Page 2 of Cursed Shadows 1

The black of his hair glistens beneath the onslaught of the torch-flames, and it’s so dark that, with the shimmer, it almost looks wet—like his leathers do. That leather armour that looks painted over every muscle that ripples as he takes that one purposeful step away of the sleeping trees,towardsme.

That one intentional step jolts an icy spear clean through my gut.

His eyes don’t leave me.

Another step.

He’s so far away, but I see him and I know he sees me even better. His sight is stronger than mine, just as his muscles are. He is a born killer, made for battle, for war, and I… I’m nothing in front of him.

I spin around with the flow of the music. Strands of chestnut hair that have come loose from my intricate pile of braids whip my cheeks. Once I steady myself into position, those sapphire eyes hook me instantly. Like the depths of the ocean, those deep parts meant only to destroy anything that doesn’t belong, and I fear that’s what he means for me.

My heart doesn’t race because I’m dancing, it doesn’t race because I’m in a field full of what I fear most, the dark ones; it races because I’m waiting for the moment he reaches for the wink of a dagger strapped to his thigh—and spears it through the air, right into my chest.

He makes no such move to cut me down just yet.

He steps again, one fluid movement he takes so slowly that I realize hewantsme to see it. And he has stepped right into the glow of the moonlight.

I choke on a wispy breath.

Is it possible to wet myself from the fear? Feels like I might.

I think he senses it.

Inky black hair falls into his face as he slightly tilts his head to the side. His eyes are blue blazes burning from behind the veil of night and shadows and kohl lines—but they drop and land between my thighs.

All the air inside of me is suddenly trapped.I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. The breath jolts out of me as I land down into a kneeling position, the podium shuddering beneathus dancers. The torn murky-grey skirt I wear, the tatters of it peel away and fall back over my leg.

His stare doesn’t waver from my core.

My cheeks burn hot, and I sense he very much has a view if his eyesight is strong enough to see through the gauzy material of my skirt.

With the others, I slap my hands down on the podium, then shove back up with an all-the-way high kick, then a swift twirl. Feathers fall from my arms and braided hair.

In position again, I don’t have to look around to find him—he’s closer now, a few steps closer, but still across the field.

And he hasn’t forgotten me.

He blinks once, a slow gesture, before his gaze starts to wander my body.

I almost falter in my dance, take the wrong step and spill over the podium, but I force all my wavering strength into the kick of my leg, and I can’t deny it, the heat exploding through me as his attention sears through the one strip of fabric shielding me from his hungry eyes.

I know now, his hunger isn’t for my blood on his sword…

I doubt he’s thinking of my death at all.

I swallow thickly and drop my leg with the others. The collision of our feet on the podium thunders through the field and snaps his focus back up.

He watches me from kohl-lined eyes, his black hair glistening under the moonlight, much like his leathers and the sharpness of his blades.

The moonlight cascades over the warmth of his honeyed skin, it glistens the black leather clinging to his tall, muscled body.

The rest of my dance, every twist, arch of my back, roll of my full hips, every step I take, each tangle of my wrists above my head as though I am restrained, as thoughhehas restrained me—I sense the shift in him.

It isn’t a hunger to kill me, but one tobedme.

Lust in its most animalistic form radiates from him and the shame has me in its grip, because that lust is mirrored in me, in the flush of my cheeks, the harshness of my chopped breaths, and I let myself think of him.

A guilty pleasure.

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