The Sand Prince Read Free

evening after only a few minutes at the party, and to Malloy’s surprise, she'd vanished. He gave a mental shrug, he'd been wrong before, or maybe she was playing a little game. A tug on his sleeve and a slip of paper in his pocket proved him wrong. He didn't see who had delivered her note, but the invitation was in her hand, although of course unsigned.
    He followed her directions, feeling very large and clumsy passing the elegant, slight men and women who actually lived there and knew where they were going. None of them quite looked at him—although that was just one more thing about them, they never stared. Still, it wouldn't do to look like he was lost.
    Following her directions, he turned from the main hallway to a narrower one he recognized as mainly being used by her servants, and stepped out of the dim tunnel onto a nearly hidden, side entrance to her balcony. Her room was on a high floor and faced the Arch and wall and the city. If she wanted to, she could step off the edge and fly to the market on her little wings, but he knew she never would; that was considered vulgar. He'd been there before, usually with Araan or her father or maids and friends in attendance, but never at night, and certainly never alone. She'd lit the bowls of glowing stones they used instead of lanterns or candles, and he thought she'd never looked so pretty. In the soft light, her golden skin and red, tilted eyes glowed, and with her silky, black hair down, she looked almost human.
    She greeted him with a smile—a real one—and they shared their first kiss.
    She bit him.
    "Explain to me again what you mean by 'hurt'," she demanded as he held a cloth to his wounded lip. And then, "No, I don't feel that at all. What are you even doing?" when he was recovered enough to demonstrate a human style kiss. To his relief, he found a human-like body with perfect breasts (a bit small for his taste, but he'd expected that) and slender legs (although not a single strand of hair) under her heavy silk gown. She allowed him to remove the garment and gently stroke her thighs to the part between her legs, and said that was called her ama and was to be treated with absolute respect. But when she reached for him with her hands full of a lovely blue flame, he screamed. That made her laugh.
    "Do you want to scorch my cock off my body?" he asked, backing away.
    "Cock." She tried out the word, then wrinkled her dainty nose. "That's unattractive. No proper person would say something like that. I believe you mean yala ?" She extinguished her flame and he let her look at it—his yala now, he guessed—more closely. "It's fluffy," she observed. She looked up at him and down again, her brilliant red cat eyes reflecting the glowing rocks. He had a sudden fear she might bite him again, only in a more tender place.
    Finally she shrugged. "I suppose the size will have to make up for your lack of flame. Are you absolutely certain you have no fire?"
    Being her lover was like getting in bed with a gorgeous, potentially lethal animal. He craved her but he was also a little afraid of her. He had no idea how she felt about him, except that the invitation remained open. When she forgot herself and left him with a bruise or burn, he told himself it was her way of expressing passion.
    That had been six months ago, and through innumerable viewing parties, performances that he could neither understand nor properly describe, dinners, bottles and bottles of sarave, and too many injuries to count, he understood her no better. But he didn't care. He looked at her delicate, lethal perfection and he thought he might be in love. And tonight he was going to prove it.
    He'd finally finished his book: The Claiming of the Duke . It was everything he dreamed and the very best he could do: exciting, action packed, lots of drama, with complex, interesting characters that spoke with true and original voices—in other words, the book that would make his name and bring him the life he wanted. All