Ignoring the obscene and increasingly attractive suggestions the war-god in his head was making, he gave the woman time to realize who held her.
It didn’t take long: She wasn’t a typical Rankan woman of blood-no man without
Tempus’s supernal speed and talent could have caught her unaware.
She stiffened and, every muscle tensed so that his body began taking the god’s suggestions literally, pressed back against him-the first move toward putting him off balance, ready to use her own arena-training in weight, feint, and misdirection of attention to try to escape.
“Hold,” he said again. “Or suffer the consequences, Chenaya.”
“Pork you, Tempus,” she gritted in a surprisingly ladylike voice unsuited to the content of her words. He could feel her hands ball into fists, then relax.
Behind him, people indoors chatted and clinked their goblets.
“We haven’t time for that, unless you’re ready.” He put his free hand on her hip and spread it, moving it forward to press against her belly and slip downward, putting her in a hold she’d never come up against in a Rankan arena.
“Gods, you haven’t changed, you bastard. If it’s not my body-for which you’ll pay more than it’s worth, I assure you-what do you want?”
“I thought you’d never ask. It’s a little matter of an attempt on Theron’s life, yours, I believe-something about boarding the barge. Not a smart move for a member of a decidedly ac-royal family: not for you, not for Kadakithis, who’ll share Theron’s wrath if it’s revealed who tried to feed him to the sharks, not for any of what’s left of your line.”