He wore a dark jacket over a thin black sweater that molded over his broad chest. His clothes were simple in cut but expensive-looking. Tailored, of course. No off-the-rack garments would fit his towering build and wide shoulders.
The battle scar on his face carved across his forehead, then jagged down his cheek. He had to have received that injury before the age when he'd been "frozen" in his immortal body-she guessed when he was thirty-four or thirty-five years old-or else it would have healed seamlessly.
The scar gave him a dangerous air that clashed with his royal bearing and rich-looking clothing, as did his horns, his fangs, his black claws ...
"I'd do him," Lanthe said.
"Since you'd do anyone, your comment is meaningless in the definitive sense."
"You're just jealous."
Yes, yes she was.
When he glanced back up, he met eyes with Sabine. His were the most startling green she'd ever seen.
"Go now," she told Lanthe. "Be ready to shut the portal
directly behind us. Once I capture him, report my success to Omort. Loudly. In front of all the fools at court." "Will do. Go get 'em, tigress. Rar!"
With Lanthe gone, Sabine devoted her full concen-tration to him. His gaze narrowed as she made the night appear dreamlike. The stars shone brighter for him, the moon seeming heavier in the sky. Brows drawn in confusion, he started toward her.
She could see him assessing her, his gaze flickering over her long hair, and over the modest gown that for-tunately had grown damp in the humid night and clung to her breasts. When he peered hard at the outline of | her jutting nipples, he ran a hand over his mouth.
Time to get him through the portal. When she began sauntering along the road away from him, he said, "No, wait! Are you all right?"
She turned to him but continued to step backward toward the trap.