Page 9 of Cut of the Dark Elf's Blade

Echo isn’t even looking at the ground. She’s staring straight down the tunnel toward the kitchen I am headed toward. Her teeth are still bared, her hackles raised, and my steps slow down as I consider turning around.

As if sensing my hesitation, Echo moves in front of me, pushing back on my legs. I waver, considering that it might be best to go back to my room when I hear the scuff of someone in the kitchen. A chair slides out, and all the tension seeps out of my body.

I almost laugh out loud at how on edge I had been. Of course that’s why Echo is so worked up. She doesn’t care for other people. It’s probably one of the other servants up late, or early. Now I feel foolish for letting the little iypinnit work me up so.

I reach down, patting Echo’s head. Her whole body is still fraught with tension, and I smile at her. “I’ll be okay,” I whisper to her. “Go back.”

Stepping over her, I continue toward the kitchen, apprehension still coiling in my stomach. I try to brush it off, telling myself that I’ve made it all up in my head.

But as I step into the kitchen, I realize how wrong I was.

Immediately, my arm hairs stand straight up. The air is frigid and stiff, almost like it’s trying to warn me away. My eyes land on the table tucked in the far side of the servant’s kitchen, where someone is sitting just as I thought I heard.

I’m not entirely shocked it’s a dark elf. That’s not what sets me off.

It’s everything else about him.

For one, he’s muscular. Extremely so. I can see every tendon and muscle strain with each shift of his arms. Dark elves are naturally toned, but the strength this one exudes should terrify me.

But it doesn’t.

I also don’t know him, which is rare. And I could brush off that fact and assume he’s a new servant and that’s why he’s foreign to me if it weren’t for his embroidered and expensive tunic and pants. He’s clearly one of the higher castes.

A miou, I realize as his right arm lifts and I spot tattoos trailing up from his wrist and disappearing under his sleeve. Few other castes get tattoos, and that combined with the dozens of raised white scars that pop out against the dark ink and his almost equally dark skin, I assume he can’t be anything else.

A high-pitched sound pierces the air, and I jolt, noticing for the first time the blades spread out across the table. Another jolt of fear – and a heat that pools low in my stomach that I’m unwilling to name – pulses through me. Briefly, I wish Echo had not left me, but I try to push that away.

I know that I should take a step back, that I should turn and leave before I learn why there’s a strange elf sharpening knives in the middle of the night. Gods know the last thing I need is to be alone with him while everyone else sleeps.

But I step forward.

The same sound rings out, and I watch his deft and muscular hands flex as he sharpens the blade that he casually holds in his right hand. His long black hair blocks his face from view, and I’m suddenly desperate to see it.

I’m not sure what this pull is, and I’m halfway convinced that I’m dreaming. It’s the only reasonable explanation, and I decide that if this is a dream, I might as well figure out who this man is.

I don’t know how to breach the quiet air, afraid of disturbing him. Luckily, I don’t have to.

“Do knives scare you?”

His voice is deep and smooth, not at all what I expected. But I’m intrigued enough that I want to hear it again.

Fighting to keep my voice from trembling, I answer. “No.”

A soft chuckle rolls out of him that warms my entire body, and I can’t ignore any longer how much I react to him. I haven’t even seen his face yet, and my body is primed for him. What is wrong with me?

He sets the whetstone down on the table, but I note how he spins the blade in his right hand around. I want to inch closer even as my body screams that I’m in danger. Every alarm is going off in my head, telling me that I have to get out of here.

But I don’t want to.

Logically, I shouldn’t want to be alone with a man who is clearly a warrior and has plenty of weapons to choose from. But logic isn’t working right now.

He shifts forward, planting his feet as he pushes the chair back. My eyes track every movement as his palms flatten against the tabletop, making his back muscles flex beneath his tunic. My mouth goes dry and not from fear.

Gods, there is something wrong with me.

I should be running right now. This elf, even without his magic, could end me with a single movement. One that I’m sure would be fluid and beautiful to watch, but still. Yet I’m still standing here.

My breath catches in my lungs, and I wonder at the emotion teasing the back of my throat. It's not fear. It's excitement.