Her lips parted into a breathless gasp. Without even being aware of it, she let the knife roll from her fingers deeper into the basket. She was conscious only of the sweat trickling down her neck, the strange hollow sensation in her chest. Her heart fluttered. Her pulse stilled to a mere count. One, two, three... oh, Goddess.

For such a legend, the young Varro was beautiful and cold-eyed. He had the athletic grace and the predatory cast to his features, all characteristic of his race, but his eyes were his own. They were almost colorless in his face: a shade of gray so pale that Lia thought of frosted ice. They stripped her down to the bone, judged her for staring at him. She flinched. Don't look at me, don't look. She almost dropped to her knees.

Her helpless, fascinated gaze skimmed up from his unsmiling mouth to his high, angular cheekbones. Every feature had been carved to perfection with bone structure so fine that no Hellenic sculptor could have improved on it, but they would never have captured the sheer iron will in that hard mouth nor the glacial power that shimmered under his skin. And for the first time Lia believed he had slain the shapeshifter barbarian chief Bardolf and Bardolf's fourteen sons. Believed what they all said about him.