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

his life force to the ch’qui nexus point in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Rhiomard had shown her a certain rough kindness—the least she could do was give him ease in return.

“This may feel strange, but it won’t hurt,” she murmured, putting pressure on the point with her finger and thumb, smoothing the blockages, stroking, persuading the flows to relax.

Vaguely, she heard the rumble of his deep voice, but all her attention was focused on tracing the ch’qui up the inside of his arm, left bare by the formal battle vest he wore. A tremor ran through the smooth muscular flesh under her hands, his skin pebbling with gooseflesh. She’d be willing to bet he was rock hard beneath the kilt—and furious with himself.

“Take the vest off,” she murmured. “I can’t reach the bad spot.”

A muttered curse and he flung it aside. Amae allowed herself a single swift glance.

Thanks to their Ancestors, the Shar’d’iloned’t’ Hywil were perfectly suited to life as nomadic hunters. They were a lean, wiry people, fleet of foot and bronze of skin, with little body hair. Rhio was nothing like a Shar. Only his height saved him from looking blocky. His chest was deep and broad, a set of strong, muscled planes, furred with a light mat of dark hair that arrowed down toward a cobbled belly. His nipples showed as small brown disks, tightly peaked.

Her lips quirked as she palpated his shoulder, feeling for the knot in the muscle. That inconvenient arousal wasn’t going to trouble him much longer. Amae uncorked the

hotbalm and worked a generous amount well into his skin, watching his lashes flutter with the spreading heat, the comfort of her firm touch.

Now!

Ruthlessly, she dug into the sore spot with both thumbs, using all her strength.

The only warning was the sharp inhalation of Rhio’s breath. Merciless fingers clamped over her wrist, but she refused to let up.

His eyes blazed into hers. Stormy, furious. Magnificent. “Fuck! What—?”

If he exerted the merest ounce of extra pressure, her bones would crumble to dust.

Through her teeth, she said, “Wait.”

Another instant of strained silence, then, “It’s releasing. Feel it?”

His face was only an inch from hers, so close she could count the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Those sinful lashes flickered. “Aye.” His jaw relaxed. “Gods, that I can.” One finger at a time, he released her wrist.

Amae used her palms to cup and rub his shoulder. Then she stepped back. “There, that’s the best I can do.” Unobtrusively, she cradled her wrist. “It’s more painful if you’re tense, which is why I didn’t warn you. Do you see?”

“Hmm.” As Rhio stood, rotating the shoulder, she busied herself packing the oils back in the box, refusing to look at the muscles flexing fluidly beneath his skin, the fine warrior solidity of him.

He cleared his throat. “Dancer, I—” He touched her hair. “You really should have warned me. Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not.”

“Is that what you’d do for the Queen?”

“No.” Two scars marred the skin over his ribs, one a long curving slash, the other a ragged pucker. Either could have cost him his life. Amae kept her gaze fixed firmly on his face. “Massage is no great help for jointache, but Giral didn’t bother to ask before he decided to loan me out to the Queen. I’d use hot and cold compresses, work oil of Lady’s lace into her fingers. It has a slightly numbing effect in the right concentration.” She smiled a little. “Besides, it smells nice.”

Rhio frowned, tapping his fingers on the desk. Amae did up the last buckle on her pack and folded her cloak over her arm. Idly, she wondered what he’d decide to do. Would he march her straight off to some cold, narrow bed in the servants’ quarters or would he want her to service him first? Ah, well, it wouldn’t be any particular hardship; in fact, it might even be a pleasure—he was really quite attractive in a rough, soldierly way. In any case, it wouldn’t take long and if she paid attention during the process, she could pay him back for his fairness in the only coin she had to offer. Stifling a yawn, she wished he’d make up his mind.

The Captain threw himself down on the couch, the firelight gleaming on the smooth swell of nicely shaped biceps, highlighting the fur on his chest. Here it came, the first move.

“Bring the Lady’s lace over here and show me exactly what you intend to do to Her Majesty.”

Amae blinked. Oh. Well, fine, if that was what he wanted. Digging through her pack, she extracted the oil box and removed the vial. There was nowhere left to sit on the couch save by his hip, so she perched herself there, picked up his hand and laid it on her knee.

For some strange reason, it felt remarkably heavy.

Rhio relaxed against the shabby cushions, looking every inch a bare-chested pasha. His lips curved, very slightly. He was enjoying this, damn him. But in an odd way, so was she.

Fixing her gaze on his face rather than an indolent length of a brawny, hair-dusted thigh, she gave the vial a brisk shake, holding it high so the firelight struck gleams off the translucent oil.

“Dancer.” He’d gone still, every muscle. “Exactly how, uh, nice does this stuff smell?”

She chuckled. “Very floral and feminine. It’s called Lady’s lace, after all. You’ll have to wash it off before you return to duty. Here, try it.”

But he waved the small vessel aside. Smiling into her eyes, he said, “No, no, you do it.”

Something was very wrong, but what? Warily, Amae glanced around the room, tasting the tension in the air. Whatever it was, she’d best be ready. With an inward shrug, she uncorked the vial and tilted it over her palm.

In a single abrupt movement, Rhio surged up, knocking it out of her hand so that it tumbled to the rug, the oil trickling out in a thin stream as it rolled back and