Tiger Eye Read Online Free PDF

that what you do?”
    “Yes,” he whispered. “I kill. I fight.”
    “And the sex?”
    A shadow passed over his face. “Yes. I have also been used for such purposes.”
    Dela’s stomach clenched with disgust. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but you’re not my slave, Hari. I’m not your master. I won’t ask you to do anything against your will.”
    Hari stared, and though his face was cool, she was remindedof his aching loneliness, the bitter edge of grief that had swallowed up her mind. So much pain imprinted on that steel—millennia worth. Had he been a slave for all that time?
    And you want him to trust you. What a joke.
    “You don’t believe me,” Dela said, an echo of his earlier words to her.
    “Why should I?” Hari’s voice was little more than a whisper, as though all the strength contained in his body was not enough to fuel his voice.
    “I give you my word,” Dela said. “If that means anything to you.”
    They watched each other, measuring, and Dela felt compelled to make some deeper statement. She no longer feared this man. Fear was impossible, after everything she had seen, and the profound pain she knew he was hiding made her desperate to prove her worth, the existence of compassion. That she —and the irony was not lost on her—would not hurt him.
    Dela’s palm throbbed; blood oozed from the shallow cut. She held out her hand and gestured at Hari’s knives, still on the floor with the rest of his armor and clothing.
    “I swear on my blood,” she said, remembering long nights around a campfire in the Rockies, talking to her brother and their agency friends about loyalty and promises. They had decided promises were as much ritual as intent—like signing a contract. It was one thing to make an oral promise, another to write it down with a signature attached. That upped the seriousness of the oath. In this case, blood would have to do.
    Hari looked at Dela as though he were seeing her for the first time. She met that conflicted gaze, and waited.
    She did not wait long. Hari unsheathed one of his knives and slashed open his palm. He reached for Dela and they clasped hands, mixing their blood.
    Dela’s arm tingled, a sharp chill arcing through her spine into her scalp. Hari’s nostrils flared and something dark and wild roared through his golden eyes.
    “Say the words,” he said, managing to make it both a threat and a plea.
    “I swear I will never command you to do anything against your will. You are not my slave, and I am not your master. You are a free man, Hari.”
    “No, not truly free,” he said hoarsely. “But it is a start.”
    Hari slowly released her. Dela unwrapped the towel covering her wet hair and handed it to him. He tore the towel into two strips as easily as if the thick cloth was made of paper. He then bound Dela’s bleeding hand, movements swift and efficient. Dela, speechless, did the same for him.
    Hari’s hand was much larger than her own, his tapered fingers rough with calluses. Muscles corded his long lean arms—a killing strength, Dela knew—and the heat of his naked torso washed over her shoulders, making her cheeks red.
    “Why are you doing this?” Hari asked, and Dela jumped slightly, startled by his voice, which was both soft and hard, loud in its quiet. He looked at her like she was a puzzle, and Dela felt like one.
    “Hasn’t anyone ever been nice to you for no good reason?”
    Hari opened his mouth, then hesitated. “No,” he finally said. “Not for a very long time.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said. Then, very quietly: “Why were you imprisoned?”
    Hari pulled his hand away. “I committed no crime.”
    Dela rolled her eyes. “Not everything I say is an insult, you know.”
    Hari looked down at his hands. He clenched them into fists, knuckles white with bone. “It is an old story,” he said, “and I have seen it played again and again in different times, amongdissimilar people. It begins with a woman. My sister. A