Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“Come.” Micah wrapped an arm around her waist and ushered her outside, past the guards, then released her. He didn’t take her hand to ensure she stayed close. Nope, he marched through camp, expecting her to follow or be left behind.
She couldn’t bring herself to care—much—about his disregard as a cool, crisp morning breeze caressed her face. Like coming home. Boots and toes faded to the background of her thoughts, and she shed the remaining vestiges of her bad mood fast. “How long have you lived here?” she asked, all but running to keep up with him.
“Almost a year. The entirety of my truce with King Kaysar.”
“Not long then.” Barely a blip when you lived centuries. “Why does your tone suggest forever?”
“A single day at this site proved too long.”
Oh, oh. Did she detect a wealth of bitterness? “Is that because you’re a chimera?” A girl had to try.
He might have rolled his eyes. “A chimera is someone with two glamaras.”
Are you kidding? “What a blessing!” Twice the power? Talk about amazing. Except, he planned to use those two glamaras against Kaysar. Not good. Not good at all.
“Blessing? The abilities constantly clash, neither working correctly until one supersedes the other. And only for a short time.”
“What abilities—”
“No more questions,” he interjected.
Fine. “Subtle hint taken.” Lapsing into silence and hating that he was so interesting, she scanned her surroundings. A part of the camp she hadn’t seen before. Busy, bustling fae went about their day. The morning sun bathed the stretch of flatland, turning what should have been a dismal site into a beautiful fantasy. The dirt-covered ground gleamed like dark, molten gold, reminding her of Micah’s eyes. Tents of varying colors rippled in a soft breeze. Nothing like the towering buildings in New York, with metal cars zooming between them. Thankfully, she hadn’t spent much time there.
Now, curious people glanced at Micah, only to jerk their attention elsewhere. Anyone who noticed Viori inspected her at their leisure. And clearly found her lacking.
She bristled, ready to lash out, until she caught a whiff of the roasting spices and simmering stews coating the air. Despite her recent meal, her mouth watered.
“When do we eat lunch?” Had she slurred her words? Was she drooling? “And will we get to sample everything made by everyone? Because we should. You are the king.”
“We?” He cocked his head at her, one brow lifted in amusement. “The cooks aren’t working on lunch. A hunting party raided palace lands and only returned an hour ago. The catch exceeded expectations, but it must tenderize. What you smell is dinner.”
Dinner. “Eight to twelve hours from now. Basically, the equivalent of almost a year in your world.” A whimper escaped.
“I will satisfy you before then,” he offered gruffly.
Her heart skipped a beat, her thoughts swerving straight to the bedroom. Parts of her tingled as if to say, Yes. Do it.
Goodness gracious. Viori steered her mind to her mission. Gaining information. Like...palace lands. Had her captor violated the truce with his raiding party?
“Do the hunters venture out often?” To the left, another party gathered, warriors congregating together, each loaded with weapons.
Micah grunted. No more, no less. Which meant...what?
Frustrating male. Did anyone’s mood plummet faster?
Another sight snagged her as they marched on. Norok, holding an ebony beauty by the waist. The pair stood between two tents, enveloped by thin shadows unable to conceal them. He grinned as he bent his head and whispered something in her ear. By the time he finished, she was grinning, too, and wrapping her arms around his neck.
So, he didn’t spend every waking minute nabbing redheads for his king.
Throughout the rest of the camp, more fae bustled, washing or corralling children. Up ahead, soldiers trained with swords, spears, whips and daggers. Preparing for the coming war with Kaysar?
Well. That just wouldn’t do.
Micah bounded off without warning, startling a scheme right out of her head. He approached a grandmotherly fae who struggled under the burden of an overlarge wicker basket overflowing with laundry. “Allow me,” he said, redistributing the basket’s weight.
The elder paled and tendered a brittle smile, keeping her gaze on the ground. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but I have no need of assistance.” Hiding her face behind hanks of frizzy silver, she hurried off.
Micah stood in place, unmistakable pride stamped into every inch of him. Injured pride. Viori wasn’t sure what sensation sparked within; she was only certain something did, in fact, singe her chest.
She glared at the woman’s back. If I sing the laundry to life, she’ll accept whatever help she can get.
Whoa. Anger? Here, now? On Micah’s behalf? Ridiculous! Besides, his gesture of kindness was nothing but a show. An endeavor meant to impress—or trick—his captive into relaxing her guard.
He jerked his fingers, waving Viori closer. She hesitated, then trudged the distance, rejoining her mysterious host.