Page 22 of Prisoner of Steel and Shadow

Shadow heard the steel beneath the velvety voice. This was not a request. Erebos loved to show off his favorite toy.

He released her and turned to head into her room. He paused just before crossing the threshold. “And make sure you wear the dress I like. The silver one I purchased in Brillergarde. You look like a fallen star when you wear it. A piece of the heavens gracing us mere mortals.”

She knew many women would swoon at the words, but they had her barely suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. She saw straight through his courtly lies. What he really meant was the dress—if you could call it that—made her look like one of Dovina’s whores. The gown in question was little more than a glittering scrap of fabric that was so sheer it was practically see-through. He couldn’t seem to remember where her eyes were when she wore it.

Not that she blamed him. She had an excellent set of breasts; they were one of her best weapons. Many were the men—and quite a few women—lured to their deaths by a pair of great tits.

Without waiting for her to agree, Erebos left, simply expecting it would be done.

And it would.

He was the High Lord. She’d taken the knee and sworn herself into his service years ago. In all things, his word was law.

Stepping back to the railing, Shadow allowed her eyes to roam over the city below. The waves of newcomers had slowed to a trickle, but even now, people continued to flock to the city. One such person paused just outside the gates. His hood slipped free and revealed a thick fall of rust-colored hair. Redheads were rare in these parts. She couldn’t help but admire the fiery shade, so different from her icy locks. What a sight they would be side by side. Fire and ice.

Shadow shook her head at the folly of her thoughts. The only way she’d ever find out if her theory was correct was if he entered the competition. But the poor bastard would likely die before getting far enough to be recognized by her or the High Lord.

Pity.

Leaning over the railing, she clasped her hands and thought about who might become Erebos’s champion. Calix, perhaps. Or maybe Bannock. They were lucky they didn’t have to go up against her. She’d wipe the floor with both their sorry asses. In fact, there wasn’t a person in all of Empyria that would beat her if she entered the contest. And then Erebos would have no choice but to name her as his champion. Those were the rules, and not even the High Lord himself would dare break them. He’d be forced to give up his foolish notion to wed her.

If.

What a wonderful, terrible word.

Erebos would never allow it.

He hasn’t expressly forbidden it either.

Because you knew better than to ask.

Oh, but if...

If she could.

If she dared.

If she won.

Her eyes trailed the redheaded man as he made his way through the gates, those two little letters taking root. By the time he slipped into the tavern and out of sight, they’d become a full-fledged plan. And when she finally straightened to go inside, she was no longer thinking inifsbutwhens.

CHAPTER7

RONAN

“Mother’s tits, do you ever stop talking?”

Bast tossed him a cheeky grin. “Not usually, no. Why would I when people are so fond of—”

“Do I look remotely fond of you?”

Waving a dismissive hand, he shrugged. “Who’s to say what you’re feeling? I’ve known you less than twenty-four hours and have only seen you wear the one expression.”

Ronan hated himself for having to ask. “And what expression is that?”

“Like someone shit in your boots.”

Old Ronan would have laughed, but the Butcher had a point to make. Taking hold of Bast’s tunic, he lifted him onto his toes. “I have quite literally killed men for less, so if you value your tongue, I suggest you shut the fuck up, or I will rid you of it.”

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