Beneath the Thirteen Moons Read Online Free PDF Page B

continued to stare at him until his words just trailed away, his eyes locking with her own, caught up in the same spell that gripped Mahri.
    His pale hair absorbed the filtered sunshine and made each strand shimmer with gold; tendrils that had loosened from the strip of mosk-leather around his forehead curled lazily against his jaw and neck. Thick, brownish-gold lashes framed those startling eyes, high cheekbones sculpted an otherwise boyishly round face. Pale, creamy skin, the envy of any woman, allowed a blush to betray his thoughts and made Mahri want to run her hands along his face, to see if that perfection were real. And absently made her wonder if he spent any time out-of-tree.
    She broke the trap of his gaze and trailed her own over to his mouth, that full bottom lip. Mahri could feel the sudden pull like a tangible thing, a taut rope that tugged her own lips to his, to barely touch that warm fire and allow her to breathe in the scent of him.
    The sudden roar of rushing water, the spin of her little craft, broke the hold he had on her.
    “Stop it,” she snapped.
    “Me?” he growled, jerking his head back. “You’re the one who…”
    Mahri raised her eyebrows and watched him blush in confusion. She could still feel the bare brush of his lips onhers, knew she couldn’t help the draw he had on her, that he’d done nothing she hadn’t asked for. Everything about him, every feature of his face, seemed to be made to fit her idea of perfection. He was simply the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. And her body wanted him.
    Although still young in years, she’d been married and knew lust when she felt it. Yet she’d only been with Brez, despite Vissa’s creative attempts at seduction, and even after her lifemate’s death had never even considered another. Until she’d met this Royal. This attraction went beyond her scope of experience, this demanding, hungry… she needed to touch him, crush him, overwhelm her senses with the taste and feel of him. Mahri nearly panted aloud with the ache of it.
    She refused to believe she could behave like such a wanton.
    Korl had grabbed the oar and attempted to stop the boat from spinning, his muscles bulging through the thin spider silk of his shirt, and Mahri closed her eyes against the sight. Immunity, she thought. I’ll just keep looking at him until I’m immune to this attraction, until his power over me fades with increased familiarity. Simple.
    “Water-rat,” he shouted over the increasing roar of the current. “There’s whitecaps ahead.”
    Mahri tried to rise but her muscles still refused to obey her. Where are we? She wondered. What channel had they been thrown into? Root-fried, yes, but she never should’ve relaxed her guard—those that did seldom survived the swamps.
    “Jaja,” she whispered. “How far?”
    The monk-fish hopped to the bow of the boat, made a show of shading his eyes with a tiny webbed hand.Then he undulated his fingers for entirely too long. The whitecaps went far down the passage.
    “Zabbaroot,” she demanded. Her pet bared his teeth and didn’t budge. Now , she mentally screamed. He winced but held his ground.
    Mahri moved her hand just enough to feel the loss of her mosk-leather belt from around her waist. Raised her head long enough to catch a glimpse of it now encircling Korl, the fish-scale pouch containing her root supply hanging against his hip.
    So their positions were now reversed. But she wouldn’t lower herself to begging for root as he did. Either he’d get them through this or come to his senses and ask for her help. She felt around again, sighed with relief when her fingertips touched the warmth of her bone pole. At least he’d left her the staff, although without the root to fuel her muscles it wasn’t much help.
    Mahri felt the boat buck beneath her, fought down impotent frustration at being powerless to act. She clenched her fists and occasionally raised her head to see how Korl fared, and those actions were