Page 89 of Veiled Flames
He chuckles. “Perhaps Iwillgrant you a royal drilling—someday. But I think I’ll wait until youbegme for it.”
“Then, you’ll wait for eternity.” I raise my chin.
Although… wasn’t that precisely my plan when I came in here? To plead. To trade my body for his silence? My mind is spinning, confused by lust and hatred, and by Tynan’s infernal arrogance. “I don’twantyou and would certainly never beg.”
“Liar.” A smirk soils his face. “And if you don’t want a good fucking, then get out.” He points toward the door. “I have a big day tomorrow and need my rest.”
I glare at him. “I won’t ever beg you. Not for anything. I might let you drill me—but only if you promise to keep my secret.”
In three bounding strides, Tynan lands in front of me. Strapping his arms around my body and trapping mine, he bends me back toward the floor, holding me suspended, unbalanced. I fight to recover from the shock as he stares into my eyes, mocking me, demonstrating how easily he can overpower me.
Lightning strikes emanate from his penetrating green eyes, and they ignite sparks to join the multiple fires already burning inside me.
Ihatethis man, yet I could live in his eyes.
As he holds me immobile, his expression changes. The greens swirl into something less mocking, less malicious. At times, Tynan’s eyes expose so much of him, and yet I feel certain I could stare into them for a lifetime without discovering every secret buried deep there.
“You confound me.” Tynan lifts me onto my feet, but traps both my wrists behind my back with one large hand. “So many things about you defy explanation.”
“Like what?” I wish my voice and my rapid breaths weren’t exposing my fear and desire.
He rakes back his indigo curls, with the hand not trapping mine. “To begin, who helped you escape from your wedding?”
“No one helped me.”
His eyes flash with something that looks like admiration.
“And why would you dare refuse a marriage arranged by your father—by a king, no less? Why would you take such a risk?”
“The day you arrived,” I tell him. “I saw your royal cortege by the bridge. Isawwhat your grandfather did to that servant girl, and Iheardwhat your father commanded his footman to do.”
“I stopped that nasty business,” Tynan says quickly. Shame washes over his face, but then he closes his eyes, as if his words revealed more than he planned.
“That wasyou?” I ask. “You were the one on the horse, who said there was not enough time to drill the wench.”
Eyes still closed, he nods, and warmth spreads inside me. IknewTynan wasn’t cruel. Or, not as cruel as his elders.
His eyes open, and his expression steals my breath. It looks suspiciously admiring, almost respectful, even as he continues to trap my wrists, crushing the bones painfully together.
“So,” he says, “first, you escape a well-guarded castle on the eve of your wedding. Then you manage to disguise yourself as a boy and find the dragon trials. And then, you have the courage to not onlyapproacha dragon, but to help others do so.” He runs his hand through his dark curly hair.
“And on top of all that, for several days—and in very close quarters—you not only maintained your disguise as a boy, you saved my horse, and then you bested me in the gauntlet.” He shakes his head. “I’ve held that record since my third attempt.”
“I’m sure you could have run it more quickly,” I say earnestly, “had you known your record was at risk.”
Tynan subtly shakes his head. So subtly I’m not completely sure I saw the motion.
“Princess Rosomon.” His voice is gentler now. “You are like no girl I’ve ever met. And certainly like no man.” His admiration is clear now. He’s still holding my wrists, but it no longer feels like a threat.
Pride spreads inside me. I want to say the same back to him, but the truth is Ihavemet men with Tynan’s style of arrogance before—many of them—even if Tynan has revealed layers beneath his over-confident façade.
He releases my wrists, and his fingers slide back into my hair, but this time he doesn’t tug. Instead, his palm and fingers cradle my head, holding it still as he stares into my eyes.
Held like this, arched over the floor and tucked against his much taller body, I feel like I’m floating, and my aching muscles turn to jelly, as if wanting to yield to him. To yield everything that I have. To yield all that I am.
“I want to kiss you,” he says hoarsely.
My sanity fights its way back. “Do you promise?”
