Chapter 1: The Wrapped Relic

Present Day, Monastery of Agios Nikolaos, Greece

Sahara Quinn wiped sweat from her brow with a dusty forearm, leaving a smudge of dirt across her sun-kissed skin. The Greek summer sun beat down mercilessly on the archaeological dig site, but Sahara barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on the curious anomaly in the monastery’s foundation wall—a section that, according to her ground-penetrating radar, shouldn’t be solid stone.

“Hand me the small pick, Dimitri,” she said, extending her hand without looking up.

Dimitri’s eyes lingered on Sahara’s figure as she bent over the wall, the curve of her ass perfectly outlined by her cargo pants. He had been lusting after her since the moment she arrived, her lithe, athletic build, and firm breasts testing his self-control. Today, she wore a tight-fitting white crop top that accentuated her cleavage and toned midriff, leaving little to the imagination. Her sun-kissed skin glowed under the relentless Greek sun, smooth and warm to the touch. Dimitri couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel to run his hands over every inch of her body. Her ass was tight and round, often drawing attention from every man on the site. He shifted uncomfortably in his trousers, trying to focus on the task at hand, but his thoughts kept returning to her.

He finally placed the tool in her palm. “Sahara, we’ve been at this section for three days. Perhaps we should move to another area of the—”

“There’s something here,” Sahara interrupted, her voice carrying the quiet certainty that had become her trademark in the field. “The radar doesn’t lie. This section is different.”

She tapped the wall gently with the pick, listening to the subtle changes in sound as the metal struck stone. Most people wouldn’t notice the difference, but to Sahara’s trained ear, it was as obvious as a shout in a library. Hollow. There was definitely a space behind this section of wall.

At twenty-four, Dr. Sahara Quinn was younger than most field directors, but her reputation for finding what others missed had earned her the respect of colleagues twice her age. Her PhD dissertation on “Erotic Rituals in Ancient Mesopotamia: A Reexamination of Ishtar’s Temple” had been published in the Journal of Archaeological Science—a rare honor for a doctoral candidate—and had led directly to this grant to investigate the 12th-century monastery built atop much older ruins. At publication it had caused quite a stir in academic circles, not just for its groundbreaking insights but also for its highly sexual nature. Some reviewers had even remarked that it read more like a porn novel than a scholarly work. The vivid descriptions of ancient erotic practices and the explicit interpretations of Ishtar’s rituals had pushed boundaries, making her both admired and controversial in the academic world.

She worked methodically, carefully removing mortar from between the stones, her movements precise and economical. Her cargo pants and fitted white tank top were covered in the fine dust that permeated everything at the dig site, but she remained focused on the task at hand, oblivious to her appearance.

“Dr. Quinn,” called a voice from the monastery entrance. “The director of antiquities is here for the weekly inspection.”

Sahara suppressed a sigh. Nikolaos Papadakis was a bureaucrat first and an archaeologist second—more concerned with paperwork than discovery. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

She handed the pick back to Dimitri. “Keep working on this section. Carefully. I think we’re close.”

Dimitri nodded, taking her place as she stood and brushed ineffectually at the dust covering her clothes. She pulled a bottle of water from her pack, took a long drink, and headed toward the monastery’s main entrance where Papadakis would be waiting, no doubt with a clipboard full of forms requiring her signature.

She wetted the gap between her breasts with the bottle of water, knowing it wouldn’t hurt to expand her femininity a bit to speed up Papadakis’s signing off. The sun heated the golden sundisks permanently attached to her breasts, a remnant of the trials she had endured in the Temple of Ishtar the year before. The disks kept her nipples permanently erect, a constant reminder of that ordeal and a pain in the ass to explain at airport security. The cool water trickling down her cleavage offered a brief respite from the heat, but the weight of the sundisks was a persistent, unyielding presence.

As she walked through the cool, stone corridors of the monastery, Sahara’s mind remained on the anomalous wall section. After three weeks of methodical excavation and documentation, this was the first truly exciting development. The monastery’s known history was fascinating enough—built in the 12th century, occupied continuously until the late 19th century, then abandoned until its recent designation as a historical site. But Sahara was convinced that beneath the medieval Christian structure lay something far older and more significant.

Papadakis stood in the courtyard, impeccably dressed despite the heat, not a drop of sweat visible on his forehead. His assistant hovered nearby, clutching the expected clipboard.

Papadakis looked her body over as she approached, his gaze lingering on her wet crop top clinging to her curves and the golden sundisks glinting in the sunlight. His lips parted slightly, but he quickly composed himself, offering a curt nod. “Ms. Quinn,” he greeted her with a thin smile. “I trust the excavation proceeds according to schedule?”