An Order Series Novelette
by
I, Lochan of the famed Féyes clan, know all about fighting.
As a half-breed Elf, I have struggled against prejudice and feelings of inadequacy.
A recluse by nature, I have battled my aversion to touch and interaction with others.
To become an assassin of The Order, I have learnt to overcome the limitations of my mind and body.
But denying the power Ervyn Morryés holds over me might be the one fight I lose. The truth is—damn it all—the relentless Highlander brings me to my knees.
Note: This novelette is the second in the Order Series, and not a stand-alone installment. Reading THE MUTT is crucial for its full enjoyment.
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Publisher: Independently Published
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Word Count: 16000
Setting: Elven Country
Languages Available: English, German
Series Type: Continuous / Same Characters
Word Count: 16000
Setting: Elven Country
Languages Available: English, German
Translators: Jutta E. Reitbauer
Series Type: Continuous / Same Characters
I knew my insomnia worried him. Elven Army regulations regarded bedtime as a serious matter. A soldier's body—well-honed, fed and rested—served as their primary weapon. A tired soldier made errors. And errors claimed lives.
To escape further scrutiny, I backed towards my cot and hopped under the blankets.
Of course, Ervyn took it as an invitation. Not that he ever acted as if he needed one. He shrugged out of his heavy leather jerkin and pulled off his boots.
“Come now.” In the near darkness, I heard a smile in his voice. “Let me tuck you into bed, mu'hrōnye.”
He’d fallen into the habit of calling me that. I asked the meaning of it once, but he simply laughed and distracted me by biting on the shell of my ear.
Ghor still hadn’t stirred. For once, I didn’t mind his snoring.
The narrow cot made for a tight fit for Ervyn and me.
Something else felt tight, besides. The crotch of my trousers.
READ MOREErvyn’s hand immediately rose to brush my cheek and jaw line. “I missed you,” he murmured.
My pulse jumped a notch.
He tended to say things like that, nonchalant, as if betraying one’s thoughts cost nothing. His impulsivity meant he rarely bothered to conceal his wants and intentions. Such a barefaced approach shocked the hell out of me, although I partly admired, partly envied his readiness to show emotion.
My eyes slid closed at the warm, rough feel of his thickened fingertips: the draw hand of the archer. Somehow this heightened my pleasure. The smell of pine needles, leather and horses hit my nostrils.
His thumb skimmed my bottom lip.
I moaned, already so aroused I could kill with my hard-on. Which, in fairness, would be a handy skill to have for an assassin.
COLLAPSE
