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

But as she brushed by him, she muttered, “Always said you had balls, Rhio.” She tugged a knife free. “And what do you know? I was right.”

The dancer chuckled, deep in her throat, the sound like that of a woman well pleasured.

The timbre of it spread warm fingers over his belly, stroked his cock, caressed the very balls Yachi apparently admired.

Aggravated almost beyond endurance, Rhio glared into the proud face so near to his.

Tightening his grip, he gave the dancer a little shake, her wrist bones shifting under the pressure.

Because her smile didn’t falter, he nearly missed the flash of pain that darkened her eyes.

Feeling his cheeks heat, he released her as if her skin had ignited beneath his fingers.

Turning to the Queen, Rhio bowed. “If I may return to my duty, Majesty?”

Sikara favored him with a smile and a gracious nod. “Of course, Captain. My

compliments. You have proven yourself a true son of the Queendom.” She shot a bland glance at the Ambassador.

Words beyond him, Rhio gave a stiff salute. With a jerk of his head, he ordered Yachi back to her station behind the Queen’s chair and took up a spot near the doorway that allowed him a view of both the chamber and the colonnade outside.

It was over. He should be relieved, but instead he felt . . . heavy. Old.

The dancer sauntered closer, swinging her hips. “Captain . . . ?” The lightest brush of fingers on his arm. “R-Rhio?” The deep sibilance of her accent turned his unexciting name into something exotic, a throaty growl that filled his head with images he could not afford to entertain.

Every eye in the room was upon them. He glared, hating the sensation of exposure.

“What?”

A waterfall of silvery mesh spilled from her grasp. “Guard this for me, yes?” A direct look from those dark raptor’s eyes. “While I dance for you.”

Before he could refuse, she’d shoved the corset into his arms and spun away, the veils fluttering. His spine rigid, his hands full of supple chain mail still warm from her flesh, Rhio stalked back to his post near the door. Once there, he couldn’t decide what to do with the godsbedamned thing, but it was imperative he have his hands free. In the end, he threw it over one shoulder, where it hung like the heavy pelt of some strange, beautiful animal. Beneath the hard scent of heated metal, he could smell her wild, green perfume.

Stolidly, he settled, his hands gripped behind his back. Across the chamber, he caught Yachi’s gaze. Her expression didn’t change, though one eyelid drooped in a slow wink.

Rhio cast her a glare so vicious that she stiffened into a perfect mirror image of his formal posture. But her lips still twitched.

Rhio ground his teeth.

The damn flute was wailing, a slow, sensuous thread of sound, underpinned by the soft throb of the drum. The lights dimmed, until only the center of the floor was illuminated.

The dancer undulated, boneless again. Her hips swaying, she gripped a rosy pink veil and gave it a brisk tug. It parted easily from the collar around her neck, floating softly to the floor like a small sunset cloud. Under it was another diaphanous layer, but now he could see the shadow of her navel, the dark crescents of her nipples.

So could everyone else in the chamber. Rhio’s belly clenched with tension and lust.

Didn’t she have any shame?

Of course she didn’t. She wasn’t permitted to. She was a slave. Property.

The dancer circled her hips, the music slow and languorous. Closer and closer she came to the doorway, her eyes fixed on Rhio’s where he stood in the shadows.

Three

She didn’t speak to him again. She didn’t need to. My final dance will be for you, and youalone.

Raising her arms over her head, the dancer turned to display the smooth sweep of her spine, the enticing cleft between those proud cheeks.

An orange veil this time, revealing a slim, sleek thigh, a long, smooth sweep of skin all the way to the curve of her hip bone. Helplessly, he stared at the remaining veils, searching for the dark curls between her thighs. Where . . . ?

Rhio swallowed. Oh, gods. If she was bare . . .

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was grateful for the brutal training program he’d put Yachi through. His Sergeant had better be alert, because he feared he himself was drowning in the bottomless depths of the dancer’s eyes, snared by the sheer eroticism of her body, of her movements. An entire troop of diablomen could have rolled in on a green cloud and had their demons devour every lord and lady present and he wouldn’t have cared.

For you, R-Rhio. You alone.

This was his reward for courage, this offering before a crowd of breathless, prurient witnesses. Because the dancer had nothing else to give. Not even her body was her own.

But her beautiful eyes, the exquisite sensation of her complete focus, dreams of endless lust and love—these she created as a gift for him to keep. How did she know about the long, lonely nights, the way he ached for something he couldn’t envisage or even describe? All he knew was that it was more than his own right hand.

Smiling into his eyes, the dancer cast aside a length of pale gold gauze. Her breasts . . .

Oh, gods. Rhio resisted the urge to lick his lips. Small and firm and pointed, but her nipples were broader than he’d expected and stiff.

Sweat trickling down the back of his neck, he managed to sever the connection between them, checking the placement of his Guards, the doors, the windows. Yachi’s face, the cold, watchful eyes of the Ambassador. Again and again, he did it, but each time it grew harder to snap the tether of her gaze.

A cold whisper insinuated itself in the back of his brain, like a worm spoiling the sweet flesh of a summer fruit.

Why me? it said. Why a