The Centaur Queen (The Dark Queens #7)(26)

Ty’s nostrils flared and confusion clouded her eyes.

Knowing if I said something else I’d only make matters worse, I turned on my hooves and ran for the large thicket of trees in the distance. I’d be damned if I watched the males of that herd make eyes at her, as they were bound to do. Tymanon was the prettiest thing that had ever been born. No nymph could compare to her beauty.

She’d ruined me forever. Moaning and burning with shame, I ran as fast as my tired legs could carry me.





Chapter 8


Tymanon

I missed him desperately.

It was as though I was missing a vital piece of me, one I hadn’t known existed until he was no longer around. Logically, I knew he camped out in the trees, but that didn’t stop me from feeling, well... rather miserable.

I’d trotted into the village and had been greeted warmly by all, or as warmly as centaurs were capable of, anyway. But my heart had thundered like hooves when I thought about his kiss, what it might have meant, and what those around me would have thought if they’d caught us.

I was glad he’d kissed me, and I wasn’t. I was glad because it had been better than I’d remembered it being the first time. And I wasn’t glad at all because now my feelings were in far greater turmoil than they’d ever been.

Last time, I’d challenged him to kiss me. This time, he’d done it of his own volition, but then he’d laughed it off, had said it was nothing but a satyr’s lust, and my joy had quickly deflated to sickness.

What would my peers think of me now if they knew my thoughts? Would I have been so kindly greeted if they’d seen him kiss me? I didn’t believe so.

The sun had set hours ago. There was a bonfire going. The shaman of the tribe was telling stories. Usually, that was exactly the place I wanted to be. Much could be gleaned from hearing oral tradition. But I felt listless and nervous.

I’d been handed a tankard of cold apple ale by a random mare a while ago, and I’d been sipping on it, watching the herd and feeling completely out of place. These were my people, my kind, and yet I did not know how to engage with them.

I never really had, but never had I felt more out of place than I did now.

So I sat on the outer reaches of the group, listening and observing. I had a meeting with the wise woman later. I would ask what questions I could. I’d planned on staying the night, but now I wasn’t so certain.

“I cannot help but notice,” a male voice whispered roughly into my ear, “that you are all alone.”

Heart tripping in my chest at his nearness, I turned. A male, roughly my age or a little older, stood before me, with long blond hair that fell past his shoulders in soft waves, cobalt-blue eyes, and strong nose and jaw line with the large, blunted teeth of my kind.

His coloration spoke of a palomino heritage, and again, my heart tripped. I’d always had a soft spot for his sort. His coat was glossy, looking freshly washed and scrubbed, and glinting with a light tint of velvety cream.

“I am not alone,” I responded honestly.

“No? Is there someone to fight for you? Just tell me who, and I will pummel him into submission.” He laughed. The sound was rich, deep and pleasing to the ear, even as I suddenly found myself irritated by his forwardness.

I nickered, a sound between a huff and a neigh. Gods, the hubris of a stallion. I’d nearly forgotten how forward they could be. It’d been some time since I’d been around my kind, at least two years now, probably longer. I’d stopped counting.

“And this is why I prefer to keep to my own company,” I replied archly, taking a sip of my tart brew.

His chuckle was deep and booming, coming from deep within his chest. Then he held out his hand to me. It was big and strong-looking with blunted nails and thick corded veins on the tops.

“The name’s Nigel.”

I smirked, but ignored his hand. There was a glint in his eye that I did not like and did not trust.

Full lips curved into a flirtatious grin. “Will you not give me your name, beautiful mare?”

My heart squeezed at his innocent use of a name I now considered Petra’s alone. I missed my satyr. He was alone right now, with only his thoughts to keep him company.

Why had he kissed me?

What could it have possibly meant?

I wet my lips recalling the press of his mouth on mine, and for just a second, my heart leapt at the delicious memory, at the friction of heat, at the phantom feathery feel of him still.

A soft whimper spilled off my tongue.

Nigel’s lips curled upward, and I damned my strange thoughts because his eyes glinted even more forcefully now, no doubt assuming my odd behavior was because of his presence.

Hardly.

“I know a place,” he said, all silky smoothness.

Fingers reached out to stroke along my collarbone, but I felt none of the heat I had from the simple and tender press of Petra’s knuckles to my cheeks.

The only thing I felt now was antipathy at Nigel’s presumption that I welcomed his advances. Not that he was in the wrong. Stallions were notorious lotharios, even if they were handfasted. It was an accepted practice amongst my people, encouraged even by most mates. Rare was it that a married stallion didn’t stray now and then. I had no issue with the fact that he wore a ring. None at all. My issue was another.

“Your journey is long, beautiful mare, who knows when you’ll cross paths with another male.”