Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 88023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“So, is that why you became an Assassin?” Isabel Byron asked once our appetizers had been served. The female was lovely, with long, dark hair and soft brown eyes, but for some odd reason, there was no...attraction—from me at least. No tension. No...hunger.
She looked at me with interested eyes and a kind smile, but I wasn’t sure the female even knew the kind of hunger that I thought was missing. She was only a year or two older than Avianna, and had most likely been tucked away by her family for safekeeping...for a night like tonight.
Maybe there’s no lust, but no sarcastic comments from her lips, either. Fuck, I had to stop comparing her to Jocelyn, but it was hard when I was spending so much time with the little witch.
“My father was in the Order, and his before him,” I answered, staring down at the crab I’d ordered. What was wrong with me? My appetite was off, and had been for the last few days now.
“So tradition matters to you?” She picked at her salad, glancing up at me quickly before lowering her gaze.
“I serve our king, but I think I would have found myself in the role even if my father had not,” I answered. “And you? Do traditions matter to you?”
“Oh yes!” She nodded and smiled. “I very much look forward to running my own household, mothering younglings, and continuing our family lines. Whatever you want.”
I blinked. Our family lines? Whatever I wanted?
“When Gloria called, I could hardly believe that you were interested in finding a match,” Isabel continued. “I’d been told not to hope for someone with your rank.”
“I honestly don’t care about rank.” I shrugged and choked down a forkful of my appetizer. It tasted like flavorless jello. Was it the chef? Or me?
“Really?” Her eyes popped wide.
“Really.” I took in a breath and my lungs burned as awareness skipped down my spine. Lemon and lavender. Jocelyn.
For fuck’s sake, get your head in the game.
“I care about what someone does, not who they were born to,” I continued, trying to ignore the scent wrapping itself around me. Someone was wearing a similar perfume to Jocelyn’s natural scent. That was the simplest explanation. “What do you like to do with your time?”
“Me?” Isabel blinked rapidly. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll like anything you like.” She smiled and nodded her head rapidly.
My brow furrowed. “That’s nice of you, but what hobbies do you have? Or a career perhaps?”
“Oh, my father would never allow me to work!” She laughed, flashing a bright row of white teeth. “And I’m sure I’ll find your hobbies to be delightful. What are they?”
My mouth opened, then shut.
“Oh, honey, he likes to spend his free time under the hood of his precious cars, and you don’t look like a dirt-under-the-nails kinda girl,” a familiar voice said from behind me.
I didn’t even need to look. I felt her in every cell of my body. “You’re supposed to be with Lachlan,” I said over my shoulder, and Jocelyn stepped into view.
I just about swallowed my fucking tongue. The witch was dressed in a royal blue cocktail dress with straps thin enough to bite through. The neckline plunged between her breasts, revealing a tantalizing strip of skin that I immediately wanted to trace with my tongue, and her legs were all but bare, the dress flaring out at her waist and ending just under her ass. No wonder I could smell her with all that creamy, naked skin.
She smiled down at me and tugged her long, lavender hair over one shoulder, exposing the line of her neck. Her pulse had my immediate attention.
“Don’t worry, he dropped me off,” she said in way of explanation. “Once he remembered you were here he said I’d be in good hands and to pass along a message.” She tapped her cheek with one polished fingernail. “Oh, he said, ‘good luck.’”
I was going to fucking kill that highlander with my bare hands.
“What are you doing here, Jocelyn?” I asked through gritted teeth, coming to my feet because that’s what you did when a lady arrived at the table.
My mother had drilled manners into me with the same force my father had seen to my combat training.
“I’m meeting—” she glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, that must be him, coming this way with the maître d’.” Her smile turned fake, like a porcelain doll, and my every sense went on alert.
“I asked for a table closer to the fountain,” the guy walking with John—the maître d’ —complained in a whiny voice that set my teeth on edge. He was lanky, with a punchable, pretty-boy face, and a suit two sizes too big, almost as if he’d bought it thinking he’d grow into it. He was also almost a full foot shorter than me, which put him a couple of inches shorter than Jocelyn, and she was in heels.