The performance was over.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she approached him. He reached out, his grip on her arm like a steel trap, and pulled her down, not onto his lap this time, but onto the thick furs before the hearth, tumbling her onto her back.
He loomed over her, a magnificent, terrifying mountain of a man, his eyes burning with a drunken, possessive fire. He lowered his head, his mouth about to claim hers, when he suddenly froze.
A strange, almost thoughtful expression crossed his face. "Rulien's finest work," he murmured, his gaze distant for a moment. "The Nightingale… a virgin."
The word hung in the air, a pronouncement of her value, of her fate. The realization seemed to shift something in him. This was not just a dalliance. This was a claiming. A conquest.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips. He wanted to be in control.
"On your feet," he commanded.
