Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 110080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Her frown reappeared and stayed put. She said, “Good to know. But do you think you can keep the sausage factory closed to the public for an hour? I’d like to reacquaint myself with the ladies free of your interference. To better select your perfect match, of course.”
In other words, she planned to check out the competition, plot against Roux, or trash-talk. Or any combination of the three. He heaved a heavy sigh. Forcing her to remain at his side wasn’t something he wanted to do. With this harphantom, free will mattered.
“Go,” he said, sliding his hands down to enjoy a final squeeze of her backside. “The sausage factory closed for maintenance as soon as you issued your threat.”
The smile returned, and he almost regretted his sudden bout of morals. “The Warden has jokes. How unexpected.”
“The Warden does not have jokes.” Not usually.
“Dang you. How is even your denial cute?”
Cute? “Do us both a favor and pick yourself for me, she-beast.” There was no stopping the words. “I will do bad things to get your hands on me again.” Or my hands on you.
“I—you—oh!” Frowning again, she pulled from his embrace one step at a time. A slow retreat, yet a retreat all the same. But even as she walked backward, putting more and more distance between them, she held his gaze. “I’d probably be doing the other women a favor if I did. You’re terrible at first, second, and third impressions.”
“The worst,” he agreed.
She ran her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I have a sinking suspicion you’re going to be amazing in bed.”
“The best.” He would not stop until she collapsed, utterly satisfied.
Black flickered in her eyes, there and gone, leaving soft baby blues. “I think I’ll hate you more if I pick myself for you. But I still might do it.” With that, she spun and bounded off.
A shout welled in the back of his throat. Muscles hardened, his leathers threatening to burst. He opened and closed his fists, considering flashing directly behind her, gathering her close, and returning her to their room.
The ease with which this female elicited a physical reaction frightened him. “Don’t drink anything,” he called. “People are already intoxicated. The brew is potent.”
“Ahhh. Is Grandpappy Rue worried about me?” she called back. “Don’t be. This isn’t my first rodeo, cowboy.”
The grace of her movements, even as she pushed and elbowed her way through the crowds, drew a moan from deep in his chest. But all too soon, he lost sight of her.
Roux curbed the urge to give chase, planting his feet in the grass and remaining at the edge of the congestion. If anyone attempted to harm her, she would take them out without problem. In that regard, he had no worries. The way she’d fought today had more than proven her capabilities. She wielded the kind of bravery and cunning too many forsook. Any warrior worth his wage would be overjoyed to fight at her side.
A group of leering, giggling shifters approached him, their drinks sloshing over the rims of their clay mugs. Roux set an internal countdown in his mind, concealed himself with shadows, and strode off. He would not miss his visit to Wraith Island.
He skirted the party’s perimeter, listening to gossip, searching, scanning. Catching sight of Blythe again, he automatically altered his path to draw closer. She stood with a harpy. A beauty with light hair—a skilled warrior he’d noticed on the battlefield. A true competitor who’d cut through her opponents as if they were nothing but sheets of paper.
The pair engaged in a serious conversation. Serious, but not heated. Meaning, no trash talk. Did they know each other? What did they discuss?
Blythe reached up to hook a lock of silken hair behind her ear, the motion pure elegance. He would never tire of watching her.
The two females shook hands. Agreeing to some kind of deal?
Why not secretly listen to the rest of the discussion?
Guilt sparked, but he ignored it. For the success of his blessing task, there was no line he wouldn’t cross. He’d never lied about that.
A slight tendril of aggression brought him to an abrupt halt. Instincts buzzed. Someone approached, intending to inflict harm. The Phoenix, judging by the level of heat wafting from her. Roux rolled his shoulders. Let her try something.
“Hi,” she said when she reached his side, striving for a pleasant tone but failing. “My name is Carrigan.”
“So?”
“So, you had better watch yourself, Astra. That’s my best friend you’re eye-stalking.”
He cast the Phoenix the briefest glance. Tall and toned, with red hair, fair skin, and amber eyes. On the battlefield, power had sizzled over her skin, flames barely banked.
“Your best friend is the pale-haired harpy? Someone you willingly agreed to pit yourself against in a battle to the death?” He shook his head. Roux would rather die himself than harm a fellow Astra. “I highly doubt that.”