Quinn paused and raised her eyes, taking in the man that had stopped her.
Backlit by the sun and sky, a creature of savageness and sensuality stared down at her. His eyes, they were unlike anything she’d ever seen. Smoldering coals they were, burning from within, without a spec of color in sight. Her lips parted and her breath caught, but only for a moment.
Those eyes were so … fierce. There was a wildness to him that Quinn had not found in others. Ever. She took a step back and he paused, waiting, before he released his hold on her wrist.
She composed herself, a mask of indifference falling over her as she allowed her eyes to travel the length of him. Long dark hair—the color of black skies—hung in thick strands surrounding a face that had seen more than its fair share of fights. His skin was tanned, but an off-white scar spanned from his left eyebrow to his cheek. Other smaller flecks of old healed wounds dotted his face, making it all the more striking.
Quinn found it a strange sort of beautiful.
He wore the fine fabrics of a noblemen that was worth his weight in gold, and two rings adorned his left hand. None graced his right, Quinn noted as she took a step away, slowly coming back to her full senses.
“Who are you?” he asked her. The shouts grew louder as a crowd began to form around them. Quinn didn’t spare the slave master a look. She’d never killed before, though she’d come close. Despite her slipups with that cold impassioned madness that sometimes took hold, the honor of her first kill was reserved for someone who owed her restitution, and therefore she didn’t want or care to know if he was dead or alive.
Quinn took a step away, slowly lowering the dagger to her side. She didn’t put it away. Not yet.
“No one,” came her reply as she moved back towards the crowd. There was a ringing in the square, and the occupants of the market scattered in confusion and fear.
The bells meant only one thing.
Soldiers. City guards, to be exact. She froze.
“No,” the man said. He didn’t move. Neither of them did, even as the people in the streets scattered like rats around them. “You’re someone.” She began to shake her head, and he stopped her with a calculated look. “You’re someone like me.”
That made her pause.
Did he mean…
The streets thinned as the pounding of hooves against mortar thundered through the city. She needed to get out of here. If they caught her with the evidence of her actions bleeding out behind her, she would never even find out if Jada’s latest attempt at keeping her magic under control would work. She’d be hanged before the end of the morrow.
Quinn turned to leave when something stopped her. It was startling; a whisper of air blew across her face. The cold chill of winter that didn’t belong.
“I’ll find you after I take care of this,” he told her. She didn’t have to ask what this was. Nor did she want to know what he meant. As much as he intrigued her, Quinn just made herself a wanted woman one too many times.
Still, she looked over her shoulder. With a frown, she replied, “Unlikely.”
Then she disappeared into the shadows where people like her belonged.
Where she should have stayed.
Dark Masquerade
“Mirrors reflect the monsters no one else can see.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, possible murderess
Quinn stared into the shimmering reflective surface of her dressing room mirror. Just outside, she could hear the distant bustling noises of the rest of the night’s acts getting ready. Lifting the opal stone from between her breasts, Quinn examined the cracks in its surface. Although not by much, the magic Jada had enchanted the stone with had already faded since that morning. Sighing, she slipped it back under the collar of her dress.
A knock on the door echoed throughout the small room just a moment before it swung slightly inward. “Are you ready?” a familiar voice asked. The top part of a sandy blond head peeked around the wood.
“Almost,” Quinn said. “I will be shortly.”
“Good,” Caine replied, his dull brown eyes looking her over before sliding away. “Hastings is looking for you.”
Quinn narrowed her gaze on the young man. He rarely looked her in the eyes when he delivered bad news, meaning that whatever Hastings wanted—it wasn’t good.