Page 71 of Taking Jenny
His footsteps retreated. Hers didn’t follow.
Desire slammed through me like a wave as those words settled in my brain. The image alone was almost too much—her pinned between us, him inside her, me inside him, tangled heat and submission. I nearly groaned out loud.Gods help me.
It was quite the fantasy, but until she no longer loathed me, it would never happen.
Jenny marched down the hall in the other direction, passing the entry of the dining hall on her way. Her face was flushed, her fists balled at her sides, her heels clacking sharply on the marble flooring.
I turned to my friends. Each wore a different expression: judgment, curiosity, silent warning. I didn’t care.
“Eat without me,” I said, standing.
I left the dining hall, grabbing a bottle of whickler from the cellar on the way to find Jenny. I didn’t have to search long. I found her on the balcony that overlooked the west orchard, her figure silhouetted in moonlight. I opened the door and stepped out to join her.
“Tiger, I’m—” She whirled around and saw me, instead, “Oh. It’s you.” Her voice deflated as she faced back toward the orchard.
The breeze played with her hair, those striking blue streaks tumbling over her shoulders. The red dress she’d worn for supper clung to her hips, the hem grazing her thighs. She looked like a dream—fierce and utterly untouchable—but she wasn’t here for my fantasy.
I held out the bottle as an offering as I approached her. “Whickler?”
She eyed me warily. “What is it?”
I stopped beside her, grateful she’d allowed me even this close. “The foundational drink that helped humans invent whiskey.”
That caught her attention. “What do you mean?”
I took a chance and smiled. “We’ve been visiting Earth for centuries. Did no one tell you?”
She shook her head, eyes fixed on the bottle. I uncapped the top and handed it to her.
She took a drink, looking surprised. “That’s quite good. Reminds me of home.” She smiled briefly, before she remembered she was angry with me.
I leaned against the railing, staring at her face. “You remind me of someone, Jenny.”
She huffed out a sardonic laugh. “Know a lot of humans, do you?” She passed the bottle back to me.
“No, not that.” I took a swig before meeting her gaze again. “Every culture has its myths, I suppose, and one of ours is of Eritrolla the Brave. She had blue hair like yours, but that’s not why you remind me of her.”
She remained quiet, listening, and I took advantage of her silence.
“She was the only one in her village to stand up to Uvor the Blessed, a monster who slaughtered anyone who got in his way. When she stood in front of him, this tiny thing with nothing but a dagger, he laughed in her face. So did his men. The entire army of killers cackled at her like zerapas.”
She arched a brow. “Zerapas?”
“Carnivorous beasts,” I explained. “Who laugh while they eat children.”
“Charming.”
I ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “The point is—she let them laugh. While they did, her people lit fires at the edge of the army’s line. No one noticed the oil in the dry grass. By the time the carriages ignited, their laughter turned to screaming. Eritrolla drove her dagger into Uvor’s gut and pulled it out through his throat.”
Jenny grimaced. “Why was he called Uvor the Blessed’?”
“He told everyone the gods had chosen him, and most believed him. Most everyone feared divine punishment if they stood against him.”
“But not Eritrolla,” Jenny guessed.
I smiled. “No. Not her.”
She tried to hide it, but her perpetual scowl toward me cracked with the edges of a smile. “She was a hero of yours?”
