“Where did he
go?” She tried to sound demanding, but could hear the shrill note in her voice.
“Where did you send him? If he’s hurt…”
“He’s quite
well. I didn’t send him anywhere; he’s merely been banished from this plane
back to his rightful one. At this moment, he’s doubtless waking up beside his handsome
king.”
She hadn’t
known for certain until he’d just confirmed it that he’d been the one to dispel
Oliver from the meeting. Why? What did he want with her?
Her mind
conjured a half-dozen images of prisoner torture: racks, and hammers, and
nails, and boiling oil.
“Be calm,”
Romanus said, which made her less calm.
“Can you read
my mind?” she blurted, before anything like logic could guide her toward a
safer topic.
The corners
of his pale lips quirked upward in the faintest of smiles. She had no idea how
old he was, if he was truly immortal, as legend claimed, but his face was
smooth and unlined. Even his attempted grin didn’t offer any smile lines or
dimples; no sign of a life spent finding anything humorous.
“No. I
cannot,” he said. “But you reek of fear. It’s unnecessary.”
“Considering
your men attacked mine on the road, through a massive hole in the sky no less,
I think I’ll beg to differ.”
He stroked
his chin, expression considering. “I’m surprised you survived that attack.”
A cold child
skittered down her back. She pictured her pallet in her tent, the camp where
her body lay sleeping, but when she tried to send herself there, she came up
against a hard wall. He was keeping her here. And the twitch of his mouth for a
second time said he’d felt her attempt to flee.
“I have a
drake,” she said. “I have five drakes. I won’t be easy to kill.”
“Who says I
mean to kill you?”
“Don’t you?”
“No. Quite
the contrary.”
She blinked.
“What does that mean?”
He leaned
forward, and she leaned back in automatic reaction. “Give me your hand.” He
extended his own, large, elegant, and long-fingered. White as fresh cream.
She’d rarely
seen something more frightening.
“No.”
His fingers
curled and uncurled in invitation. “Come now. If I wanted to harm you, I
wouldn’t need your hand to do so.”
“Then what do
you need it for?”
“I want to
see something.”
Her grip on
the chair arms slipped, and she closed her fists tighter around them. “You can
see.”
“No.” Again,
he beckoned with his fingers. “Your hand, please, my lady.”
She found it
both hilarious and terrifying that he was so mannerly. How many nations had he
invaded? How many men had he slaughtered? His soldiers were slaves born into
captivity, forced to fight, and yet he said please.
It was
curiosity rather than obedience that finally lifted her hand and placed the
back of it in his palm. She didn’t think he could hurt her here—though, truly,
she had no idea of what he was capable. But she wanted to see what he would do.
What he wanted to see.
I’m so excited! I love this series so much!
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