Page 87 of Fate's Wicked Oath

I studied the wad of black fabric in my hand, briefly forgetting why I’d retrieved it. “Yes.”

Faren’s smile was easygoing. “Shall I close my eyes to protect your modesty?” He laid a wrist across his face, shielding his vision.

The room was dark. The candle burned low. The fire had reduced. All day, I’d been feeling powerless in his presence; whatever was sparking between us, I wanted desperately to gain the upper hand. I wanted him to feel as destabilized as I did.

I put my back to him, loosening the tie of the dressing gown, and made my voice cool and casual. “Close your eyes if you want to.”

Seconds passed, and when he spoke again, his voice was gravelly. “Do you want me to?”

“Modesty is for maidens,” I said airily, and slipped the gown off my shoulders.

It fell to the floor in a silken pile. Cool air from the window grazed my bare skin, and I couldfeelFaren’s attention on my back, heavy in the silence. Without hurry, I tugged the shirt over my head, pulling my hair free of the collar, allowing the hem to settle around my upper thighs.

When I finally glanced over my shoulder, Faren was sitting up among his array of bedding. His hand rested idly against his inner leg, drawing my attention to the blanket bunched around a noticeable bulge. His abdominals were flexed, mouth slack. The perfect mix of relaxed confidence and flustered restraint.

Feeling as if I’d won my little game of feigned indifference, I gave him a slight, disinterested smile and circled the bed. Tucked myself under the covers. Felt smug, until—

“I think,” Faren mused, “that you have the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen.”

A small cough escaped me as I realized my mistake: I was a master at pretending to be dispassionate, but Faren was not.

“I think,” I enunciated coolly, “that you need to practice your flattery.”

“Too blunt?” I couldn’t see him, but his voice filled the room, equal parts charming and sultry. “How would you like me to flatter you?”

“Hmm,” I hummed, pretending to think as I gathered myself. “A storybook hero would wax poetic about my beauty. Craft elaborate metaphors likening me to a sunrise, or a thorny rose, or sparkling winter’s day.”

“I don’t think I can call myself a storybook hero.”

“Afraid you’re not clever enough?”

“I’m afraid my thoughts are too impure.”

I bit the tip of my thumb, then continued my suggestions. “You could speak of my superior intellect. Or my superior fighting skills. Or perhaps my superior—”

“Ass?”

I coughed again, staring at the wooden crossbeams of the ceiling.

“I don’t think you want to be flattered like that,” Faren said. “In truth, I don’t think you want flattery at all.”

“Oh?” I asked haughtily. “What do I want, then?”

“I think you want fact,” he said. “And the fact is, youaresuperior. In every fucking way, you are superior. Smarter. Faster. Bigger-hearted and more honorable than anyone else I know—and that’s including your criminal transgressions and questionable humor.” His voice was a low rumble; its resonance made me squeeze my legs together. “But more than flattery or fact, Mariana,” he rasped, “I think what you really want is to be fu—”

Noise carried from downstairs, raucous voices and the dog barking. It snapped us out of wherever our conversation had been leading, replacing our flirtation with the sound of footsteps on hardwood, bottles clinking, and cheerful humming as the innkeeper and her friends returned home and retired to their rooms.

Yet the remnants of Faren’s words reverberated through our room like thunder, the air charged and crackling. I shifted my legs and felt a mortifying amount of slickness between them. The desire I’d felt in the bath had roused, and as I stared up at the ceiling, I wondered how I might put it back to sleep with Faren lying so close by.

“Can I ask you a question?” Faren asked, cutting through the ringing in my ears.

“Depends on the question.”

He huffed. “What Noble said earlier, about his Order—was he kidding?”

I was almost relieved by the grim topic. “No.”

“No, you can’t say? Or no, he wasn’t kidding.”