The Warlord's Concubine Read Free Page A

power radiated from the stone and she briefly wondered at what
the more skilled artisans could do for him.
    She couldn’t recall at how long she might’ve been
staring at that statue when she was disturbed, her gaze lost on that
harsh stone depiction, entranced by the generous proportions of his
muscles and loins. It was, as far as she could tell, true to form,
but lacking in the expert subtleties a court artisan would bring to
it.
    “Most don’t even dare to look at it,” came that
otherworldly voice, so richly masculine, irradiating such strength
and command in a manner she’d never heard before.
    In the torchlight of the tent she could make him out all the
clearer. His charcoal skin was smooth and flawless. His face so
chiselled and handsome. Hair long and perfectly shiny. Her first
guess only seemed all the more right; a god. Though the dark clothes
he wore, looking a blend of velvet and leather, mixed with his
piercing dark gaze and skin, it didn’t take much guessing to
place as what kind of deity he might be.
    She bowed before him so gracefully, filled with respect and awe,
though her eyes didn’t drop demurely as she felt that, perhaps,
they should. Instead she was simply entranced with the man, and was
an absolute slave to the need to see him fully, “They don’t
know what they’re missing.” She waited a heartbeat before
adding, “What should I call you?”
    She had taken some time on the walk over, prior to the Princess
fainting, to fix her hair by some of the shattered mirrors. Though
she certainly didn’t look all she could—if only she had
been able to steal some makeup from the Princess’ room!—but
she was quite the exotic beauty nonetheless. With her feminine curves
under the soft material of her dressing gown, she looked quite
lovely, especially knelt before him with such subservience.
    The entirety of the sprawling tent was silent around her. She
hadn’t noticed the eerie silence descend as she stared at the
statue, but now it was unmistakable. The other women were cowering
away, shaking and looking petrified. None dared look in his direction
though; not even the guards who seemed exceptionally trusted showed
him the kind of obeisance Mirella did. In fact, they showed the same
signs of fear, their eyes downcast, their positions shuffled away to
the edges of the tent.
    With a hand upon his hip, he strummed those strong fingers of his
upon his waist and circled partly about her, standing near her side
as he looked up over his own statue. In a rather conversational tone,
the dark, otherworldly man spoke in his husky voice, “At least
it keeps them from noticing the crude imitation of me this makes
for.”
    Sliding his dark gaze down to her again, his broad chest pushed
out and mostly visible with the half-cloak hardly covering him, he
said, “‘My Lord’ is the most common term.”
    “I was just thinking the same thing and was wondering to
myself if any artisan still lives, My Lord. Is that what you prefer I
use for you?” she asked, a smile creeping to her lips at his
humour. She couldn’t help it. Everything in her body stood
primed and ready, as if she’d spent her life training for this
one, single moment in time. She felt it was destined for her, and the
heated prickling of her skin was just delightful.
    Her voice was kind and subservient, and she had to do very little
to alter it for him, yet there was a new genuineness that hadn’t
been there before. In all her years serving her princess, she had
never shown such an honest desire to serve.
    She had seen the wide array of women the dark God-King had at his
disposal, but it hadn’t deterred her. Perhaps he somehow
recognized this, her curiously unique nature in that she was not
intimidated in the face of his power. Where others saw something to
fear and loathe, she saw potential for herself.
    His charcoal dark face gazed down at her, soaking her in and
piercing her all at once before his authoritative voice broke the
spell of