“Join us,” I coax, tapping my fingers down my bare stomach to my spread thighs, bands of shadow holding them wide. “This is all for you.”
“I cannot.” His voice is the growl of a beast.
But I am not afraid. I feel that harsh rasp like the nip of teeth over sensitized flesh and I want more. I writhe against my bonds, taunting him, hoping he’ll break whatever self-imposed rules he seems to be bound to and finally give in.
“Destroy me,” I beg in a shameless whimper. “Please.”
“Gods!” His shadows burst apart and coalesce, crowding me in an instant and pleasuring me everywhere at once—a sleek, thick tendrilplunging in and curling deep with ruthless, erotic precision—and I tip violently over the edge.
And then he’s gone with a furious roar that rattles my bones.
I fly awake and it’s to a flurry of movement in my room as my handmaidens bustle into my bedchamber. I blink the sleep-crusted grit out of my eyes and resist the urge to stuff my head under the silk pillows, my heart and core still reverberating with pleasure.
What thefuckwas that?
My dreams have never been this chaotic and heated, fueled by an inhuman presence—a striking, towering male shrouded in shadow—and though my memories are clouded, the details slipping away, my skin is tight with awareness and my nightclothes are sticky with sweat.
It’s not the first time I’ve had these dreams—Laleh constantly bemoans my fondness for my fictional, nocturnal men—but this is the first time one has ever felt so visceral. In fact, I’m more than convinced that I climaxed in my sleep.Thank you, shadow lover.I can stillfeelthe caress of his magic on my overheated body, and the visceral memory of that last sensual touch has me blushing. I lift a hand up to my head and groan.
Solo sex hair. My favorite.
With a disgruntled sigh, I sit up. “What’s happening?” I ask one of the maidservants as she hurries in with a tray. The smell of hot roasted coffee fills the air, and that is more than enough incentive to crawl to the side of the bed and onto unsteady feet. With a yawn, I hurry over to the overladen table near the window.
“Breakfast, my lady,” my handmaiden says, and offers me a steaming cup of coffee. “Before the gladiatrix contest.”
I nearly spit out my mouthful. I shake my head. Foggy as I was, perhaps I’d heard her wrong. “For a moment there, I thought you saidgladiatrixcontest.”
She nods and points to a scroll on the side of my breakfast tray. “An exhibition of combat is the next challenge.” Her face is full ofpity as if I have little chance of surviving such a round. She’s probably right. “People are already making wagers on who might die,” she adds morbidly.
My mouth dries. The crown plans to put a few dozen girls into an arena and say,Fight it out, may the best one win? And any of the women who didn’t get to eat last night would be at a disadvantage today. How sadistic.
And shrewd,my mind supplies.
The riddle challenge from the night before could have been intended to reduce any combat advantage that the women from the House of Antares might have on the sands. They aren’t exactly devoted to knowledge, prioritizing muscles over mindfulness and all that. Well, with the exception of Clem, though she hadn’t succeeded, either. My skin prickles with nerves—in any combat scenario, Antares would definitely have the advantage over the scholars from Regulus or the artists from Fomalhaut. Or craftsmen like me.
Even if I’m strong from working the forge, I haven’t trained to battle from birth.
“Did the girls who didn’t get the questions right last night... make it?” I ask my handmaiden with trepidation, knowing that the servant grapevine would be buzzing. Everyone in the kitchens at the Saab Inn always has a finger on the pulse of gossip.
“They are alive,” she says, but doesn’t expand.
With numb fingers, I set down my cup and reach for the instructions. The first line—by order of the queen—has my stomach churning. I don’t even know why I am surprised that we would be expected to fight. Astride that gorgeous horse, she’d been the epitome of a warrior. She wouldn’t abide a soft woman for her son—a gladiatrix contest would sort the wolves from the sheep. Perhaps she was originally from the House of Antares.
Recalling my promise to myself about making the best of a bad situation, I scan the missive again. The only instructions the scrolloffers are to be ready by noon. Which gives me two hours to find the library or the forge. I decide on the second. I’ll go to the library later, with Clem, if she’s still here and up for it. I send up a prayer to anyone listening that she is alive and well.
I hurriedly stuff one of the pastries from the tray into my mouth, wrap a second into a napkin in case I see her, and inhale a second cup of coffee before rushing to the bathing room to complete my morning ablutions. When I emerge, I see the handmaidens have set out the attire I’m meant to wear: dark forest-green leathers with bright bronze accents bearing the crest of Aldebaran—a branching tree and a pair of scales—that are soft and polished, and beautifully tailored trousers and a tunic.
Considering the house insignia, I suspect all the women will be wearing something similar. Once dressed, I squat and jump and then twist my body in midair with a pleased grin. Supple, too.
“A single high tail, please, with looped intervals,” I tell the second, quieter handmaiden when she tackles my hair with a brush. I’ve been in enough scraps in the tavern to know that loose hair, especially as thick as mine is, can be a problem. The tail will keep it off my face, and once I know what I’ll be facing, I can either twist the looped sections into a bun at the top or tuck them into my shirt.
When she’s done, I hop up, snag my knee-high boots, and swiftly tuck my dagger into the inner sheath. I thrust the pastry for Clem into my pocket, and then I am heading for the door.
“My lady, your face!” the first handmaiden chides.
I pause on the threshold. I’m sure that face paint isn’t going to help me win any battles, but I don’t want them to get penalized for not doing their jobs. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for you to make sure I’m presentable,” I say, closing the door before they can protest.
The palace halls are bustling with servants, some carrying armfuls of linens, others breakfast trays. Though a few of the other chosen are milling about the corridor outside their quarters, no one paysme much notice—but then I am talented at being invisible when I’m not around deceitful, aggravating princes. Shoving him from my mind, I take a moment to admire the massive gold-framed murals of both battle and bucolic scenes that line the walls, detailing some of the history of Kaldari. Everything about this palace is drenched in opulence... and yet something feels off.
