Honor Bound by Joey Hill (speld decodable readers .txt) 📕

chair, smiling, the very image of relaxed elegance. Even in middle age, his body was trim and hard beneath the flowing robes. He’d had a reputation as a duelist since his youth, deadly with any kind of sword. Rhio yearned to pick the man up and break him over his knee. A little puzzled at the strength of his reaction, he watched the Ambassador from under his lashes.

He didn’t consider himself an imaginative man, but like all soldiers who survived their first few tours of duty, Rhio had learned early on to trust his gut. His uncanny instincts had saved his life more times than he could count—and those of his squad. “Lucky Rhio”

some of them called him, but he knew better. Luck had nothing to do with it.

It was all about paying attention. The soldier wasn’t born who could lie to Captain Rhiomard and escape unscathed.

Casually, he laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. Everything about Giral was a falsehood.

Brother’s balls, of course it was. The slimy little shit professed to be negotiating a peace treaty. But the Queen and her Cabal had fenced with the Trinitarian Republic for years.

They’d expect to be played. Hence this exclusive party, no more than a dozen diplomats and ministers, part of some plan, he was sure.

So why couldn’t Rhio dismiss the unease raising the short hairs on the back of his neck?

Fretting made him downright testy.

As the Ambassador pushed his chair back and rose, the drumming sank to the merest breath of sound. After a deep obeisance in the general direction of the Queen, he straightened, the fine cream silk of his loose, flowing trousers and embroidered tunic glistening in the light of the glowglobes.

Beautifully modulated, his voice carried to every corner of the octagonal chamber. “Your Majesty, as you are aware, the most earnest wish of the Grand Pasha, exalted be his name, is for peace and goodwill between our two great nations. As a token of his esteem and affection, I bring you a gift.”

Theatrically, he paused, and with impeccable timing, the cloaked woman glided into the room and sank gracefully to her knees, her head lowered.

“This woman is unique, the last of her kind. The Grand Pasha, exalted be his name, gave me the privilege of command, and I placed my foot upon the neck of her upstart tribe.

They are no more.”

The woman’s shoulders stiffened, the movement ceasing almost before it had begun. If Rhio hadn’t been studying her so intently, he would have missed it.

Framed by the neat beard, Giral’s lips curved. “Dear lady, forgive a personal observation, but it is common knowledge you suffer from the jointache.” A short bow. “As do we all at a certain age. This slave has magic fingers, trained to provide ease and comfort. For the period of our visit, she is yours alone. But first”—another obeisance, his hands fluttering—“she will dance for you. My slaves have many talents. She may look

dangerous, but she has been well disciplined. No need for alarm, dear lady.”

Sikara’s mouth opened, but before she could speak, the dancer uncoiled in a lithe, unhurried movement—a tygre rising from deep cover. The drummer added a more

complicated rhythm, his hands flying, the hasty beat thudding like the heart of an angry god.

Loosening his sword in the scabbard, Rhio took a silent step forward, until he stood directly behind his Queen.

Catching the movement, the dancer’s head turned toward him. With a sweep of one arm, she threw off the cloak in a dramatic swirl of black fabric. Poised on her toes, she stood straight and tall, staring him down.

Rhio clamped his jaw shut, breathing hard through his nose. He’d never—Fuck, not in all his years as a Guard, and as a mercenary before that. Not in the markets, the brothels, the bazaars, the villages, the fairs. He’d never seen a woman like this.

Quietly, he eased his sword back into the sheath and clasped his hands behind his back.

Parade rest. The dancer gave him an infinitesimal nod, as if he’d done as she bade him.

The thin, bright sound of a flute joined the drum, a Trinitarian double flute, breathy yet pure. If he glanced to his left, he knew he’d see the player standing in the colonnade, but he didn’t look. He couldn’t.

He had the impression of a long, lean body, of shapely, supple muscles shifting beneath flowing drapery, but there was no way he could drag his gaze from her face, too thin for beauty, with an imperious, high-bridged nose and dark, slashing brows. All he could think of was a great fierce bird, tethered to the earth, its pride in the dust. It was there in her raptor’s eyes, large and dark and burning with banked fury. But her mouth was wide and soft, all woman.

Rhio blinked, resisting the impulse to shake himself like a dog just out of the water. His mouth was dry, his heart thundering in his ears.

Fine. So the dancer was unusual—what of it? With calm deliberation, he took stock. She was swaying now, her arms weaving in boneless, graceful shapes to the liquid notes of the flute, long fingers moving in complex patterns. Gods, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her. Her bones were long, her flesh taut. In fact, she could have passed for a beautiful youth, if not for that sweet, sinful mouth and the braid of shining black hair that hung down her back to brush the rise of her buttocks.

She spun around, her hips rotating as the pace quickened.

No, not a boy. The womanly dip of her waist flowed like music down to a superlative ass, the cheeks high and round and biteable.

Rhio frowned. What, in the Brother’s name, was she wearing? Filmy draperies fluttered around her knees in a range of warm sunset colors from vermilion to yellow to a golden pink. But from neck to hip she was encased in glittering mesh.

A corset, godsdammit. A corset of the finest, most supple chain mail he’d ever seen,