Smolder (Crown of Fae #3) - Sharon Ashwood Page 0,4

moment. Even at a distance, the bright amber of her eyes shone like ancient gold. Her soft lips parted in a gasp of surprise, as if he were an unexpected apparition—one that inspired both hope and despair.

Morran looked away. He offered no hope—he was an abyss.

With swift, precise moves, he filled his plate from the dishes heaped before him. A servant replaced the goblet Juradoc had destroyed. When Morran looked back, the dancers had already launched into their performances. The soft silks of their dresses flowed around their limbs, reminding him of exotic plumage.

What had the Kelthian woman seen in him? What had made her cheeks flush and then turn white as chalk?

Familiarity tugged at his thoughts, but he was certain he’d never met either dancer. Both were young, beautiful, and supple, promising energetic pleasures. Need stirred, but so did caution. No one set such a luscious temptation before Morran of Tymeera without a motive. Juradoc wanted something. Or Dorth did. No man climbed the dung heap of power without a facility for plots.

Morran kept his face utterly blank. If he remembered only one thing, it was never to show curiosity, much less weakness. As long as he kept the jackals guessing, he wasn’t prey.

He picked at his food, choosing only the plainest fare. Dorth’s taste for rich sauces and heavy spice was appropriate for a feast, but provided a convenient disguise for poison. A minion filled first Dorth’s goblet, then his, from the same golden pitcher. That meant this round of wine was probably safe.

The dancers were moving faster now, circling each other with hands touching. They twined and parted, surrendering to a rhythm that began to pulse in his own veins. There was no music, no drumbeat to keep time. Bare feet stamped across the floor, the strong, sure steps speaking of strength as much as grace. Slender arms beckoned and waved. The movement spoke of desert winds scattering sand across the horizon.

Morran’s pulse beat faster. He remembered now—these two fire fae—goddesses in their beauty—were dancers of the Flame. Their art meant something to him, but he couldn’t recall what. There was a void where that knowledge had once belonged, as with so much else.

He was hollow, a night without stars inside the shell of his body, but the dance reminded him that sand, stars, and fire were part of who he was.

Had been.

Was. He was still the Lord of Tymeera, protector of the great city-state at the mouth of the Feredith River. He had come from a land of sudden floods and scorching heat.

Home. The idea clutched at his heart, rousing him for the time it took to lift his goblet and taste Lord Dorth’s expensive wine. Then the notion was gone again, falling into the void where memory should have been.

He watched the taller of the two dancers, her legs long and her back lean. She was the type of woman he liked, willowy and athletic. And all that red hair—he could imagine the warm silk of it against his skin.

Magic gathered in the room, summoned by the dance. Even in his detached state, Morran could feel it like a vision of flames through smoked glass. Something was going to happen.

He’d been thinking about—what was it?

He turned his knife so the tip rested against the thumb of his opposite hand. Slowly, gently, he pushed the blade home until it hurt, without breaking the skin. The pain cleared his thoughts, but not enough to knot together whatever it was he’d been trying to recall.

He pushed enough to pierce the skin, and a pearl of blood fell onto his plate. Home. Yes, that was it. He’d seen it in the dancer’s face as clearly as if she’d shouted out loud. She had known he was the Phoenix Prince. She wanted him to pick up his sword once more.

“How do you like the entertainment?” Dorth asked, abruptly smashing through Morran’s thoughts.

Ideas scattered. With some confusion, he wondered why he was bleeding.

Morran took another mouthful of wine. It was a heavy red, with notes of ash and ripe cherry. He set the cup down before turning to address Dorth. The man was sweating, his round cheeks flushed with food and heat.

“I like the show well enough,” Morran said, giving nothing of his frustration away. “Your dancers are very… flexible.”

Dorth waved a hand. “I’m sure they are a poor substitute for those at your palace.”

Morran shrugged, a slight lift of one shoulder. Inside, he groped like a man deprived of light.