Page 92 of The Oracle of Dusk

“Within reason,” she replied, sweeping her thumbs across his cheekbones.

She could be kind to him if he proved he could be the same without ulterior motives. It would ease some part of her to have even a sliver of that warmth in her life again.

“And if I asked…” His gaze wandered down her neck, his womaniser’s grin back in place.

Aurora rolled her eyes. That didn’t last long.

“Not that,” she snorted.

“Shrew,” he accused her playfully.

“Pervert,” she retorted, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

He smiled. A real smile.

“Harridan.”

“Tyrant.”

“I suspect you would enjoy my tyranny.”

“And I suspect you enjoy my scolding.”

“Doesn’t that mean we’re perfectly matched?” he raised a brow.

“No, it means we’re perfectly mismatched, Your Majesty.”

He leaned in. She could feel his breath on her lips. She need only lift her head a fraction to claim his. Or shift her hips to discover how ardently he desired her in turn. Some reckless, mindless part of her wanted to. Warmth could be had in more ways than one. In different ways to the one she truly needed.

Why couldn’t she have met this man in her own time, before her thread had been twisted with Drakon’s? She could have revelled in carnality then, free from the death and duty that stalked her. She could have given him what he desired, indulged in what he’d offered, secure in the knowledge that such a dalliance would not come back to bite her.

But she was not in her own time, and that life was long lost to her.

And this man had very sharp teeth.

“This is usually the part where a lady closes her eyes for a kiss, Aurora,” he said, his lips a whisper away from hers.

“Then I must disappoint you, Your Majesty.”

Theron sighed, leaning his head on her collarbone, his breath fanning her chest. Her nipples hardened, despite the heat. This was surely her punishment for neglecting her prayers to Passion on more than one occasion. It would be fitting indeed to be struck by lust for a man so wholly wrong for her at exactly the worst time.

“One day soon, you’ll look back on this and wonder why you didn’t just kiss me,” Theron chuckled, heaving himself off her. He got to his feet, leaned over, and offered her his hand.

Aurora took it, dusting herself off once she regained her balance.

“If I live long enough to dwell on such regrets, I’ll count myself lucky indeed.”

In an instant, her magic surged from her.

She was torn from the gardens, a puppet hurtling through the air, an invisible hand yanking on her strings.

Aurora stood in the atrium of the vivarium. The place was bathed in the light of the setting sun, but the details were fuzzy around the edges, as if a painter had forgotten to fill out the full canvas. Guests milled about, dressed in opulent finery as servants plied them with wine and delicacies. Her heart hammered in her chest.

“Please, you must leave!” she shouted, pleading.

Instead of heeding her, they laughed, leering at her. She bunched her fists in the gauzy fabric of what could only, with the greatest charity, be referred to as a dress. The fabric was all but transparent. The other prisoners of the vivarium were similarly attired, living trophies for Queen Flora’s guests to gawk at and mock. Only prostitutes wore such garments, a fact made all the more apparent by the presence of the very same in attendance dressed in better garb than the prisoners.

She watched the area beneath the musicians, waiting for what she knew was to come. A warm hand touched her shoulder. Theron looked down at her with a calmness she couldn’t fathom. He was a statue made of gold, covered from head to toe in glittering paint and an absurd number of green jewels, his dignity spared by the presence of a mere loincloth.

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