Unicorn Vengeance by Claire Delacroix

eyes.
    There was none but they two in the whole of Paris.
    His gaze softened when it fell on her rapidly rising and falling breasts, so close beneath his hand. Genevieve wondered if he thought about the coin secreted there, but when he looked back to her face, she knew he thought of something more earthy.
    He desired her. ‘Twas burning in his eyes.
    The very thought made Genevieve weak in the knees, but she knew with chilling certainty that she must make this moment count. No matter the test to her resolve. A pledge she had to fulfill. This was an opportunity to be exploited in the name of her cause, no more, no less. She could not afford to let the moment pass, for she owed no less to Alzeu. A weakness had this stranger shown her and she would be a fool not to use it to her advantage. There was one good way to do so that she could imagine.
    Genevieve gripped the stranger’s shoulder, stretched to her toes and pressed her lips against his.
    â€˜Twas an inexpert kiss at best, for Genevieve was not experienced in any exchanges other than the sweet embraces one pressed to the cheeks of kin. His lips were firm, yet temptingly soft, and the smell of his skin filled her nostrils in a most intoxicating way.
    Yet for all the warmth of his skin, his kiss was cold with all the chilling blueness of winter ice in the mountains. She felt his shock as an immediate echo of her own. He stiffened, then it seemed he sagged toward her as though he, too, was struck by some inexplicable and completely unexpected weakness.
    Before her heartbeat had echoed twice, Genevieve sensed the aching loneliness within him. She tasted the sense of betrayal, she felt the scar left by a heartless abandonment long past. She knew his fear as surely as her own and peered into the dark abyss where the pulse of his own humanity should have been.
    Emptiness alone echoed there, and ‘twas cold beyond cold.
    To her complete astonishment, Genevieve felt neither disgust nor dismay, neither revulsion nor hatred. Compassion ‘twas that flooded through Genevieve. Compassion in a tide of such magnitude that ‘twas fit to unbalance her.
    Loneliness had wrought a man who could take another’s life. Loneliness and the certainty that none could be trusted. ‘Twas that simple, and the truth saddened her beyond compare.
    Genevieve closed her eyes dizzily. Gooseflesh rose on her skin, yet she felt feverish. The hand that did not grip the lute tightened on his shoulder before she knew what it was about, and she savored the firmness of his flesh. She wanted to console him. Genevieve wanted to offer this man something he had never had before.
    Her heart opened to him in invitation, and she felt the barest vestige of a response flicker to life within him. More she wanted than the gentle press of his lips on hers, and she leaned closer, able to think of naught but granting him refuge from his exile.
    And found herself abruptly shoved away.
    Genevieve blinked at the sudden change and wavered slightly on her feet, feeling as if she had imbibed too heavily of wine. The stranger stood several paces away and regarded her as though she were a particularly dangerous creature.
    â€œI granted you the coin for your playing alone,” he told her with a sneer. “No favor that you might grant in the street will convince me to not retrieve it.”
    His words stung, and Genevieve caught her breath sharply before she saw the ruddy flush staining his neck. He was embarrassed by his own response. Genevieve eyed him carefully, imagining she detected some acknowledgment of what had passed between them in his expression before he set his lips grimly.
    She had not been alone in forgetting herself in that exchange. The very knowledge made something deep within her tingle.
    But no matter was that. She belatedly and forcefully reminded herself of her intent. Genevieve’s kiss had been intended to draw him into her web, no more than that. Well it seemed that he had