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

Six

“What are you doing?” Amae shot to her feet. “Do you know how much that stuff costs?

Slave Master will kill me!”

Rhio gripped her shoulder. “Not likely. Look.”

The oil stains on the rug were turning a purplish brown. Another odor, metallic and evil, lurked beneath the flowery sweetness of the Lady’s lace. ’Cestors bones, was that—?

Amae dropped to her knees, a hand outstretched.

“Don’t touch!” Rhio jerked her back to her feet and tucked her under his arm. “You recognize it?”

Amae gripped his hand with both of hers. “Prettydeath.” Her mouth was so dry she had to wet her lips before she could go on. “I didn’t know it was there. Rhio, I swear on the bones of my Ancestors.”

“I believe you,” said Rhio.

And he did. Shudders ran bone-deep through the slim body pressed against his. In fact, when he thought of how close he’d let her come to an agonizing, hideously protracted death, Rhio felt his guts heave. But he’d had to know.

“If you hadn’t—” Her eyes dark with horror, she swallowed hard and tried again. “I would have, have . . . By the First Mother!”

“The color changed when you shook it. I’d say someone painted the underside of the cork. When it’s prettydeath, you don’t need much. Dancer . . . it was meant for the Queen. You were just expendable. No loose ends.”

Dancer growled, deep in her throat, like the tygre he’d once thought her. “I swear,” she said. “I swear I will kill him. No more waiting.” The rest was in a language he’d never heard, liquid and sibilant, every word suffused with rage and pain.

Pulling away from him, she would have stepped in the oil if he hadn’t swooped and swung her up in his arms, the worn linen of the old shirt soft against his bare chest. “Not here,” he said. “It stinks.”

Striding into the bedchamber, Rhio deposited Dancer on the mattress and lit the lamp.

“Stay there.” He grabbed a dusty bottle of spirits and a cup from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured a healthy measure.

“Here.” Tears glittered in her eyes and her honey-toned skin had a gray tinge he didn’t like, but when he proffered the cup, she shook her head.

“Drink,” he said more gently, wrapping her fingers around the cup and guiding it to her mouth.

Dancer sipped, coughed and sipped again. The color returned to her cheeks.

Thank the Brother, the bedchamber had its own fireplace. Rhio built up the fire and closed the door to keep the heat in. That was better.

When she offered him the cup, he drained it in a single swallow and leaned back against the pillows, Dancer in the crook of his arm. She didn’t object, curling up against him, one hand coming to rest over his pounding heart.

“Now,” he said. “I will have the truth. Who is it you wish to kill?”

Dancer shot him a narrow glance. “Who do you think? Giral, the bastard, the—” She went on for some time in her own language.

Absently, Rhio rubbed his palm up and down her spine. “It doesn’t make sense. Using you to poison Sikara implicates him directly. He’s a subtle man, Giral. Devious.”

“Yes.” Dancer allowed her cheek to settle against his shoulder. “The Grand Pasha would have his head. For being clumsy, you see?”

Rhio snorted. “Not to mention the Queen. She’d take it as a declaration of war and damn the treaty talks.” Thoughtfully, he went on. “I’ve encountered prettydeath twice tonight.

An interesting coincidence, don’t you think?”

Dancer reared up to stare into his face.

Rhio curled a lock of her hair around his finger. “Simoener Selidan Sethril carries a poisoned blade. Did you know that?”

Slim fingers dug into his shoulders. “What happened?”

“I took it away from him, like the corset.”

A short pause and she shrugged in the fluid way she had. “You must be good. Sethril’s a trained assassin, lower than a sewer snake. He hates me.”

Rhio gave a grim smile. “He’s not exactly in love with me either. He told me not to forget his name. Also that the Grand Pasha is his uncle.”

Dancer sat up, her face alight with a warrior’s purpose. Immediately, he wanted to pull her close again. “Yes, but Giral has a new favorite, a boy slave with pretty eyes and soft hands. He no longer sends for Sethril in the night.” She huffed with amusement. “Ah, R-Rhio, you should see your face. It’s impossible for a master to keep secrets from his slave.”

He shook his head, smiling. “By the Brother, you’re a dangerous woman.”

Dancer laughed outright, enchantingly throaty. On impulse, Rhio slung an arm around her neck, raised his head and pressed his mouth to her smiling lips.

The laugh ended in a strangled gasp.

Rhio flicked his tongue across her lower lip, stroked a fingertip over her cheekbone and withdrew, more than a little puzzled. He’d expected more of a welcome. “What?” he said.

Dancer pressed her fingers to her mouth, her cheeks flushed a delightful pink. “Uh, n-nothing.” Then she shook her head as if to clear it.

He hadn’t meant to do that—or at least, not quite so soon—but everything in him that was male urged to go back for more, to sink deep and demand the response he craved.

Her lips had been satin beneath his, and so very warm. “Now that was definitely a lie.”

Gently, but firmly, he spread his whole hand over the side of her face, compelling her to look at him. But her lashes fluttered down, concealing her thoughts, and everywhere their flesh touched he could feel her shaking, deep tremors she was trying valiantly to suppress.

“Dancer—” he said and broke off, more confused than before, but so hyperaware of her, every cell in his body hummed with it.

After a tingling silence, he removed his hand and cleared his throat. “Tell me more about Sethril.”

Dancer cast him a fleeting glance, relaxing into his embrace. “It’s said the Grand Pasha uses Sethril for his—what is it called?—dirty work, but that he doesn’t trust him.” She snorted. “Who would?”

“If