Page 43 of An Assassin's Death
He… wants me to do something… with his arms.
“Have you seriously never danced?” He drops his arms to his sides.
“No. I grew up as a fighter not a dancer.”
How does he know how to dance? I study the curve of his biceps, the wide set of his shoulders. He looks like he’s very much built for destruction. Not ballroom dancing.
His palms are held up into that expecting placement once again. I hesitate before awkwardly putting my bandaged hand into his and letting my other hand settle high on his shoulder. His skin is damp beneath my touch and a petty part of my mind wants to know why I’m dressed like Malibu Barbie and he’s still hanging out in gym shorts.
The scrawling ink that swirls down his left arm is close enough for my attention to finally read it. ‘Camilla’ is written in pretty letters and my lips curl just slightly from the sight of another woman’s name inked into his skin. Black birds like ravens rip from the cursive C, inking up his arm in slashing lines of details.
He pulls my arm until my hand is a little lower on his shoulder, drawing my attention back to my current task. He takes a moment to lock my elbow into a more proper position. I wait for him to manhandle me just how he likes as I roll my eyes at every little correction he makes. A warm palm pushes against my stomach as his other hand pushes down low on my spine, making my thighs shift beneath his demanding touch. My posture is stiff but perfect now. His fingers linger just above my ass and he holds me like that for a second longer before bringing his hands back into place.
When he starts leading me around the room in swift and—I’ll admit it—impressive moves I start to try to memorize the steps we’re taking.
“My mother was a performance artist.”
His honest words catch me off guard and I stumble, stepping lightly on the toes of his shoes.
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. What is with people oversharing with me lately? First Nala, and now this. If I wanted things to be awkward between us, I would have brought up his extended jerk off session again.
“She was in theater for years when I was a kid.”
I don’t like this. How do I make it stop? Can I turn him off and try turning him back on?
Maybe it’s because I don’t have any fond memories of my youth. The quiet elderly woman who raised me was nice, but she wasn’t family. After that, there was a lot of sleeping in abandoned buildings and eating from trash bins that make up my sweet childhood. Armond is as close to family as I have, and he wasn’t exactly enrolling me in dance recitals when we met.
Tylin turns me abruptly and the way he controls my movements makes my stomach flutter but I ignore it. I ignore his attempt at small talk and I focus entirely on the steps of the dance.
“What’s the event for?” My question is very much something I need to know, but it’s also the only thing I can think of to distract his rambling.
His pace quickens even though the mellow music remains the same. I stumble once again but right my footing immediately.
For a moment I don’t think he’ll answer. Maybe he’ll tell me another useless fact about his adolescence.
And I almost stumble again when he actually does answer.
“Armond wants a higher power. Someone to take his assassins and turn them into something more deadly.”
Holy shit that was real information.
I blink up at him as his gaze holds mine. There is a searching look is in his eyes as if this entire moment is a test.
“Someone with more power aiding Armond is incredibly dangerous.”
He nods slowly but keeps his silence.
“You want me to go to the event to see if the higher power agrees to join him?”
The music continues to sway around us, but he halts, his arms lowering as he stares hard at me. What he says next knocks the air from my lungs.
“We want you to stop him.”
Twenty-One
The Team Uniform
I just needtime to process. I need time to think the new turn of events through. And I need space. Alone.
