Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
Maybe I’m particular, but I’d rather be touched by familiar hands than a stranger’s, no matter how eager the stranger.
But that’s not looking like an option. Maybe I can slip away for a couple of weeks once Magpie has a team of fledglings established. Take the fastest coach I can—or find someone with a teleportation stone—and head for one of the Taurian festivals out in the plains to the south and just fuck everything moving for a week straight.
The odds of that happening fill me with a vague sense of despair, but I’m low on options. At least the Taurian festival is free. Any sex worker in Vastwarren City during the Conquest Moon is going to charge a premium. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I admit to Raptor, gazing out at the sea of people crowding into the benches in the hall. I turn back to my brother Taurian, considering. “I think—”
An umbrella comes out of nowhere and smacks Raptor on the arm. His eyes flare with anger and he turns so hard and so fast that the stranger—a woman—immediately stumbles into me, a mouselike squeak in her throat.
I automatically grab her and save her before she pitches to the floor. Perhaps it’s all the years of practice with Magpie. My arm goes around a sturdy, corseted waist, and I haul the woman against me like a bride, because it’s either that or dump her on the floor.
This isn’t helping the latent heat pulsing through my veins. The Conquest Moon might be a month away, but I’m already feeling the effects.
The stranger’s eyes go very wide and she takes in my features. I’d bet a handful of pennies that she’s never seen a Taurian this close before—there’s something about her demeanor that speaks of being sheltered. She gapes at me, at my bull-head and horns, at the jewelry on my ears and nose. I scowl in her direction, releasing her.
“Watch where you’re going,” I snap. “You could get trampled.”
“It is rather crowded,” she admits, straightening herself and then shaking out her umbrella, which causes water to rain all over me and a few others. “Oops. My apologies.” Her gaze goes to me again, and then to my shirt. “Oh dear.”
I look down. Soaked orange fur clings to my sleeve in clumps, transferred from her clothing.
“Sorry,” she says quickly, plucking the clump I hold up out of my grasp. “That’s from my cat. She’s quite the shedder. Just ignore all that.”
Raptor muffles a snort of amusement, looking at me over the woman’s head as she continues to pat my arm, pulling off bits of wet fur from my linen sleeves. Maybe it’s just the oncoming rut making my mind focus on all the wrong things, but I can’t stop staring at her.
She’s interesting, I think, in the way unexpected things are. Her cheeks are flushed pink, her clothing well-made if drab, and it’s all soaked and clinging to what looks like a fine, plump, sturdy figure. She’s tall, nearly coming to my chin. It’s a fine height for a female, and the fact that she’s built solidly makes me think about her in lascivious ways that are most definitely rut-influenced. Her face is human, so I don’t know if she’s what they would consider pretty or not, but her eyes are big and dark and expressive, and her fingers are blunt with short nails.
And busy. She has very busy fingers. If she pets my sleeve one more time, my cock is going to act up.
“Leave it be,” I tell the drenched woman, and then because everyone in the hall is staring at her, I add helpfully, “You shouldn’t be here.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. She stiffens, all softness leaving that face of hers. Her mouth flattens into a line of distaste and her head rears back. “Is that so?”
“You see any other women here?” Raptor joins in.
The woman turns to him, scowling, and for a moment, I think she’s going to hit him with her umbrella again, and then I’ll really have to step in. “This is the Royal Artifactual Guild’s annual meeting, isn’t it?”
“It is,” says a nearby human man. “Are you lost?”
Her expression gets even more brittle, the color on her cheeks heightening. “Not at all. I’m here to join.”
The woman’s voice carries across the large chamber, and I’m not entirely surprised when all the men burst into laughter. They take one look at her—young, disheveled, female, and alone—and laugh as if they’ve seen nothing funnier.
“Where’s your chaperone, love?” one of the men calls out.
“Go back home to Daddy,” calls another.
More laughter rings out.
To her credit, the woman’s expression only grows harder, more determined. “I fail to see what’s so very amusing.” She pulls out a soaked pamphlet from her bodice and shakes it open. “The bylaws state that anyone may join if they arrive by Swansday and present themselves as a fledgling.” She looks up from her reading, scanning the room. “Is that not the case?”