“If I were you, Komal,” Mahiya said in a tone cool with warning, “I’d forget about making trouble and stay out of sight for the time being.”
Paling even further, the vampire turned and ran off inside, her figure-hugging gown dragging along the gray stone used in this part of the fort. Jason let her go, certain she had neither been, nor had any knowledge of, Eris’s illicit lover. Her shaken response to the accusation and nasty nature aside, Komal wasn’t smart enough to have pulled off such an intrigue. She’d have boasted to someone, been caught long ago.
“Why were you whipped?” he asked the far more complex, intelligent woman by his side.
No hitch in Mahiya’s stride. “Which time?”
His nails dug into his palm. “The last time.”
“I was disrespectful to a high-level courtier.”
“Was he worth respect?”
Unsurprised at the question from this male who didn’t follow any of the rules of accepted behavior and who’d incited a rage in her that had made her forget herself to a dangerous extent, Mahiya said, “No.” Pointless to lie to him now.
“Then the whipping was worth it.”
It was a strange sensation, being totally liberated of the need to conceal her true thoughts. As if she were drunk. “No,” she said, her fury still cold enough to burn, “because after I was beaten and weak, he received what he wanted.” Mahiya had had to prostrate herself at his feet, beg for forgiveness for the slight she’d done him. Only her stubborn refusal to become anything like Neha had kept her from stewing in the bitterness and hate that had sought to bloom in her that day. “I learned to choose my battles.”
Jason’s eyes, so very dark—like the finest chocolate, rich and decadent—lingered on her for a long, endless moment before he gave a small nod. “So long as you continue to fight.”
Anger surged through her veins once more, until it took everything she had to bite out an outwardly civil response. “Yes, my lord.”
A motionless pause that reminded her she was taunting a man so lethal, he met the eyes of an archangel without flinching. Then he said, “I apologize. I do not know anything of the battles you’ve already fought or the choices you’ve had to make to survive.”
No man had ever apologized to her, and hearing it from this man shook her enough that she didn’t say a word when he turned and began to walk the pathways of the fort, leading rather than being led. She knew he heard more than she did, saw more than she did, though she walked beside him.
He was beyond fascinating.
Dangerous and unpredictable and frighteningly intelligent. A threat. And yet she wanted to run her finger over the blade of him even if it made her bleed, wanted to dance too close to the flame, wanted to take a risk that could destroy her.
Her gaze went to the pitch-black of his wings, her fingers aching to explore, as if her silent admission of just how much he drew her had opened a doorway she hadn’t been aware of locking. Except—
Her eyes skated past him, though she knew he was right there.
Snapping back to full alertness, she realized most of the guards didn’t even notice his presence, though they all greeted her with curt nods. Watching him with a focus that caused a dull headache to throb behind her eyes, she saw the outline of him, but an instant later, he stepped into a shadow created by a spray of flowers high up on a wall and was gone.
Unthinking, she reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of his wing, the feathers sleek and warm under her fingertips.
He froze, every muscle tense.
Heat flooded her cheeks, and she dropped her hand as she realized the altogether unacceptable nature of her behavior. “I’m sorry . . . but I couldn’t see you.”
“I’m very good at remaining unseen.” His voice held none of the displeasure she would have expected after witnessing the way he’d warned Komal off from laying a finger on him. “I’ve had hundreds of years of practice.”
She didn’t believe him, but it didn’t take a genius intellect to realize the spymaster would not tell her his secrets. “Again, I apologize.” Her fingers continued to tingle from the fleeting contact. “I had no right.”
“Actually, you did,” he said to her surprise, his tattoo a tactile temptation in the sunlight. “I swore a blood vow to you. Skin and feathers are far closer to the surface than blood.”
“I would never take advantage of the vow in such a fashion.” Fisting her hand in resistance against the compulsion to commit an even worse breach by tracing the wild beauty of his facial markings, she turned her gaze forward and continued to walk. Her skin burned then went icy cold, her heart stuttered . . . and she realized that in spite of her deepening fascination with Raphael’s spymaster, she was afraid.