The sound of my full name lands like a slap to the face, almost buckling my knees.
“Yes, Rhordyn?”
By the way the muscle along his jaw ticks, I’d say he doesn’t appreciate my challenging tone. But I refuse to be wounded game in front of this woman that exudes such feminine poise. Especially when I’m standing here looking like that bare rose bush.
“This is Zali”—he gestures sideways with a brusque sweep of his hand—”High Mistress of the East.”
I stare at him for another long beat before I finally sway my attention toward the woman hanging from his personal space.
I notice her hand is notched inside the cloak that’s falling off her like a dune, her head canted to the side. She has this look on her face—as if she’s listening to the unspoken words between us, perhaps waiting for me to detonate.
“My apologies. I didn’t see you standing there,” I say, shoving my hand in her direction.
The corner of her mouth kicks up, something akin to shock igniting her eyes, and she pulls her hand free.
Her grip is firm, palm surprisingly calloused—
She knows how to fight, then.
She’s a strong, composed woman who can obviously look after herself—a woman who wouldn’t suckle off Rhordyn’s hospitality like a newborn lamb.
Will he let her into his Den?
... Will shebleedfor him?
Acid fires up my throat like a torch, all the air slipping through my fishnet lungs.
“Laith. I’ve heard so much about you.” Her friendly voice is silky smooth, umber eyes veiling the wariness I don’t miss. “I’m hoping we’ll become well acquainted.”
“I highly doubt that,” I reply, dropping her hand. “And it’s Orlaith to you.”
Behind me, Baze chokes.
Rhordyn snatches my upper arm, and I’m dragged away, bag thumping against my thigh as I struggle to keep pace with his long, powerful strides.
“Ouch!” I gripe, being pulled past Baze who simply stands there, arms knotted over his chest, shaking his head.
He’s either embarrassed by me or he pities me. Neither option is ideal.
Rhordyn lugs me behind a tall hedge and spins, stepping right up into my personal space, eyes a silver storm that devastates my skin. “That was rude, immature, and so very—”
He stops mid-sentence.
Just ... stops.
“So verywhat,Rhordyn?”
His eyes harden.
“Pathetic,” he says with cold, steady precision. “It was just a hug. Nothing more. Don’t get caught up on it.”
My heart drops, a breath puffing out of me as if he stuck me through the lungs with a pointy stick.
Of course. How silly of me.
He folds his arms and my gaze darts to the inky cupla caught around his wrist—two bands that click together but can split to form separate cuffs.
He never usually bothers to wear the thing unless he’s at the Tribunal.
