The rest of us surround them, carving out places for ourselves amid the crowd. The performers on the center stage are the main attraction. Here, discreet only gets you noticed.Ĭraning my neck for a breath of fresh air, I navigate my way through the beehive of tables already set up for the circus fair. Heat and leather and heels don’t mix, but at least looking like a brigand means blending into the circus. The southern Sintan climate isn’t my worst nightmare, but it sometimes ranks pretty high, right along with the stifling layers of cosmetics masking my face, my leather pants, and my knee-high boots. I pluck at my crimson tunic, tenting the lightweight linen away from my sticky skin. You have supported me in every way, always. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410įor my family, near, far, and beyond the stars.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems-except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews-without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc. Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.Īll rights reserved. Sign up now for VIP savings, bonus content, early access to new ideas we're developing, and sneak peeks at our hottest titles!Ĭover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.įire image by Jeff Farmer, Scroll image by Jesús Cervantes We would love to invite you to receive exclusive rewards. He keeps staring at me, and a shiver prickles my spine.
Body toned to perfection, he’s battle-chiseled and hard, the type of man who can cleave an enemy in two with little effort and even less consequence to his conscience. Black hair brushes a corded neck atop broad shoulders that have no doubt been swinging a sword since before he could walk. My heart thumping, I blink and take in the rest of him. His eyes remind me of Poseidon’s wrath-stormy, gray, intense-the kind of eyes that draw you in, hold you there, and might not let you go.Īdrenaline surges through me, ratcheting up my pulse. Our gazes collide, and something in me freezes. Watchful, alert, he’s aware of everything in his vicinity. He walks with predatory confidence, unhurried, and yet there’s no mistaking his potential for swift, explosive violence.
He’s striking in a dark, magnetic way, his size, weapons, and bearing all telling me he’s a tribal warlord. He’s looking at me, and it’s hard not to look back.
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