Unbound by Kay Danella Page A

To be ignored as a matter of habit felt worse than the deliberate malice of his Mugheli masters. Simply watching Asrial did not suffice to keep loneliness at bay. “What are you doing?”
    “Logging an inventory of what I got.” She did not look up from her task as she answered, her attention bent entirely on the trifle box. Short, tawny curls clung to high, pale cheekbones, tempting his fingers to do the same.
    Her thumb skimmed over the carving in slow, gentle strokes that captured his gaze—such a contrast from her usual purposeful manner. The repetitive motion was hypnotic, stirring formless, nameless urges within him. He could not look away. “For what purpose?”
    “My mother’s cousin serves as my agent. He needs a list of what’s available for sale,” she answered absently, her stylus clicking on the tablet.
    “For sale?”
    “I don’t collect for myself. These will go up on auction. People pay good creds for Majian artifacts.” Smiling, she held up the box for his admiration. “Pretty, isn’t it? I wonder what it was for.”
    “Likely just trinkets. It is a trifle box.”
    Stylus upraised, Asrial glanced at him finally, blinking in obvious surprise. Amber chips glinted in her brown eyes, a detail he had overlooked before. “You’ve studied Majian artifacts?”
    “Not at all. I just know what I know.” The implications of a collector’s market for such common, everyday objects and the fact that they were considered worthy of study troubled Romir. Those went against everything he knew of the Mughelis. Was this universe so different from the last time he had been summoned to serve? Did the Mughelis, too, voyage through the abyss between worlds? Was the hard-won haven of his people no longer secure? Surprised by the prospect of travel in a starship, he had not contemplated the possibility that his enemies might be closer than he had thought.
    She made a face at him, clearly unconvinced by his protest. “You sounded so certain.”
    “It was just trivia I . . . picked up.” Telling her he had seen it used in daily life might prompt the sort of questions he did not want to answer. If she sought knowledge of Mughelis, might she not seek them out?
    He had been foolish. If he was not more careful, he could find himself back in the hands of the enemy. Perhaps for the moment, silence was the better strategy, no matter how oppressive he found it.
    When he did not expound on his statement, Asrial did not pursue the matter, returning instead to the artifacts before her. “This is sure to be the centerpiece of the auction.” She picked up his prison with careful hands, holding it as if it were precious. Raising it to the light, she traced a finger over the etching.
    He felt it!
    Sweet delight eddied within him, seeping through the mark on his shoulder as she explored his prison, slowly rotating it while her finger glided over its base. Romir stiffened, horror and unwelcome pleasure coursing through him in equal measures. It was the same—as if he had been summoned. A touch to his prison was like a touch to his essence. Only she did it gently, a caress instead of a strangling grip. But still the weave was sinking its hooks deeper into him. Perhaps that gentleness was worse—more seductive, inviting him to embrace his enslavement.
    The sensation confirmed his deepest fear: if his prison succeeded in drawing him back, he could once again be summoned out and commanded.
    He wanted to shout, to demand Asrial stop what she was doing. He choked down the protest for fear the knowledge would be used against him. Though he was certain she was not Mugheli, his hatred of their mastery was too ingrained; revealing the weakness could lose him what little independence he had gained.
    “Why the centerpiece?” He forced the question past the evanescent fluttering against his insides, the breathtaking sensations made more arousing by their ephemeral nature.
    Cradling his prison against her breasts, she turned to him.