​

Playing her part, she bit her bottom lip and looked up at him through her lashes. “Pardon, m’lord. I didn’t mean to mistake you for a running path.”

 

His low, husky voice caressed her ears, its softness belying strength and control rather than weakness. “If all runners were as beautiful as you, I’d be willing to be the path more often.”

​

She barely kept from rolling her eyes. Expose a little cleavage or the hint of a curvy figure and men were all the same, the sight of a woman’s face being totally unnecessary to judge beauty. Even had she not been wearing the mask, she knew there was nothing beautiful about her. Too tall and mouthy, she preferred dressing like a Diomerean nobleman rather than the noblewoman she was. Never mind the scar that bisected the left side of her face.

​

“Thank you, m’lord,” she said, tone dry. She smiled and batted her lashes up at him.

​

His low chuckle sent a shiver down her spine as he leaned toward her until his breath tickled her ear. “Acting the coy miss isn’t one of your gifts,” he said, his lips grazing her ear, causing an arrow of desire to arc through her body.

​

She leaned up on her toes, their cheeks only a breath apart, and whispered back. “Insincere flattery is obviously one of yours.”

She caressed his chest, unable to resist the swell of muscle under her palms as she pulled away, chin lifted. Striking amber irises circled in a black outer ring and thick black lashes peeked from the eyes of the mask. Her mind went blank as desire rolled through her, taking her breath. A ripple rolled through the power inside her, like this man had reached in and touched a finger to the still surface of her a’mi. Her smile slipped. You’re acting like Father. Her stomach flipped, threatening to eject her morning meal. She jerked her hands from his chest as if she’d been burned.

​

He trapped her gaze in his. “Is it not said that flattery makes friends and truth makes enemies?”

​

Nadia scowled and shoved her a’mi deep.

​

“Then I’d rather be enemies.” She stepped back and held her hand out in the traditional greeting of her people, rather than the shoulder clasping Thunoans used. His smoldering gaze held a challenge as he slid his palm against hers. His thumb caressed the back of her hand, making her shiver, before he finally pulled his hand back toward his chest, the parchment she’d slipped him tucked between his fingers. The greeting ended with their palms over their hearts. Nadia ignored the heat pooling in her stomach. “The gods keep you, m’lord.”

​

“Asha’s blessing on you, lady,” he said.

​

She told herself she clenched her fist because the greeting demanded it, not to hold on to the feel of his skin against hers. Tearing her gaze away, she strode to a nearby vendor’s stall. She smiled at the merchant as she perused his selection of meat pies. Pointing to a small, stuffed pastry, she handed him her coin and glanced over her shoulder. Heated eyes studied her. Her thighs clenched. She frowned and struggled to wrestle back control of her traitorous body. The man tilted his head in a shallow nod, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.