Cursed by Fire by Jacquelyn Frank Page B

toward the rooms she knew he’d been given. She was just around the corner from it when she saw a light coming in her direction. She ducked into the thick arch of another doorway, squeezing herself into the shadow and cover it provided her. He was wearing a hooded cloak and being led by a page boy.
    “Do you need any other assistance, sor?” the boy asked.
    “No,” came the rough reply. His voice sounded more harsh than it did drunk, she thought. His words were not slurred but were hoarse. “Go,” he commanded of the boy. She could not see him in the shadows of his cloak, but she could hear the dismissal in his voice. As could the page no doubt because he departed quickly after that, leaving him the lantern he’d used to provide light along the way. Dethan then moved into his rooms and shut the door behind him. Selinda silently crept up to the door.
    Dethan barely managed to place the lantern on the rickety little table the room provided before stumbling toward the bed. He should have waited longer, he told himself. Should have let himself heal more. Instead he had crept into town, stolen a cloak, and headed back to the fortress, driven by one thing and one thing only: the idea of a bed. He had not known the comfort of a bed in hundreds of years. Or at least it had felt like hundreds of years. He still did not know how long he had lain chained in torment. He had already seen many strange new things in the world. Building materials alone in the finer parts of town, this fortress included, set things apart. Not all the stone was the harsh gray of unmatched rock hewn from the ground, but there werelarge matching slabs of it in wondrous colors polished and smooth. There was also the carriage the grandina had traveled in. And the finely tooled tack on the horses.
    But none of that mattered to him right then. All he cared about was that the bed was sturdy. Whatever the comfort level, it would be more than he’d had before.
    That was when he heard it. The creak of the door on its hinges. Another difference. In his day hinging had been with leather. These were metal and squeaked noisily. He waited until the door shut, pretending he had not heard it. He waited until the person came closer, then, just when the bastard reached out to attack him, he whirled about, grabbed the outstretched arm, and swiftly moved to snap the assailant’s arm in two at the long bone by yanking it hard in a lever of counterforce and the drive of his elbow.
    But at the very last instant before his elbow struck down he found himself looking into frightened eyes of stunning teal. Shocked, he stopped himself from further injuring her. As it was, he may have already dislocated her shoulder. He placed a hand on her breastbone and shoved her away from him. She stumbled back, tripping on the hem of her gown, the sound of the fabric tearing filling the room as she struggled to regain her balance.
    “What are doing you here?” he demanded roughly of her. “Do you realize I could have ripped your arm off?” He found himself checking to be sure she hadn’t had a weapon after all. She had none that he could see.
    “I’m sorry, but I needed to talk with you,” she said in earnest. “I did not mean to startle you, but I was afraid to knock and someone was coming down the hall. I could not afford to be seen.”
    “Yes, you would not wish to be seen with one such as me,” he said bitterly.
    “It is not my honor I am worried about. Although Iam expected to be chaste until my wedding day, I promise you I do not care about that. In fac—”
    “Chaste,” he said incredulously. “A woman is expected to be chaste until she is wed?” He scoffed. “I have never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. What has chastity to do with honor? Either you are true or you are not. That is where your honor will lie once you are wed. As for chastity, why would you not want to know if your lover can perform to your satisfaction? You cannot know this unless you try him