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His eyes dropped to my breasts.
“Besides,” I added, “I need a little aggression in my life.”
He moved decidedly closer, his fingers sliding lower. I speculated whether suffering Kol’s attentions to get his scent was worth the damn effort, but was so glad I did when Borgus’s nostrils flared and a frown puckered his wide brow. Straightening, he dropped his hand from my waist and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
I took his hand and let him lead me to the stifling dance floor. He maneuvered near a corner and swept me into his arms in a waltzing fashion, one hand holding my hand in a loose grip, the other on my lower back, pressing me close. He smelled of a clean, masculine cologne. Disturbed that he should smell good, I pretended to be falling for his charms, letting his body mold to mine.
I tried not to think of Maxine as his fingers trailed down my spine. I tried not to think of those same fingers gutting her with a knife and tossing her carcass aside like trash. Were these the hands that did such a thing, the ones sliding sensuously over my body?
Sweat dampened the nape of my neck under my hair. My stress level was rising. He watched me with keen focus. I scanned the room as he guided my body in a slow circle. A Morgon couple backed against the wall. With his hands on her shoulders, the man eased her down onto her knees. In profile, her face lifted as she fumbled with his pants. He placed his hand on her crown, guiding her head closer before he shifted and whipped his wings out to shield them from view. Borgus followed my gaze. I looked away quickly, feeling small and alone in a sea of strangers.
“Does that bother you?”
“No. Of course not. I’m just not used to seeing that in a public place.” I struggled to keep my composure, hanging on by a thread.
Borgus chuckled, and I felt the hairs on my arms bristle.
“Not in Gladium, perhaps,” he crooned. “Voyeurism is an aphrodisiac in Drakos and even more so in Cloven.”
Get it together, Moira.
I flipped my hair, putting both arms around his neck, feigning nonchalance.
“I wouldn’t know. It’s illegal for humans to go to the northern Morgon provinces.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s against the law, but humans are not exactly welcome.” He gripped the base of my neck, his thumb stroking my collar bone. “But it seems for the first time in history, the gates of the Obsidian Games will be open to interested humans this year.”
“Really?” No need to act surprised. This was news to me.
He leaned down, his mouth close to my ear. “Would you like to come?”
The sexual innuendo, implied in his lilting words, tied my stomach into a knot. When his thumb brushed over the swell of one breast, acid churned in my gut. Thankful his lips hadn’t made contact with my skin, I pulled back and peered into the shining black of his eyes. “Perhaps,” I answered in a coy, yet tawdry tone.
“You’re flushed.”
“It’s just a little hot in here.” I avoided his eyes.
“That it is. Let me buy you another drink.”
He tugged me by the wrist back to the bar and tossed several large bills on the counter, calling to the waitress, “A bottle of your best champagne.”
Getting intoxicated would be completely stupid, but there was no way to avoid playing along. Borgus untwined the top cap of the champagne bottle, then popped the cork like an expert. Yes, he was accustomed to the privileged life. He filled two fluted glasses and passed me one.
Voices clamored as the Vaenger players made their entrance, streamlining for the Pit at the other end of the chamber. A gray-winged Morgon girl flew to the chandelier above the Pit, inhaling a deep breath, then blowing out a stream of flame to light the wicks, brightening the view of the fighters entering the cage below. The crowd merged toward the arena. Kraven’s friend, the star player for the Gladium team, shirtless and fuming, opened the barred gate and disappeared from view into the bottom. A blond Riptide player with an arrogant smile laughed to one of his teammates before following him.
“Would you care to watch the fight?” Borgus’s voice had darkened, cutting like a blade. I forced myself to shake my head and pretended to sip the champagne, already feeling a strong buzz from the Brevette.
As the party at the shot-table broke apart and streamed our way, I wasn’t all that shocked to see Layla mingling between a few Morgon men. Her top had fallen so low on her chest that I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. Good Lord, she was a mess.
“Moira! You’re back. Atta girl,” she slurred, leaning drunkenly against me, knocking my glass. Champagne slopped over the rim onto my breasts. “Oops,” she snickered.
Borgus stepped to the side when Layla sloshed her drink again in his direction.
“Is someone bringing you home?” I asked her.
There were no other humans with them, and I hoped she didn’t plan on driving. A Morgon man loomed over her shoulder. “Hey, baby. I remember you.”
I recognized the green-eyed sleaze-bag at once. “Take care of Layla, will ya?”
