up onto the embroidered pillows covering her bed, but that only served to give her a better view to the door of the adjoining servant’s quarters. She glared at it, pouring all her hurt into that mournful stare.
    If you loved him better, he would not seek comfort in the arms of another.
    That room had never housed a servant. She learned quickly why Menelaus spent all his time in the stables. He liked to keep his lover close. He spent their wedding night in that room, rutting another man. Even now, ten years later, he preferred to sleep in Sabineus’ bed than in hers.
    She moved in a daze. Her dress was torn. It would never do to be seen in court in such a state. She let the garment drop to the ground and selected another. Without conscious thought, she grabbed her wedding robes, the soft linen caressing her skin as she tied her belt in place. Her hair came next. She began to pleat her golden locks, but when she was half done she caught a glimpse of herself in the bronze mirror by her bed. Her hands dropped uselessly at her side.
    What was the point of it all? Why replace the damage Menelaus caused? Her beauty only caused her more troubles. If it was not her brute husband, then it was Agamemnon who visited her bed, eager to possess his brother’s prize. She could not believe Nestra said coupling could be pleasurable. It only filled her with pain and loathing.
    She tore at her braids, a wild cry escaping her lips. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders.
    “Princess?” A timid knock came from the door. Aethra had returned. Helen ignored her, staring at her reflection in a daze. The woman in the mirror was a wild thing, not a princess at all. When the knocking became more insistent, she grabbed her crimson cloak and fled through the back door.
    The wind had picked up, ushering in a great mist