But with the military on the streets and presumably looking for me, there was no way I could go like this. I looked down at myself. I was barefoot, in an elegant purple evening gown. And around my neck was the shining engagement collar Jagor had given me, the one with his seal on the front.
That collar was going to get me killed. And it was designed to stop me taking it off. I went around the back of the building and found a graffiti-covered car park. I needed to get a piece. And I had bare feet. Picking my way very, very carefully through the glittering shards, teeth gritted, I found a curved hunk with what looked like a wickedly sharp edge. I retreated and hunkered down between two cars to work. My hands were shaking: I had to close my eyes and will myself to be calm.
Very gently, I eased the sliver of glass under the collar, just where the lock joined the leather. There was a narrow strip of fabric there, without any metal. I crouched there, feeling the cold glass sliding back and forth on my bare skin, waiting for the moment when my hand would slip and slice open my neck. The need to concentrate, the robotic monotony of it, actually helped to keep me calm.
I know that when the collar loosened, I could no longer feel my feet and my stockinged legs were turning purple-blue with cold. I dropped the glass and ripped the collar the rest of the way.
As it broke there was an unexpected jolt inside me. I found the glass again and hacked away the skirt at mid-thigh. All I could think was get to the palace. I headed off in what I thought was roughly the direction of the palace, head down and walking fast. More and more military vehicles sped past me.
What I needed was a suburb with a clothesline I could steal washing from, like in the movies. But I was in a city, on a cold, wet night, with everything shuttered and locked down.
Where the hell was I going to find clothes? Around the next corner, shouting and cheering. There was a car on fire, and the front of a department store had been smashed open.
The people were rioting, I realized, or at least taking the opportunity the chaos afforded them. A store would have everything I needed. I waited until the last rioter was out of sight, then crept towards the store. The sidewalk was strewn with broken glass: I eventually used a piece of cardboard as a bridge to cross it and climbed through a shattered window. Halfway to the clothes, I spotted something else. I found some sneakers and socks that would fit and carried them with me to the clothes racks.
I was rifling through the jeans when I heard something behind me and spun around. It was a rioter. A few years older than Jagor, with dark, greasy hair. His hands were ingrained with dirt — a farmer, or a mechanic, maybe. I subconsciously touched the wig. The guy stared at me. Maybe he did recognize me, after all? But there was something weird about the look he was giving me.
It was more…delight. He stepped closer, and before I could stop him he had a hand on my shoulder. The problem was, back then, I assumed a collar was something that you took on and off — the way a woman might remove her wedding ring to wash dishes.
The King of Light, as prophesied by the Astrals in the legends of Eos. The Chosen King, as decreed by the Oracles of Tenebrae. The True King, as sung in the songs and rhymes of childhood games. The King of Kings, as told to him by his father once upon a time. Prince Nyx Ulric was a youth barely into his twenties. He loved his mother, the queen-regent, and his sister, the crown princess, very much.
He preferred to train with Crowe rather than with the other Crownsguards, since she was the only one daring enough to hurl fireballs and thunderbolts at him. He studied with Luche over political and governing matters, often the one telling the other to relax more. He became fast friends with Pelna during their time together at basic, picking up new skills from one another. He liked to watch the Saturday morning cartoons, his favourite ongoing series was about the adventures of Malboror-kun.
His favourite food was the skewers bought from the southern districts of Aconitum, where the old man and his corner shop was at. Nyx Ulric was a boy easily smitten by a pair of dull blue eyes, curtained by long black hair and sitting pretty atop of a refined nose. Why was I thinking about kissing him?
It occurred to me that we were both in a very dangerous situation here. Alone in a room with a closed door and the lights romantically low. If anyone should come in, it was going to take a lot of explaining to convince them it was innocent. Is it innocent? I asked myself.
What the hell is going on here? I was very aware of the closed door, and his possible reasons for closing it. He just stared at me, the way a cat will stare at a mouse. My heart was thumping so hard in my chest, I was sure he must be able to hear it. He gave me another one of those looks. Then he took a step towards me. All I had to do was walk to the door and leave.
Why was that so hard? But my legs felt like concrete, even my arms hanging limply by my sides. He took another step towards me, and now he was close enough that I could smell his aftershave. This was like open spaces and cold, hard rock and the wind: if the outdoors had a smell, this was it. He put one huge hand beneath my chin and used the edge of it, very gently, to tilt my face up to his. His lips were warm on mine, sending a jolt of heat rocketing down through my chest, blossoming in the very core of me.
His chin was brushing mine, and his stubble grazed me. It was rough, but it felt good. He was bending down slightly to reach me, and I suddenly became aware that I was stretching up to meet him, my lips flowering open.
I was kissing him back. His breath was hot against me as he parted his lips, his tongue greedily seeking mine. His hands were in my hair, stroking through the soft strands, his palms warm against my temples.
Little shocks of pleasure were darting down through my body from everywhere he touched me, seeking my groin. He was starting something inside me, something primal and out of control, so strong it scared me. He broke the kiss and leaned back from me.
The loss of his touch was like a physical pain. Between my legs, I could feel heat building, turning to wetness. A challenge. I focused on him, looked into his eyes, so he would know I understood and, with a lurch of my stomach, a flash of what the hell are you doing, Lucy? I kept absolutely quiet.
And then he was kissing me again. This time his whole body pressed against me. I could feel the hard outlines of his muscles through my dress: his broad, strong chest, his hard leg pressing against my own soft thigh. He was so much bigger than me, towering over me, one arm slipping under my back to support me and — oh God — he was bending me backwards; my back arched, my breasts mashing against his chest.
His lips lifted from mine, laying kisses along my neck and a shudder went through me. Her eagerness to please now could only be viewed as a curse! Neither her father nor Carol had approved of Rick, a handsome young man of 20, whom Anne had met the summer before. She remembered the day vividly. Her older sister Elizabeth had cajoled her into a game of tennis at the country club, attended by only the rich and privileged.
Afterwards, Anne wanted to celebrate her win with a cooling dip in the pool. Her sister readily agreed but for a different reason. Elizabeth was eager to meet the new lifeguard she had heard so much about. Rumors were circulating that he was quite easy on the eyes. The guys Elizabeth had brought home seemed obnoxious and really stuck on themselves. After successfully coaxing her sister away from the mirror, Anne headed out to the pool, eager for a refreshing swim.
Turning to ask Elizabeth a question, she realized that her flighty sister had already disappeared. Sweeping the area, Anne quickly spied Elizabeth making a beeline for the Lifeguard station. Aggravated, Anne rolled her eyes in frustration, exasperated at all the havoc this one guy was causing.
Gazing up to the lifeguard stand, Anne decided to see what all the hype was about. There, before her, sat a tall, suntanned young man with piercing blue eyes and a magnificently built frame.
Still, there was something about his appearance which struck Anne to the core. To her embarrassment, Anne realized she too was gawking at his sheer manliness. Blinking her eyes to get a grip on reality, she chided herself and began to laugh at her silliness. Determined not to give this guy a bigger head than he must already have, she purposely decided to ignore him.
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