Page 7 of Shadows of Stardust

But the human remains alone.

Eyes fixed forward, she determinedly does not look at me as she approaches.

My muscles tense, my eyes hone in on her strange, alien face, and I’m so focused on her I almost miss the female Nexxan contestant who comes up behind her and throws a subtle elbow just as they’re about to pass me.

The Nexxan walks quickly on, but the human loses her footing. She stumbles in the loose, shifting sand, and as she starts to fall, I move without thinking.

The human is warm.

Scorching, even, as my hand closes around her small upper arm to keep her from toppling into the pathway.

My own skin runs cool unless I’m fighting or fucking, and the little human is a living flame against my hand as I pull her up and come face-to-face with sparkling emerald green.

It’s not the only thing I notice about her, those remarkable eyes. She’s got little flecks of reddish-brown on the bridge of her nose and the high crests of her cheeks. Her lips are full and pink, with a small bow-shaped indent just above them.

And despite my earlier assessment that she lacked musculature, there’s a definition to the arm I’m holding, a soft strength beneath even softer skin.

I help get her steady on her feet as the stream of contestants and producers moves around us, two hovercams breaking from their flight pattern to zero in and capture every second.

The human meets my gaze and sucks in a sharp breath. Her eyes flare wide and a fluttering at the base of her throat draws my attention down the slim column of her neck.

Her heart, racing.

So fast, I can feel it where my fingers rest against her skin.

So fast, it can’t be anything but fear.

I study her face again.

Strange, this human. New and unfamiliar, so hard to decipher, though I’ve spent the better part of my life learning to read tells, to know each detail of an enemy’s face so I can predict their next move.

There’s no reading her, though. Not yet. Not fully.

But if I had to make a guess, I would guess those emerald eyes are filled with guilt, with suspicion, with secrets that the obsessive, deranged part of me can’t wait to figure out.

3

Roslyn

This isn’t happening.

If I close my eyes, breathe deep, and get a handle on the racing of my heart, all of this will go away.

I won’t be entirely screwed before my mission here even starts.

But—with a chill racing down my spine and sour bile coating the inside of my mouth—I open my eyes and find out this isn’t, in fact, something I can just wish away. There’s no denying the visceral reality of the male standing in front of me.

He has cool, slate-grey skin, and his face is all chiseled angles and harsh, unforgiving lines, mostly humanoid in appearance but also distinctlyun-human—brutal in its intensity. Capped with shaggy black hair that falls to his shoulder, there’s nothing even remotely resembling warmth in his expression as he stares down at me.

My mind blanks, all thoughts narrowed down to one dark, stomach-turning question.

What the fuck is a soldier like this doing here?

There’s no mistaking this male for exactly what he is. A soldier. Or a warrior, of some kind. And a pretty fucking lethal one, by the looks of him.

The guard is straight-backed and keen-eyed, reflexes fast as a whip as he stopped me from face-planting into the ground after that cheap shot Ansalla landed. He has at least a foot on me, and is twice as wide, his muscled physique showcased by a tightly fitted, short-sleeved black tunic top. Those short sleeves leave his arms and shoulders bare, revealing plated ridges of natural armor that cover him from neck to wrist.

And if that weren’t intimidating enough, he’s also got two wickedly sharp horns arching back from the sides of his head.

---