leaving behind. Just an empty palace, ghosts of the dead, and the promise of rebellion…lost.
“Say my name,” he choked out.
Her lips parted against his earlobe, hot, inviting. “Enrue.”
He gripped her wrist and hauled it away, impeding her attempt to kill him. Spinning around, he faced his would-be assassin and stared into her golden eyes. He wanted her before and even now, he desired her, needed to possess her and hear her say his name a thousand times more.
The blade slipped from her fingers, clattering on the steps.
“Say it again,” he ordered, his free hand rising. He ran his fingertips across her lips at last, marveling at how supple they felt.
Behind her, Jorin’s guards hurried forth, one holding an injector high over his head, like a mountain scorpion ready to strike. They want her alive. Jorin will keep her in the confines and squeeze her mind for information, Enrue reminded himself. He didn’t like the idea any longer. The desire to gather her in his arms and carry her into the tight, dark dressing room sent heat racing to his loins. It made no sense.
The injector came down, piercing her shoulder. She winced, her eyes holding his. “Enrue,” she repeated, her pain evidenced by her softer tone. “I should have killed you…”
Her eyes glossed over in seconds. She slumped forward, her knees buckling. He caught her in his arms and held her to his chest. He didn’t want to hand her to the guards, to have them carry her away to Jorin’s torture, but what would they say if he didn’t let go? What would his allies think of him?
The guards pried her from his grip.
“She is not to be harmed.” Enrue reached up and placed his hand over the cut on his neck, staunching the blood. She should have killed him and had her chance only moments before. Her hesitation proved she felt something too. “Robert!” he barked. “Fetch me a fresh shirt and a bandage. I have a speech to deliver.”
* * * *
That evening, the Shiemir stood behind a plasma window witnessing Melia’s torture. Jorin upped the medication, trying all he knew to loosen her tongue. She was strong though, far more stubborn than Enrue expected. Her limbs trembled and shook. Her eyes rolled this way and that. As the hours wore on, drool seeped from her lower lip, spattering on the floor. Still nothing. She wouldn’t even admit to killing Wyther.
Jorin lifted her face and shook his head. “There’s always tomorrow, assassin. I have an endless supply of Curak. All for you, my dear. You will tell me what I want to know.” He glared at her for a while before storming out.
Enrue sighed. “Is this really necessary?”
Jorin narrowed his eyes. “You are not wary enough.” Shaking a finger at the Shiemir, he went on. “The Empire will eradicate us before we become a threat…if we let them.”
“How long will these drugs last?” He stared at Melia through the window and tried not to shudder. Shackles held her arms high. Her head hung lax, black hair loosened from a mussed braid and clinging to her cheeks.
“She will be coherent by midnight, but then she will be too tired to care.” He patted his pocket, indicating the store of injections he kept on his person. “I’ll return in the morning to begin again.”
“Very well.” Enrue didn’t feel like prolonging the conversation. He wanted to rush into the holding cell and release her hands, at least set her along the cot to rest properly. He was not one for excessive cruelty—either his prisoners supplied the information they had, or they were put to death. Holding anyone for very long was a waste of resources. Torturing people was inhumane.
Jorin’s steps clacked into oblivion. Enrue raised a hand over the security keypad, hesitated and dropped it to his side once more. He spied on her in silence. Guards patrolled every so often. He missed dinner and though his stomach grumbled, he finally reached up and entered the code.
The door droned as it opened. He stepped
“Say my name,” he choked out.
Her lips parted against his earlobe, hot, inviting. “Enrue.”
He gripped her wrist and hauled it away, impeding her attempt to kill him. Spinning around, he faced his would-be assassin and stared into her golden eyes. He wanted her before and even now, he desired her, needed to possess her and hear her say his name a thousand times more.
The blade slipped from her fingers, clattering on the steps.
“Say it again,” he ordered, his free hand rising. He ran his fingertips across her lips at last, marveling at how supple they felt.
Behind her, Jorin’s guards hurried forth, one holding an injector high over his head, like a mountain scorpion ready to strike. They want her alive. Jorin will keep her in the confines and squeeze her mind for information, Enrue reminded himself. He didn’t like the idea any longer. The desire to gather her in his arms and carry her into the tight, dark dressing room sent heat racing to his loins. It made no sense.
The injector came down, piercing her shoulder. She winced, her eyes holding his. “Enrue,” she repeated, her pain evidenced by her softer tone. “I should have killed you…”
Her eyes glossed over in seconds. She slumped forward, her knees buckling. He caught her in his arms and held her to his chest. He didn’t want to hand her to the guards, to have them carry her away to Jorin’s torture, but what would they say if he didn’t let go? What would his allies think of him?
The guards pried her from his grip.
“She is not to be harmed.” Enrue reached up and placed his hand over the cut on his neck, staunching the blood. She should have killed him and had her chance only moments before. Her hesitation proved she felt something too. “Robert!” he barked. “Fetch me a fresh shirt and a bandage. I have a speech to deliver.”
* * * *
That evening, the Shiemir stood behind a plasma window witnessing Melia’s torture. Jorin upped the medication, trying all he knew to loosen her tongue. She was strong though, far more stubborn than Enrue expected. Her limbs trembled and shook. Her eyes rolled this way and that. As the hours wore on, drool seeped from her lower lip, spattering on the floor. Still nothing. She wouldn’t even admit to killing Wyther.
Jorin lifted her face and shook his head. “There’s always tomorrow, assassin. I have an endless supply of Curak. All for you, my dear. You will tell me what I want to know.” He glared at her for a while before storming out.
Enrue sighed. “Is this really necessary?”
Jorin narrowed his eyes. “You are not wary enough.” Shaking a finger at the Shiemir, he went on. “The Empire will eradicate us before we become a threat…if we let them.”
“How long will these drugs last?” He stared at Melia through the window and tried not to shudder. Shackles held her arms high. Her head hung lax, black hair loosened from a mussed braid and clinging to her cheeks.
“She will be coherent by midnight, but then she will be too tired to care.” He patted his pocket, indicating the store of injections he kept on his person. “I’ll return in the morning to begin again.”
“Very well.” Enrue didn’t feel like prolonging the conversation. He wanted to rush into the holding cell and release her hands, at least set her along the cot to rest properly. He was not one for excessive cruelty—either his prisoners supplied the information they had, or they were put to death. Holding anyone for very long was a waste of resources. Torturing people was inhumane.
Jorin’s steps clacked into oblivion. Enrue raised a hand over the security keypad, hesitated and dropped it to his side once more. He spied on her in silence. Guards patrolled every so often. He missed dinner and though his stomach grumbled, he finally reached up and entered the code.
The door droned as it opened. He stepped
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