Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Right?
Right! Though like abilities often called to each other, drawing two people together. For war. Or romance. Look at her parents.
No! No reason to fear his voice either way. She had the strength to resist this king. Viori did not settle in. She paced at the foot of the pallet. “You expect me to share a bed with you?” she snapped. The outrage! “We’re total strangers.”
He huffed with irritation. “Pick a chair. The floor. I care not. The decision is yours. But be quick about it. You do not wish to provoke my ire, Red.”
Oh! He chose his comfort over hers? The honored guest? A worse outrage! “I will not spend the night in a chair or on the floor. Give me the pallet. You take the floor.”
“Stand there if you wish.” That said, he rolled to his side, effectively ending the conversation. Because, only seconds later, his breathing leveled out.
He’d...he’d...fallen asleep. The worst outrage of all.
Why, she should slay him to prove she could—yes, perfect plan. Why not save her brother the trouble? So Norok would take Micah’s place? So what? She’d kill him, too. So she would be harming a defenseless man? So. What? She’d done worse to others.
Except, she kind of sort of only wished to deal with this male. The one who’d given her jewels, provided a sumptuous meal and kept his hands to himself when a naked captive stood within reach.
“Moron,” she muttered, stomping to his side of the bed. If he handled the rest of his kingdom business this way, he was destined to fail against far weaker foes than Kaysar.
Did Micah truly slumber? In front of an enemy, no less? He wasn’t pretending?
The absurdity of such an action! The absolute folly! Yet there he lay, unmoving. He must be dozing.
“You need to learn a valuable lesson—the same lesson I was forced to learn far too early in life,” she muttered, testing him. “Prepare to hurt.”
He didn’t stir.
“I’ll strike. See if I won’t.”
Nothing.
Well. For Viori, a threat was a promise. As she prepared to punt him in the gut, she remembered, He promised to keep me safe. And so far he had—even from himself. How could she do this to him?
She balled her hands into fists. She believed in like for like. Tit for tat. Most people earned their tat in a matter of minutes. He hadn’t. Not yet. But he would. Wouldn’t he?
Argh! She rocked to her heels, curiosity replacing irritation. When he was awake, he exuded the most piercing—and sublime—intensity, and she had trouble looking away. But even as she stared, she’d failed to take in his individual features, too firmly snared by the total package.
Shouldn’t she seize this opportunity to examine his smaller details?
Canting her head, she studied him without interference for the first time. His features were softer than usual. Almost boyish. Long, black lashes curled at the ends. He possessed skin so perfectly pale, every inch seemed painted over muscle. High, sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Black scruff covered his jaw and throat and—hmm. What was this? Peeking from the neckline of his tunic was a spot of thick, raised tissue. As if he possessed a... What was the word? A scar? Yes, that was it. Scar. She’d seen them on humans. Did Micah have one? But how? He was fae. Fae didn’t scar...unless they were chimeras, like Micah? Whatever chimeras were. She still didn’t know.
Curious to see if the scar extended, Viori knelt and reached out to pinch a section of Micah’s tunic. Slowly, so slowly, she drew the material aside. Her heart thudded with anticipation and nerves; her fingers shook.
Had he just tensed?
Jolting to her senses, she froze. What are you doing? If he awoke, discovered her hands on him and demanded to return the contact...
She shuddered. Yes, shuddered. Tremors of distaste and nothing else. Definitely not excitement.
Scowling, she dashed from him. Obviously, she required time to regroup, her sanity teetering. But she wasn’t as moronic as Micah. She wouldn’t be sleeping. However, she would find a place to close her eyes and think, welcoming peace and common sense back into her mind.
Yes. Excellent plan. Zero flaws. She plopped into the chair—as good a spot as any—and spent far too long contorting this way and that, attempting to get comfy. No luck. With a flare of temper, she flung herself to the ground. Grumbles escaped as she tried again to find a cozy position. Gah! The dirt was too rigid. Too cold.
Only one alternative...
She peeked at Micah under her lashes. The unwise king snoozed on, undisturbed by her torture. And it was beyond irritating. He deserved whatever pain Kaysar visited upon him; he truly did.
A sharpening mood drove her to her feet again. Micah rolled to his back, moving for the first time, flinging an arm over the side of his face. A tendril of his warmth wafted from him, enveloping her...urging her closer. And closer.