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

mere Guard, a grizzled veteran who dreamed of taking his twenty-year bonus and buying a country tavern? Hell, she could set her sights on a minister of state. It was a charade, all of it, a complex game of feint and parry.

He was playing blind.

The veils floated away, one by one, until the dancer’s long, supple body was bare save for a veil of shimmering silk over her loins. Rhio had pretty well grown accustomed to the discomfort of a spike-hard erection and blue balls, but he was so acutely aware of the dancer’s spare beauty that looking away made everything hurt worse. If he missed a second of her, he knew he’d regret it ’til the end of his days.

The flute played two notes, over and over, the drum ruffling along beneath. Swaying before him, sweat gleaming on her skin, the dancer extended her palms toward his body, but stopped an inch short of contact. Rhio’s tension ratcheted up another excruciating notch. If she touched him, he’d explode.

He half expected some sort of flirtatious gesture—a smile, a toss of the head. Instead, the woman’s dark gaze intensified and her lips formed words he had no difficulty reading.

For you.

The drum reached a savage crescendo. In a single, smooth movement, the dancer slipped to her knees, her shoulders arching back to touch the floor behind her. The black curtain of her hair slipped down over her shoulder to brush the tiles. Ripping the last veil away, she threw her hands over her head.

Rhio couldn’t have looked away if there’d been a blade at his throat. Her mons was so lightly furred as to be almost bare. Between her sweat-slicked thighs, the plump lips of her sex beckoned, the merest hint of a darker pink within. He grunted as if he’d been gut-punched.

No more than a split second and the dancer curled herself forward into a compact ball, her head between her knees and her hair fanning out over the toes of his boots. The flute player stepped forward to throw a cloak over her. As he did so, the chamber went dark.

“Lights!” roared Rhio, swooping to grab the woman and haul her against his body, a muscular forearm pressed into her throat. The dancer stood quietly, only the faint rasp of her breath audible, her lean form a distracting presence all along his front.

The glowglobes flickered and then strengthened, the drummer smirking as a hapless Guard lowered his hand from the bank of toggle switches on the other side of the doorway. At first as pale as the snowy cloth on the table, the soldier flushed brick red when he met his commander’s furious gaze. As well he might. Latrine duty was always a bitch, let alone for a solid month.

The Queen was obscured by Yachi and two burly Guards, swords drawn. Despite the

uproar, the screams and shouts, Rhio relaxed a trifle.

Almost lovingly, he drew the dancer closer, ground his body into hers. “What game are you playing?” As he lowered his head, a strand of her hair blew soft against his lips and clung.

“Not me,” she murmured with perfect composure, though she had to go to tiptoe to keep her balance.

Without a word, Rhio shoved her away so hard she nearly stumbled, but he kept hold of her wrist. The dancer in tow, he strode to the middle of the floor.

“Quiet!” His parade-ground bellow had the desired effect. “Be seated, noblelords.” He glared at the babbling diplomats. “Now!” They sat.

“Majesty?”

A sigh. “I’m fine, Captain.” The Queen waved the hovering Guards aside and shot the Ambassador-Pasha a narrow glance. “However, I am no longer amused. Ambassador

Giral, it was ill-advised to alarm my Guards.”

Color rose in the Trinitarian’s cheeks; his mouth thinned. When he turned to the dancer, Rhio felt the tremor she couldn’t prevent, though she masked it well. “You exceeded your instructions, slave. Made an embarrassment of my gift.”

The dancer dipped her head, sooty lashes veiling her eyes. “It is part of the dance, Pasha.”

“You frightened Her Majesty.”

The dark eyes considered Sikara. Gracefully, the woman dropped to her knees. “My sorrow to you, Great Lady. I regret.” Rising to her feet, she flicked a bland glance at the Ambassador. “I have always performed it thus, Pasha.”

Rhio’s lips twitched. He might be a career soldier, plain and simple, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate subtle insolence when he heard it. With grim relish, he watched rage swell the Ambassador’s narrow chest.

“You are not fit to be my gift. Report to the Slave Master immediately.”

The lithe body next to his went rigid. “Yes, Pasha.”

But before the dancer could take a step, Rhio growled, his grip tightening. Over her head, he stared at the Queen, hoping like hell. Praying.

Disconnected thoughts ratcheted around his skull. The marks of the lash striping the smooth honey of her flanks, those fierce eyes gone dull with despair. Worse, rape, her tight flesh violated, the proud spirit broken.

By the Brother, no!

He could give Yachi the command with a single hand signal. No, wait. Gods, the

diplomatic repercussions! Besides, he couldn’t order a subordinate, no matter how loyal, to risk her career, not for him and his foolish whims. His mind raced, creating and discarding plans, while he drew the dancer close in the circle of his arm, his sword naked in the other hand.

Slowly, the Queen rose, shaking out her skirts. She arched a cool brow, her eyes glinting a frosty blue. “I do not care to have decisions made for me, Ambassador. If she can ease my pain, your gift is more than acceptable.”

As she made her stately way toward the colonnade, Giral leaped to his feet, the ready protests continuing to spill from his lips. Sikara ignored him. “I believe I will have an early night. Come, girl,” she said over her shoulder.

When Rhio nudged the dancer with his shoulder, she jumped. “Yes, Great Lady.” Pulling the cloak tighter around her body, she followed the Queen without a backward glance.

The royal escort