Damian's Oracle by Lizzy Ford

flash of darkness that crossed his
mind and face. He pushed the thought of his slain brother away but
couldn’t escape the lingering sense of unease. There were only two
men in the world he’d entrust with his life. He’d seen from burying
his brother that a king’s greatest weakness was the woman at his
side.
    Something about the woman made him think of
things he’d not thought about in ages. There was a reason he banned
thoughts of Darian and Claire from his mind, an instinct he’d never
been able to face in all the years since Darian’s death.
    I don’t know if I trust my wife, brother.
    Darian’s words haunted him again, and he
quickly suppressed the memories.
    “Sleep,” he whispered, releasing a warm burst
of power into her.
    Her body obeyed. He held her another minute,
resting his chin on her head. His new oracle was dangerous. He’d
almost forgotten that the word for oracle in his native tongue also
meant soul-reader, the dual nature of a woman with her talent
allowing her to see a person’s soul and future with a simple touch.
Her presence alone was already prodding free memories he’d thought
he’d buried.
    His heart skipped a beat as he realized that
the last great oracle, his mother, appeared just before the Schism,
when the universe was almost destroyed.
     
     

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    The clang of steel and sound of jeering drew
her from her book to her window. Several of the beefy men living in
the house were in the grassy, well-lit courtyard, sparring with
swords, knives, and other weaponry that looked like it came
straight out of the Middle Ages.
    Three pairs of two fought while the others
cheered or jeered them on. Her gaze swept over them, stopping to
rest on Damian. D wore judo pants low enough on his hips that she
blushed as her gaze followed the trail of hair that disappeared
into his pants. His tapered waist and hips and washboard abs were
on display, along with the wide chest and thick back. She watched
him move, his swordplay as graceful and fluid as it was lethal. A
sheen of sweat coated his body, and his white-blond hair was back
in a braid.
    Even from a distance he drew her, and it was
not just the chiseled body of a god. She could see him sitting on a
golden throne or commanding legions of soldiers.
    In fact, she did see him in those
positions, and in many more. The visions were less invasive than
those from others, like background music at a department store. She
closed her eyes, watching the disjointed, fuzzy home videos playing
in her mind. She saw a time before the emergence of human
civilization and his people ruled, a time when he was a prince
among kings who grew up in the shadow of a war she couldn’t see.
Then there was the Schism and an era of disaster and grief, where
his world collided with - then severed from - the human one,
centuries where he was forced into the underground world as a
prostitute, a beggar, a thief.
    As silence fell from the courtyard, she
opened her eyes. The men were dispersing, and her heart leapt when
she saw Damian’s gaze riveted to her window. His look was intense,
much different than the warmth he’d displayed the day before.
    The images in her mind were too real to be
imagined. Nothing like that could be true!
    By the look on Damian’s face, he wasn’t
happy. She wondered if he knew what she saw. She snatched her
jacket and pulled it on as she raced down the stairwell and down
the hall to the front door. She jerked it open only to have it
pushed shut by an olive hand planted above her head. She cringed at
the thick forearm brushing her ear.
    “I’m sorry,” she said immediately.
    “For what?”
    His tone was measured. His scent drove her
body wild, the mix of sweat, darkness, and man.
    “I don’t know.”
    His hand dropped, and she faced him. He stood
before as he had in the sparring ring, sans any clothing but judo
pants. She felt dwarfed and delicate next to the mass of roped
muscle and taut skin.
    Heat rose to her face as she stared