Petra of the Shazastar is a thief on the run from an unforgettable past. But, like all thieves, her luck cannot last forever. When she is caught, she's given a choice: either face execution or become the fortune teller to the Mad Queen.
Not surpri...
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THE ABSURDITY OF MY CIRCUMSTANCES hits me like a boulder falling off of a cliff – like being buried alive under a million handsome smiling tomatoes.
"You? You are Roderick La Fontaine?" My voice comes out strained: disbelief, shock, a little fear.
But mostly awe.
Before me sits a being of light. For how can he be merely man, when he shines like the sun, when heat radiates off him like the sands of my origin. How can he almost kill me, with a mere touch? And most importantly, despite all the heat and fire, why could I not stop shivering, every time his absurd eyes roamed over me –
"Disappointed, masociere?"
I continue to study him, although it takes every bit of my control to stop shaking and to remain standing. I watch him sitting upon my bed as if he owned it, legs elegantly crossed, smirk perfectly aligned upon his sharp face. And then there were those eyes – a strange sort of blue, a blue that is not actually blue –
His face softens, as I commit it to my memory – not that I was likely to forget him, not when he burned his essence in my mind with a single touch.
"You are not what I expected." I lift my head to the side, and relax my fists, hoping I radiated the confidence that I do not truly feel, for if there was ever a moment for my Petra charm, this would be it.
"Non?" he matches my stance although he does not step any closer to me. "You are not what I expected either."
With my nerved stilled, I force a smile I have often reserved only to frustrate Giovanni de Luca, and hope it has the same effect on the Northern Rebel before me.
I take a step closer to him. "Disappointed?"
He watches me, eyebrow curiously arched."Déçu? Disappointed?" His eyes roam over my body, in a way no man has looked upon me before." Non, ma sorcière. Jamais. Never."
I try not to react to his words, or how his accent, makes them sound like song, or how my ears burn, or how my heart hammers, or how I want to keep him talking for all eternity.
Instead, I take another step and another and another, until I stand as close to him as to keep my traitorous body satisfied and rational mind still working. Still, I stand too close. I know this. My Grams' warning all too loud in my burning ears. He holds my gaze and I am sure my eyes reveal what should not be revealed to such a man– while his eyes shimmer and dance in the light –
Do not trust a beautiful man, Pet. Do not trust...
"What do you want?" My voice comes out even more strained than before.
