Cole, Kresley - The Dacians 01 - Shadow's Claim by Cole Kresley

Author:Cole, Kresley [Cole, Kresley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2012-11-26T18:30:00+00:00

You’re early,” Bettina murmured to Trehan.

She’d sensed I’m here? He appeared fully. “And you’re extraordinary,” he bit out, marveling at her.

She’d been utilizing a soldering flame, her movements precise—and so quick that a mortal wouldn’t have been able to discern her hands.

Her gaze had been one of total focus as her nimble fingers wrought such a formidable weapon. Her eyes were still glowing, her irises sparkling.

A thing of beauty to watch.

When he’d first arrived, his lingering rage over her attack and his marked confusion had felt like two animals clashing inside him. That turmoil had faded as he’d watched her.

She was here, healthy and safe, with him now. The Vrekeners were dead. And she was so fucking beautiful.

His lessening fury had been replaced with lust. The more he’d watched, the more aroused he’d grown, recalling how those delicate fingers had smoothed over his body just as eagerly.

Had he ever been so hard?

She set the new weapon in a special cradle, then turned to him. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He cleared his throat before saying, “Don’t let me stop you from completing it.”

She seemed at a loss. “I’ve never worked with anyone but the sylph in here.”

“That impudent being who just left?”

She gave him a look that said You have no idea.

That sylph was the one who watched her bathe? A discussion for a later time, Trehan. “Come, Bett, you look like you’re almost finished.” He traced beside her, examining the piece. “Not a single rivet?”

With an aggrieved air, she said, “I’m not a cobbler, Daciano.”

“No, you’re not.” His lips curled. “No vampire has a more talented Bride than I.”

She reached up to straighten her mask, only to realize she wasn’t wearing one. “What about your tour?”

“This workshop is the one place in Rune I longed to see. It’s impressive. Tell me what I’m looking at.”

In a begrudging tone, she said, “That bench is for fabrication, this bench is for assembly. Over there”—she pointed out a third one, topped with a wooden set of antique pocket drawers—“I do detail work: engraving, etching, poison loading.”

He reached for one of the drawers. “Your poison collection?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t touch that without a glove.”

“Ah,” he said, dropping his hand. “You must be at the detail stage.”

“My patroness likes elaborate flourishes. After you leave, I’ll etch designs along the top rings.”

“I know you want to finish the piece now.”

She nibbled her bottom lip. “You could come back in an hour.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not a chance.”

She gazed from him to her project. “There are a lot of things unsaid between us. I have . . . questions.”

“I’ll answer anything you ask me. But indulge me with this.”

Another sideways glance at the weapon.

“So close to completion,” he said in a coaxing tone. “It will be all you think of tonight. I’ll bet this final etching is your favorite part of the process.”

She glanced up in surprise. “Fine. If you’d like to be bored, I’ll continue.”

Allowing him to see a new facet of her? This concession had to mean something.

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