Page 92 of Seven Oars
“Let’s play a game.”
She hated his voice. She hated his games. The defender shirt he now wore filled her with resentment.
Her fingers went to play with the limp braid hanging over her shoulder.
“I want you to pretend I’m Phex.”
Surely she hadn’t heard him right.
Her fingers stilled, gripped the end of her hair.
He noticed.
“Come closer.”
Oh, that low, raspy voice. The stuff of nightmares.What would he do if she refused?
Almost paralyzed with fear, she took two small steps toward him.
“So skittish. You think we’re now close enough to… touch?”
“Yes, Fincros.”
He made a sound of displeasure.“I’m Phex now. What should I do to make you play?”
The last trace of saliva dried up in Rosamma’s mouth.
She forced herself to edge a tiny bit closer.
He was gazing at her from his huge Rix eyes. His full regard, close and intense, weighed heavily. Rosamma started shaking.
“Why are you shivering?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Do I make you nervous?”
It was a trick question.
Phex. He was Phex, she had to remember that, or he would make her suffer.Worse, he could make her friends suffer.
“Yes, Phex.”
She had trouble concentrating. The man in front of her was so potently wrong for the name he’d ordered her to call him.
“Why is that?”
Why?
“You’re bigger than me. Stronger. Different.”
“Yet you wanted to touch me,” he mused.
Was his soft tone suggestive?
She sucked in air.“Not like… that.”
His finely traced eyebrows twitched, and Rosamma hated that he shared this Rix ethnic trait with Phex.
