Lover Unbound(131)

V watched with no care whatsoever as the jeweled robes were pulled back to reveal a stunningly beautiful female form draped in a gossamer-thin sheath. His intended's face was kept hooded, according to tradition, for it was not her that was being given but all of the Chosen.

"Is she to your liking?" the Scribe Virgin asked dryly, as if she knew that the female was utter perfection.

"Whatever."

A murmur of disquiet went through the Chosen, a chilly breeze through stiff reeds.

"Perhaps you shall choose your words anew?" the Scribe Virgin snapped.

"She'll do."

After an awkward pause, a Chosen came forward with an incense burner and a white feather. As she chanted, she wafted smoke over the female from hooded head to bare feet, going around once for the past, once for the present, once for the future.

As the ritual progressed, V frowned and leaned forward. The front of his intended's gossamer-thin sheath was wet.

Probably oils from when she'd been prepared for him.

He eased back in the throne. Shit, he hated the ancient ways. Hated this whole fucking thing.

Underneath the hood, Cormia was in a state of desperation. The air she breathed was hot and wet and smothering, worse in that regard than having nothing at all to inhale. Her knees were loose as blades of grass, her palms wringing wet. If not for the restraints, she would have crumpled.

Following her panicked bid for escape in the baths, and her eventual capture, a bitter drink had been forced down her throat at the Directrix's command. It had calmed her for a time, but the elixir was now wearing weak, and her fear was spiking once again.

As was the degradation. When she'd felt hands going down the front of the robing to free the golden toggles, she'd wept for the violation of a stranger's gaze upon her private skin. Then the two heavy halves of the robe had been pulled apart from her body and she'd felt coolness on her skin, something that was in no way a relief from the weight of what had been draped all over her.

The Primale's eyes had been upon her as the Scribe Virgin's voice had called out: "Is she to your liking?"

Cormia had waited for the Brother's response, praying for some warmth within it.

There was absolutely none: "Whatever."

"Perhaps you shall choose your words anew?"

"She'll do."

Upon hearing the words, Cormia's heart stopped beating, fear replaced by terror. Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, had a cold voice, one that suggested proclivities far worse than even his father's reputation had detailed.

How would she survive the mating, much less represent well the venerable Chosen during the course of it? In the bath, the Directrix had been brutal in her wording of all that Cormia would disgrace if she did not comport herself with appropriate dignity. If she didn't carry out her responsibility. If she was not the proper representative of the whole.

How could she bear this all?#p#分页标题#e#

Cormia heard the Scribe Virgin speak again: "Vishous, your stead has not tendered his gaze. Phury, son of Ahgony, you must view the Chosen that is offered as the Primale's witness."

Cormia trembled, afeared of yet another set of unknown male eyes upon her form. She felt unclean though she had been so carefully washed; dirty, though no filth dripped from her. Under the hood she wished she were small, so small she would shame the head of a pin.

For if she were small, their eyes wouldn't find her. If she were tiny, she could hide amongst larger things… disappear from all of this.

Phury's eyes were glued to the back of the golden throne, and he really didn't want them anywhere else. This whole thing was wrong. All wrong.

"Phury, son of Ahgony?" The Scribe Virgin pronounced his father's name as if the weight of the family's entire lineage rested on whether Phury got with the program.

He flipped his lids up to the female—

Every one of his mental processes ground to a halt.

His body was what responded. Instantly. He thickened in his silk pants, his erection popping up fast as a breath even as he was utterly ashamed of himself. How could he be so cruel? He dropped his lids, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to figure out how he could manage to kick his own ass and still remain standing.

"How find you her, warrior?"

"Resplendent." The word came out of his mouth from nowhere. Then he added, "Worth of the fairest tradition of the Chosen."

"Ah, now, that is the proper response. As acceptance has been made, I pronounce this female as the Primale's selection. Complete the incense bathing."

In his peripheral vision, Phury was aware of two Chosen coming out with staffs that had smoky white trails drifting from them. As they began to sing in high, crystal voices, he breathed in deep, sifting through a garden's bloom of female scents.