HASANNAH

Two Fae warriors were eye stalking me. One of the first warnings we'd been given in orientation was to never catch the eye of a warrior, especially not a Lord. A High Lord?

The city washed its hands of you.

No one was willing to die trying to protect some stupid mortal from a High Lord.

I hadn't thought I'd have to worry about that. . .I kept my head down and focused on training while awaiting the start of the final audition. Why would a warrior, especially a Lord, ever be interested in a small-town human pushing thirty-one with a passion for dance, and more determination than sense? I'd assumed I'd be safe, even if my family assumed the exact opposite.

The Fae warriors stared.

Not both—and if the pointy ears and faintly glowing, uptilted eyes didn't give their immortality away, their posture and watchfulness would have. Humans couldn't achieve that motionlessness, not if they weren't trained in poise and control. I mean, I could, but I was a ballerina.

My muscles tensed with energy that had nothing to do with dance and everything to do with discovering what it felt like to be stalked. Fear was a foreign emotion, but I understood it now.

The lean man in jade green leather armor glanced at me occasionally, but mostly his gaze focused on everything else. Piercing, restless, the posture of his tall, muscled body placing him in the supporting role to the man at his side.

The dark-haired one standing in shadows definitely being the principal of the pair, but unlike the blond next to him, all of his focus was on me.

Not. . .good.

The principal stood with trained poise and deceptive ease, his posture saturated with enough authority he didn't have to flaunt it, and the offhand arrogance to match.

Principal dancers were usually a pain in the ass. Touchy, hyper-focused, standoffish and balancing on their own last nerve, all at the same time. If you were smart you observed from a distance.

Though of course with all that power came the downside. . .everyone from the corp to the first soloist would be plotting your downfall. Waiting for you to pull a hamstring or succumb to a stress fracture. Anything to take you out of the game.

The principal wore the Cassanian version of casual club wear; a fitted black sleeveless deep v tunic over fitted black pants and low heeled boots, a slight sheen to the fabrics. The tunic revealed the sort of deceptively lean, natural musculature of dancers and athletes who conditioned their bodies without supplements. He wore a drape of silver chain at neck and wrists, and silver rings on one hand.

He stole my attention away from my dance, not that I was putting my all into it anyway. Street corner busking brought in extra coin and provided another opportunity to train while waiting for the showcase, but I conserved my energy.

He inhaled abruptly, eyes and nostrils widening, then moved towards me, his guard at his side.

That wasn't ideal. He strode with a gait I recognized, since one of the main jobs of any ballerina was to make our dancing look effortless while remaining flawless. The easier it looked, the longer and harder the training. He controlled his body, his pacing, used it as both a tool and weapon.

Like recognized like, after all.

I stilled when he stopped under the light of a street lamp that revealed black hair to be a deep emerald framing cool winter skin over sculpted bone structure.

Suppressing the urge to snatch up my bag and run, I glanced at the silvery fair blond at his side who met my gaze and grimaced, then continued ignoring me. No help would be coming from that quarter. Clearly, he’d understood my silent request.

“You dance like the wind,” the emerald haired man murmured, bright eyes intent.

A low, coaxing voice used on small children and feral kittens. A thread of unexpected warmth in it. . .but I couldn't tell if it was the warmth of pleasure or the heat of anger. Maybe both. I wasn't a singer; I was a dancer.

He was waiting for me to respond so I shrugged. “I'm a bit heavier than the wind.”

He stepped closer, lips curving in a smile I was certain he thought made him look charming and harmless. His lashes lowered over his eyes, veiling the bright color, a sly seductiveness a little too toothy to be innocent. But he wanted me to think so. I almost turned tail and ran but an older instinct took over; I didn’t move.

Don't catch the attention of a Lord, and if you caught the attention of a High Lord—not to be confused with the High Lord—there was absolutely nothing anyone could do for you but notify your next of kin.

The subtext being that you would soon be dead, or at least wish you were.

“Droit de seigneur?” I’d asked the Fae instructor, not really expecting her to understand the term.

But she’d stopped, and looked at me. “Droit de seigneur is shallow in comparison.”

Saturated teal eyes fixed on my face and reminded me of a costume the prima ballerina had worn in my former company's rendition of Swan Lake. Warm summery blue that under the right lighting could diffuse to something softer, nearly sweet.

“I can’t lie to you,” he said, voice still too gentle, too coaxing, speaking English with an accent I’d find swoonworthy if fear wasn’t growing. No man without an agenda bothered to use that kind of coaxing tone.

I didn’t trust men with agendas. They always tried to break me on them, and got mad when I walked away instead.

Uneasy, I tried to look away, which was more difficult than it should have been, especially since he looked like a past mistake, times one hundred, waiting to happen again.

An internal tug drew me to him despite common sense screaming to get away.

“I train very hard to make it look easy.”

Emerald-onyx hair slithered across his shoulders as he tilted his head. It was shorter than his companion's, coming below his shoulder blades. The Legolas template wore his in a long tail to his waist.

“Where do you study?”

The question didn't seem idle, more like a subtle fish for information.

“I'm not a student here. I'm in the city to audition for the High Lord's company.”

There. A not so subtle warning that I was informally under Lord Issahelle’s protection. We'd been told the High Lord punished those who interfered with her dancers, including the prospectives. . .but that, again, she wouldn’t intervene if a Lord showed an interest.

The curve of his lips turned pained, as if he carried on an internal struggle as he talked to me. 

“An honorable endeavor. I'm certain you'll have your pick of patrons among the Houses who support human artists.”

Fae couldn't lie. I caught my breath, hope stirring in my chest. “I work to be worthy of it.”

“And your name, little mortal?”

The inner tug pulled, sucking me inward like a whirlpool in a summer sea.

Such a supposedly innocent question. He wasn't trying to be subtle. His eyes were patient, but that patience felt like a polite lie. What did he want with me? Classically sculpted features—too bad he wasn't a dancer. Beauty didn't mean goodness, though, I couldn't fall into the trap of letting down my guard for a pretty face, especially not a Fae pretty face. Why was he staring?

A litany of Cassanian words filled my mind, their cadence holding the weight of want, of need, of oath. Coaxing words, words like the drumbeat of hundreds of heels on a stage, a voice I recognized though internally it was deeper, more commanding, demanding everything I was and had to give and if I didn’t give, he would take—

I staggered back a step, my knees almost buckling and the man was suddenly in front of me, grabbing my upper arms with the certain strength of someone who felt they had a right to touch.

Fingers seared my skin and I lifted my hands defensively to push him away, meeting a focused gaze burning with emotions that made no sense. 

No, I wouldn’t repeat this cycle again. I’d promised myself last time would be it.

But everything I feared, everything I used to allow myself to want before my body proved too much for every single man I tried to have a relationship with, I saw in his eyes.

“Hasannah,” I said, forcing my body to relax. Hoping the lack of resistance would defuse whatever was currently blowing up in my face.

Slowly, he released me and stepped back. I breathed a little easier.

“An almost Fae name. Lovely.”

The purr of his voice wrapped around me, and my heart rate skyrocketed, my thighs pressing together. Was this instalust? I wasn't a virgin, but I'd never enjoyed sex.

Not when it always ended in pain for me, in disappointment and resentment for me and my partner. Endometriosis didn’t care about anyone’s feelings, least of all mine, and in the end, the men never cared either.

This one will be no different, I reminded myself. Don’t let his eyes tell tales.

He inhaled, taking a tiny quarter step forward when the man at his side placed a hand on his shoulder and glanced at him once, a warning slash of gray eyes as he murmured a few words.

The dark-haired man stilled again, then retreated, saying nothing else.

I couldn't dance for much longer after that, not with him watching me. I finished, satisfied at what I'd earned for the evening because it was enough for two days' worth of groceries, and picked the bag up, shouldering it.

“It's late,” the dark man murmured, looking at me from underneath thick lashes. “You shouldn’t be out unescorted at this time of night.” His mouth, thin upper lip and full bottom, flattened before he caught himself and smoothed his expression.

I almost laughed. Did he think I was a Lord with a retinue? “I don't have much choice. Anyway. . .goodbye.” It never hurt to be polite.

But his eyes cut into me, pulsing with light, and I froze, understanding the deer in headlights feeling.

He prowled forward, any warmth in the expression obliterated by the heat in his eyes.

Heat too blatant, too possessive, to be in the gaze of a man I met only minutes ago. The blond tensed a little, but didn’t halt his principal again.

He lowered his mouth, not quite brushing the rim of my ear, and breathed a gentle wash of warm, lust laced breath. I almost whimpered, my body igniting, the strange intense tug trying to lure me into him.

“Allow me to escort you home,” he whispered, his voice a beguiling croon that tried to sound nonthreatening. “You’ve caught my interest, little mortal.”

He inhaled, his chest and shoulders rising, almost brushing against me. His voice roughened.

“I want you. Take me to your bed and before I have my fill, you’ll scream my name on my tongue, my fingers, and only then on my cock. I won’t allow you to sleep until you break from pleasure. And in the morning I’ll break you again.”

Giời ơi. He almost had me with a few words despite the arrogance of conquest that leaked out of him. He expected to have me. He probably thought he could walk me into the nearest alley, and then leave me in a puddle of his come with a pretty smile.

What terrified me was that while he spoke I saw it all in my mind. And I wanted it.

But reality slapped me in the face. Even when my libido was sufficient, there were other issues. There would never be quick, hard, spontaneous romance novel sex for me. He didn’t seem like the type who’d listen if I told him to go gently, to wait, to adjust the angle, to to to. All the “tos” I needed to get through the act without hurting.

I wanted something more than to be broken on a Fae warrior’s desire.

“No.” I stepped back.