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The one who had curved herself around the archway into the parlor and regarded him with open curiosity.
The one who had taken it upon herself to sit at his elbow at each meal he attended.
Indeed, he had been making an effort to descend unto the dining table for at least First and Last Meal. He had some thought that the activity would speed his healing, and up until this moment, he’d felt as though it was right to force himself to go.
But he had neither the interest nor the energy to deal with what had breached his doorway.
“You are in the wrong bedroom,” he said. “Go now.”
The female took a step forward, the light streaming in from behind her illuminating the outline of her body as it was draped in some diaphanous dressing gown. “But you are ill.”
“I am well enough.”
“Mayhap I can help you.” Her voice was soft. “Mayhap . . . I can make it better.”
As she turned to shut the door—to ensure a privacy that was the very last thing Rhage wanted—he sat up sharply and let out a groan. And then the room was plunged into darkness once more, and he had the sense she was walking over to him.
“No,” he snapped as he willed the door back open.
She froze as illumination flooded in once more. “But, sire . . . do you not find me . . . acceptable?”
“As a meal companion, certainly.” He held the sheets tightly over his chest, a classic pose of virtue that was laughable given his proclivities. “Nothing more than that—”
Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe. Tears.
Even though he could not see her face because of the orientation of the hall lighting, he was well aware of her escalating state of agitation and hurt: The acrid scent of tears emanated from her, much like the delicate fragrance of her arousal, and he truly, utterly wished to be absent of both.
“Forgive me for speaking so rashly,” he muttered. “You are of much virtue and beauty. But I am not what you are looking for.”
The female glanced back at the door, as if she were contemplating another closing attempt—no doubt because she had been ordered to complete this mission or not return to whatever wing she and her mahmen had been put in. Yes, she may desire him, but no female of any breeding would come thus into any male’s room—unless the suggestion had been placed there by an elder relation who saw much benefit to a forced mating ceremony.
“That door is staying open,” he said firmly, “and you are going back to the bedroom you share with your mahmen.”
“But . . . but . . .”
“Return unto your mahmen.” He did his best to keep his exhaustion from making his tone too cutting. “This is not about you, and there is nothing wrong with you. But it is never happening between you and me. Ever. I only like females who are experienced and free of complications. You, my dear, fulfill neither of those requirements.”
Talk about shutting doors—well, certain doors. But he had to make sure she understood there was no future in this.
“You deserve more than what I can give you,” he said, tempering his voice. “So you go and find yourself a nice male from a good bloodline, yes? And leave the likes of me alone.”
At this point, he had no clue what he was telling her. He just wanted her out.
“You are a hero.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “You fight for the race. You keep us safe. Who could e’er be more worthy than you—”
“I am a soldier and a killer.” And cursed by the Scribe Virgin. “I am not what you’re looking for. You have a wonderful life awaiting you, and you must endeavor to go find it. Elsewhere.”
Out in the hall, a figure passed by, and Rhage whistled.
The Jackal, as the male turned out to be, pivoted and presented his form unto the open doorway. In a dry voice, he murmured, “Somehow I cannot believe this is a situation that requires an audience.”
How wrong you are, Rhage thought. And not because he was an exhibitionist.
“Ellany was just leaving,” he said. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to hold the door open for her.”
Across the tense air, the female lowered her head and sniffled. Then she gathered her gossamer robing unto her breasts and scooted out past the other male.
“Shit,” Rhage muttered as he collapsed back into the pillows. “I cannot wait to get out of here.”
“I must confess,” the Jackal said, “I am unsure how to respond to that. Given the opportunity you just turned down.”
“That is not an opportunity, that is another kind of prison, the warden of which is her virtue, or rather, the loss thereof. And there is no response necessary from you—no, wait. That is incorrect. I bid you, breathe deeply the now.”
