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

ribbon that bound it. Then she combed her fingers through the silky mass, bent from the waist and flung it back in a stunning, rippling curtain, a black so deep it gleamed with blue highlights.

Godsdammit, she was amazing. For a moment, Rhio lost himself in the sensual gyration of her hips, the flash of a bare leg.

The dancer’s slender fingers flickered over the front of the chain-mail corset. Something glittered in her hand, razor sharp and evil.

All hell broke loose.

Rhio took a step forward, his sword half-drawn, knowing already he was too fucking late.

Yachi threw herself full length over the Queen, bearing the older woman down to the floor in a tangle of thrashing limbs and embroidered skirts. Diplomats ducked for cover beneath the table.

Ambassador-Pasha Ghuis Gremani Giral sat placidly amid the chaos, sipping his wine.

The members of the Trinitarian delegation followed his example.

Above the hubbub, the dancer’s voice rose clearly. “Be still!”

Rhio froze.

Death whizzed past his ear like a sliver of furious lightning, the blade sinking point-first into the highly polished timbers of the wall behind him with a solid thunk!

“Again!” she called.

Noise faded away and time slowed, so he could appreciate her extraordinary economy of line. He sucked in a breath and held it. Gods, oh, gods—

A cold breeze brushed past his other ear. Thunk!

The dancer stepped back, her hands dropping to her sides.

“Sergeant,” called Rhio, his gaze still tangled with the dancer’s. “Report.”

Yachi cleared her throat. “No damage.”

“You were on top,” said the Queen dryly. “Speak for yourself.” A chair scraped, fabric rustled. “Captain Rhiomard, are you still in one piece?”

Rhio checked both ears with cautious fingers. No blood. “Aye, Majesty.” Moving his eyes from right to left, he stared at the slim knives quivering in the wall. Two of them.

Two weapons, for the Brother’s sake. In the presence of the Queen. How the fuck had she smuggled them past his Guards? Heads were going to roll.

He curled his lip at the dancer. “Is this the test? I stand here while you throw toothpicks at me?”

Unsmiling, she prowled closer, until she stood well within a sword’s length. Rhio understood the unspoken message. At this range, they were equal, one threat canceling the other. Although he wore boots, the dancer’s eyes were barely an inch below his.

“But yes,” she murmured, so softly only he could hear. Her voice was a husky contralto, deep enough to be disconcerting. “This is the test. Are you man enough?”

The chamber and everyone in it slipped away to the periphery of Rhio’s consciousness.

Her eyes were such a dark brown they appeared black, the effect intensified by her dilated pupils and a thick forest of sooty lashes. A man could drown in those magnificent eyes.

With some difficulty, he wrenched his gaze away. “Majesty?”

Sikara’s expression was wry. “I am well protected, Captain. Your choice.”

Rhio arranged his features in a skeptical expression. “Are you good enough?” he asked the dancer.

Her face lit with challenge, her shoulders stiffening. Some mercenaries became addicted to the battle fever, only truly alive when they danced on the razor edge of death. Rhio had never been one of them, but now—his blood tumbled through his veins in a singing rush, every cell in his body vibrating with half-appalled anticipation.

“Pray to your gods that I am,” she said, eyes flashing, breasts rising with every inhalation.

Rhio liked big tits, the sort he could heft in his palms. The dancer’s were small and high, like pretty rounded fruits, topped with pointed nipples. He could see the shadowed, enticing peaks through her filmy garments. A scant handful at the best, but nonetheless his mouth watered.

He frowned, chasing a fugitive thought. Wait a—

She’d walked away. Reaching out, he snagged her elbow, spinning her around so he could rake the front of the corset with a fu rious gaze. What he’d assumed were

decorative toggles were thin, cunningly wrought blades, each pair a fastening that kept the edges of the corset together. She’d used the top two to damn near pin his ears to the wall. Which was why he’d been able to ogle her breasts.

There were four more of the bloody things. Eight thin, deadly stilettos. Fuck.

His face must have betrayed him, though he could have sworn he had himself under complete control.

The dancer unpeeled his fingers from her arm, her touch light and firm. “Think of the reward, yes?”

How could she be so composed? Abruptly, he wanted to throw her off balance, watch her fumble, no matter the cost.

“Your maidenhead?” he snarled.

Her face went tight, her lashes sweeping down, then up again. “That I cannot offer,” she said, holding his eye. “But my final dance tonight will be for you, and you alone.” Her lips curved without humor. “If you are man enough to earn it.”

“Try me,” he grated.

Again, he got that short nod of acknowledgment. Her air of self-possession would drive a man like Giral mad. Rhio shot a glance at the Ambassador. His posture was relaxed, urbane, but he was so tense it was a wonder the wine cup didn’t shatter under the pressure of his grip. Yachi hovered at the Queen’s elbow, poised to shield the monarch once again with her own body.

No flute, just the drum, timed to match the painful thud of his racing heart. Steady, Rhio, steady. Shit, why wouldn’t the bloody woman stand still? Her aim would be off. He could barely concentrate on the fluid beauty of her movements because he had to fight the instinctive urge to cover his groin with his hands. He curled his lip. Like a frightened toddler, reaching for the comfort of his dick.

The dancer uncoiled faster than a snake striking. Her hands blurred. Thunk! Thunk!

Godsdammit, both hands!

Rhio glanced down. His boots appeared to have sprouted slim, silver wings, the blades vibrating in the wall at ankle level.

As one, the company exhaled, but the dancer didn’t pause. Going into a long spin, she called over her shoulder, “Hands down and against the wall.”

Rhio pressed his palms into the timber