Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Was I supposed to push away from him? Was there a rule about male leadership I was forgetting?
Light fingertips moved over me in the exact way ranking females conducted dress uniform inspections in the past, but it felt like so much more.
Because this was illicit. Right?
Did he see the question in my eyes when he came full circle, back to where this whole escapade began? He was certainly close enough, and there was no hiding the fact that my cheeks heated to an embarrassing shade of pink.
Face hovering close to mine, Cyderial inhaled slowly before moving his fingers to conduct one final tug at the seams of my sleeves. “You smell of children. Yet there is not a single smudge or fingerprint on your buckle, buttons, or epaulet.”
What?
Tongue-tied, I caught myself searching for words and rushing my answer as all the air in my lungs suddenly rushed out. “The itty-bitties know to be careful with dress uniforms. They only give leg hugs to wish us well—in case they don’t see us again, sir.”
He was smirking. “Itty-bitties?”
I might have just died of embarrassment. Clearing my throat, cheeks going from pink to red, I corrected my blunder. “The youngest recruits, sir.”
He made pointed, focused eye contact, a light touch on the cuff of my sleeve. “Do you enjoy the company of children?”
Everyone likes children. Don’t they? They are hilariously clever in finding ways to play in this hellhole and, unlike the adolescents, had not yet grown jaded and depressed. Even when I was at my most agitated, time with the youngest helped me get my head back in order. “I enjoy the company of all my fellow recruits.”
He gave a noncommittal hum before replying, “It’s a pity one of your fellow recruits did not inform you that your uniform is not up to code.”
“Sir?”
“It’s too tight. The seams are pulling.”
It was hardly that dramatic. Sure, it was a bit snug around the chest, but I only had to wear it once more in the next six weeks. Then I would be granted the deep-gray of a graduate, and I would be free of the academy forever.
And my sisters had warned me. They had even helped me bind my breasts painfully tight. That was what we all did when bodies altered faster than clothes could be adapted. And frankly, asking management for items outside of yearly regulation vestments was a surefire way to draw unwanted attention.
Which went strictly against my rule of avoiding attention at all costs.
“I shall place an order for a new jacket at once, sir.” My voice came steady, masking all sense of my irritation on the topic.
Perhaps if they designed uniforms to fit a female body, tight material over a woman’s chest wouldn’t be an issue. Not that I had any intention of sharing my thoughts on the subject with General Cyderial.
The man who was uncomfortably close and infinitely dangerous.
Voice soft, he gave his next order. “Present your hands.”
Easy enough, though there was barely enough space between us. Hands before me, fingers fully spread, I put my talons on display.
They were buffed and shining, just as they were supposed to be. Clean, filed, and boring.
I’d heard that human girls painted their nails in all sorts of colors for fun. Mine were merely the natural dark-gray shade most common amongst my kind. Though some girls did have lovely ivory talons.
Theirs were kind of glittery, very pretty to look at. Much more interesting than common dark-gray.
If I could paint my talons, the first color I would try is pink. But a vibrant pink. Adventurous and playful, leagues away from the bland world I was used to.
A pink the general would hate.
Paired with a floral dress, like I’d seen in one of my secret magazines, my long hair would be in a fluffed braid, hanging over my shoulder. My legs below the knee would be on display, skin and scales warmed by the weather.
If I could just pass this last meeting without any more mistakes.
Just about jumping out of my skin at the contact, the general did the unconscionable and took my hand in his. Turning them this way and that, inspecting the way the light shone off my buffed nails. The touching was unnecessary. No female instructor had ever done more than measure the length of the nail with a ruler to ensure they were short enough to be safe.
He took it much further. Testing the tip to see if it was sharp, the man stupidly pricked his own flesh and brought forth a tiny bead of blood.
Of course they were sharp! Razor sharp. It was why ladies could not wear white gloves like the men when in formal uniform.
The minor wound instantly healed, leaving a bit of the general’s blood tinting the tip of my nail. But it would seem he was utterly unconcerned that his fluids were drying on my body, far more interested in the translucent webbing only visible at the base of my fingers when my hand was awkwardly spread for inspection.