Page 142 of Kissed By the Gods
“The lie has to be that you’re not ticklish, because it would be a tragedy of epic proportions if you’re not.”
I smile, licking cheese off my fingers. “Well done.”
“How about we fix the third one for you now.” He stands and then sinks down in an elegant bow, holding out a hand for me. “Would you like to dance?”
Oh, this is fun. “Yes.”
He holds me close when we get to the dance floor. The music is soft and slow. I compare his arms to Ryot’s, fleetingly, before I shove the thought from my mind. I’m not thinking about Ryot tonight.
Tonight, I’m havingfun, godsdammit.
“How is training going?” he asks, seemingly genuinely curious.
“Really well.” I lie. I don’t think he notices.
“Ryot’s treating you well?”
So much for not thinking about Ryot. “You know Ryot?”
He looks at me like I’ve said something funny. I guess I have—I imagine most of Edessa knows everyone else. They all live in one city, don’t they? And I’m sure they all know the Altor.
“Of course,” he answers. “Though I haven’t seen him in years. He doesn’t often come here.”
My heart pounds at the mere mention of Ryot. What is wrong with me? There’s a perfectly nice, perfectly attractive man holding me in his arms, and I’m still thinking about Ryot.
“Mmm,” I answer noncommittally. Don’t ask about Ryot. Don’t ask a question about Ryot.
“How do you know him?” Dammit.
“We were friends before he presented as an Altor,” Roran says, but he doesn’t elaborate.
The noise is building in intensity, the smoke is making my eyes water, and the attention aimed my way is cloyingly sweet. A headache that lingers near my temple beats a steadier, firmer rhythm. I bring my fingers up to press it, like I can force the pain to retreat if I push hard enough.
“Headache?” Roran asks, tutting sympathetically.
“A little one.”
“Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately, relieved. Roran nods to one of the guards, who clears a path for us through the crowd. I wave at Thalric and Nyrica, though they both look worried. I follow Roran up the twisting stairs to the fourth floor of the building, eager to leave the barrage of sounds and smells behind. But as we enter a dimly lit room—with nothing but a bed—I realize that Roran and I have very different ideas about “going somewhere quieter.”
Pleasure house, I remind myself. Godsdammit.
He wraps his arms around me again, pulling me in for a kiss as he pushes me up against the back wall. He tastes perfectly pleasant, like wine and a hint of something minty. His lips are firm, and they move against mine in all the right ways. His hands are gentle, yet firm, against my waist.
I pull back, pressing my head against the wall. He takes that as an invitation to kiss his way down my neck, to the base of my shoulder. And it does … absolutely nothing except make my skin crawl.
“Actually,” I start. “I don’t think?—”
“Shh,” he whispers, “stay.” His voice is velvety sweet as the command glides around me.
But the darkness that guards my mind is having none of it. It shatters the velvet sweet in his voice into little shards, then takes the shards and spits them back out as dust.
I narrow my eyes on him. “Did you try to coerce me?”
His eyes widen. He’s surprised that I noticed. “Of course not,” he says. Lie.
I rip my hand from his arm. “Let’s play a game,” I say. “It’s called two truths and a lie. One.” I call my dagger up from the holster at my thigh, and it lands in my palm with a whisper. His eyes widen. “I’m very, very good with my daggers.”
