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she presented a shape with all the allure of a potato. Not
Damn lmao i feel attacked
“How is it that a woman, blessed with a voice that could make a man come, sings badly enough to frighten the dead?” She was saved from having to answer
OH
Martise sometimes found it hard to believe he was the son of a lowly houri.
Hey dont shame
“Sorry.” “Of course you are.”
SHES JUST LIKE MEEEEE
“What is unique about hatred?” His fingers pressed into her flesh, the first layer of the spell silently invoked. Faint vibrations of power swirled up his arm. “So sayeth his servant.”
“Don’t fret, boy,” he said. “No one will notice it if you fuck in the dark.”
“I want you to go to Eastern Prime. Bring back a girl from the Temple of the Moon. I don’t care what she looks like, just make sure she’s small-boned, of a certain height.” He measured with his hand. The height was similar to Martise’s. Any trace of humor fled Gurn’s expression. His eyes narrowed, their brilliant blue flattening to gray. He shook his head, hands slashing angry patterns in the air as he signed his refusal in no uncertain terms.
NO U FUCKER
but not for the woman sharing the bed with him. He stared at the ceiling, wondering if Gurn had locked away his already decimated bottle of Peleta’s Fire. If he couldn’t find surcease in a prostitute’s willing body, he’d find it in the oblivion of another bout of drunkenness. He glanced at Anya when she rose on one elbow and hovered over him. The longer he gazed, the less she looked like Martise, and the spell was still firmly in place. Her eyes were sympathetic, but the soul behind them was not Martise’s. “May I speak?” He nodded. She took his hand, pressed his palm against her cheek. “She is
...more
Fuck this guy what a fucking bastard ihatw him
Her fingers trembled as she peeled off her drenched clothes and dropped them into a sodden heap at the foot of her bed. He’d devoured her in that look on the stairs, his black eyes smoldering. Had Gurn been the only one to benefit from Anya’s skills? Unlike his servant, Silhara almost thrummed with a frustrated tension and wore the look of a man who hadn’t slept for days.
I hate him
him. “Likely, they’d have you sacrificing the concubine and tupping the sow.” His laughter echoed hers, a throaty, seductive sound. He returned to the table and raised his tea cup to her in appreciation of her wit. “You know them well.” He sat, straddling the bench so that he partially faced her. She finished combing out her hair, splitting the locks into three thick skeins so she could bind
FUCK YU F Y FVYU
if the admission pained him. The empty teapot clattered on the table. She gaped at him. “What?” His grip tightened, loosening just as suddenly at her pained gasp. “Gurn brought me a woman I didn’t want. For a moment I changed her, gave her the face of my desire.” His eyes opened, revealing his need. “It wasn’t enough.” Her knees buckled. She collapsed on the bench next to him, stunned. “Master…” She shook her head. “Silhara…” “Lie with me.”
ICK EW EW EW EW G AWAY
He’d chosen her over a houri blessed with an uncommon beauty, yet she wanted to be sure he understood that even in the softer, more flattering light emitted by the brazier’s
NO
Eat last, drink on the sly, don’t speak often. Martise was familiar with some of those strictures in her role as a slave. Being a Kurman woman didn’t seem all that different from what she could tell.
with the temptation of her affection. He was tempted to repay her with betrayal. He lifted a skein of her soft hair, letting it fall through his fingers in a cascade of russet waves. “You should have let me die.”
She bowed her head. “I wish you loved me,” she said in a small voice. “Maybe then I could make you halt this madness.” Her statement almost brought him to his knees. It was because he loved her that he followed this path, but telling her so would only make her protest harder or worse, do something foolish that might compromise them both. He closed his eyes for a moment and told his greatest lie.
He loved her to the point of madness, to obsession and even sacrifice. He wasn’t Berdikhan, and he wouldn’t make her Zafira. He’d rob her
