Why she chose to run.
When I find her, I’ll give her exactly what she refuses to admit she wants.
Me.
The barmaid slides meat-laden plates before myself and Terros, boasting hunks of chargrilled colk wafting rich, fragrant steam. I cut into my serving, revealing shreds of fatty pink flesh I couple with some of the creamy slaw, moaning around the gluttonous mouthful.
“Good, right?” I ask, looking at Terros.
He grunts, stuffing his mouth with another laden bite, stare stabbed toward the back wall while he chews.
Moody fucker. Not even a thank you. Doesn’t he know manners are important?
Maybe I will make him suffer after all. Lash him a little.
I finish my meal, drain my mug, then stub my fifth smoke stick in the tray as I ease off the stool. “I’m turning in.”
“Were we not going to debrief first?” one of the Arithians asks, frowning at me. Probably pissed I didn’t buy him and his comrade a meal, too.
I only buy meals for males I’m about to slaughter, so really, he’s the lucky one.
“Debrief?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Yes.” He cuts a beady glance toward Terros, who’s still munching through his meal, pretending he’s not listening—that he hasn’t been asked to report back once he returns to Dhomm. “Since we’re … you know, splitting off.”
Since they’re expected back in Arithia with any information they gleaned about Dhomm’s military status. Information they didn’t get since they ended up locked in their rooms under beaded guard the entire time.
I shrug. “Not my fault you failed.”
His face pales.
I’ve got one job: find the Princess. Something I will achieve. Their shortcomings don’t belong to me, the useless fucks.
“I’ve got a warm mouth waiting for me in my sleep space, so unless you want to drop to your knees and choke on me while I tell you everything you want to know, you can practice some fucking patience.” I snatch my cloak and key from the barmaid who comes to clear my plate. “We’ll do it with the rise before we part ways.”
If I can be bothered, that is.
Ipull the door open, a smile cutting across my face when I see the shapely piece of ass stoking the large fireplace at the back of the room.
Warm satisfaction spreads through me at the sight of her clothed in scraps of lace visible through the sheer dark-green cloak she’s draped in, black hair piled on the top of her head. Her legs are long, hips round, waist tight—a curvy elegance to her that shoots straight to my hardening cock.
“Fuck,” I grind out, kicking the door shut behind me, tossing my cloak and gloves on the ground. I stalk forward, lifting loose tendrils of hair off her elegant neck, wrapping my hand around the back of it and gripping hard.
Perfect fit.
I pinch the edge of her cloak, easing it off her pale shoulder.
“Aren’t you a treat,” I groan, unbuttoning my leather pants. I reach in and fist my solid cock in slow, tight drags.
Just my type.
She stuffs the metal poker deeper into the flames, making the sizzling logs crumble and hiss. “You know,” she murmurs in a smooth voice that pumps more blood into my loins, “I’m not really a fan of fire.”
Weird thing to say to the male who just bought your body for the slumber.
“Why not?”
She makes a soft humming sound. “Might have something to do with the time I spent in the Pits.”
“Fighting pits?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Ahh, role-play. Not what I ordered, but fuck it. I’ll bite.
“Which ones?” I ask, easing her cloak off her other shoulder, feeling it drop to the floor at our feet.
“The Pits of Khindard …”
I chuckle against her warm flesh. “Sweetheart, nobody makes it out of those pits alive. That’s half the fun.” I use the tip of my finger to paint a slithering line down her spine. “Unless you’re trying to tell me you’re Fire Lark.”
This time, my chuckle is met with her own lilting laugh.
“Glei te ah no veirie,” she whispers, and all the breath escapes my lungs in the same instance her hand swings back.
Something sharp impales my thigh before she tosses a wooden handle into the fire, dispersing a blast of sparks as a chilling, nulling silence settles within me.
What.
The.
Fuck.
I stumble back, cradling my throat, my chest jerking for breath I can’t catch. My other hand drops to my thigh, sweeping through the warm, wet liquid leaking from the wound, fingers coming up so I can see the—