Page 19 of To Touch A Silent Fury
“Since a little past my second span,” I responded, and saw him tense. “Your Grace.”
He relaxed, and smirked. “If you’re going to Isle de Courvin, you’ll have to learn some manners.”
“If,” I echoed, before clapping my hand to cover my mouth and making the beads rattle.
“What was that?” he asked, taking a sip of the tea.
I swallowed. “Nothing.”
“You said ‘if’. Why?”
“I don’t have a choice, Your Grace,” I replied. “Imustgo to Isle de Courvin.”
“You are not happy with your Fate.”
There was nothing to gain by lying. It was obvious enough. “No, Your Grace.”
“Having every man in that arena compete for your hand does not appeal to you?” he asked, leaning forwards and settling his cup back on the tray. “Having them fawn over you?”
I laughed despite it all. “I am sure that if the men knew their victory would also win them me, most of the field would yield.”
Prince Langnathin did not laugh. He simply stared at me.
I ducked my head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn.”
“Why would you think that?”
I shook my head, keeping my eyes focused on the material under my hands, not knowing where to start. He must understand it; he was the Dragon Prince, his father the patron of this accursed place.
The prince stood, and I took a step back. His gaze pinned me with its intensity. “Have they always made you wear that?”
“No, Your Grace,” I replied. “It is out of respect for you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Come here.”
I hesitated. I knew nothing beyond the scientific about the touches a man could bestow on a woman, but there was something in his nature, something in the heat in his gaze, that rooted me where I stood. My heart pounded in my chest.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. When I still did not move, he reached his hand out. “Your power works with skin contact. I wish for you to tell me what you sense when you touch me.”
“You want me to read you?” I replied. “Your Grace.”
“Yes.”
The Prince of the Sightlands had given me an order. My heart thundering in my chest, I stepped around the furniture and stood before him.
I kept my attention on his outstretched palm, too scared to meet his gaze. I lifted my shaking hand and touched him. My tanned skin pressed to his white flesh, and I felt his emotions as readily as food touching my tongue.
I swallowed as my skin prickled. Desire and unease. Almost in equal measure.
“What do you sense?” he asked.
My breath hitched, and I tried to focus. Beneath the desire, beneath the unease. There was ambition there, but it was clouded by something. Fear, or agitation. Curiosity. Dread. Resentment.
And then, underneath that, something new. Another set? Curiosity sat there, too. Hunger, greed, jealousy. But wonder, pride, and love, too.
I pulled my hand back and retreated two steps. I’d never read so much from one person. I blinked and raised my white eyes to his blood-red stare. “You fear something, or you are nervous about a course of action. You know something needs to happen, but you don’t know if it is something you want.”
His jaw clenched. “What else?”
