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“He tried to make me work. With him,” he says truthfully, just as a war hero, the owner of a strong voice, should. “You are wrong, Yuan,” Mee-Hae says, half-worried and half-angry, her voice suddenly quivering. “He wanted to make you work. With or without him.” “I have to stop him,” the Monk says. “Am I the bait?”

Quote by Misba

Book:The Oldest Dance
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The Oldest Dance

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Misba

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“You talked about some stones you found a while ago,” he says. “Three years.” Mee-Hae quickly turns around to face him, holding her unwashed panties. From this close, they smell prominently feminine to the Monk’s highly evolved nose. Mee-Hae Ra throws them with her faultless aim to a basket twenty feet away; she’ll have to wash them in the river later. “Your a while ago is actually three years,” she says. “You didn’t pay attention then. I wonder what happened? You even brought the rarest tea on the planet!” She throws a piercing gaze at him. Her pouty lips make her look angry. Abandoning her cleaning, she approaches the balcony, holding the tea package. “It looks hand-procured,” she mutters. “By any chance, did you pluck it yourself?” She looks at the Monk and already gets the answer that a modest monk won’t provide.”

Mee Hae RaModest MonkHand Procured Tea From Himalayas
Book:The Oldest Dance
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“You keep an ancient lock with a scanner while the balcony is open?” he asks. “Who will steal from an archeologist who gets no gold and camps temporarily in a forest?” Mee-Hae replies. “Ten years doesn’t sound temporary.” “Ten years is a blink for a seventy-year-old High Grade,” Mee-Hae says. “But you’re avoiding my question, Yagmur. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

The MonkMee Hae RaArcheologist Who Gets No GoldTen Years Is A Blink
Book:The Oldest Dance
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“He reached up for his elegant neck cloth and began to unfasten it, and she watched his long, pale, bejeweled fingers in something of a daze. He pulled the cloth free, his shirt coming open, and she averted her gaze from the disturbing sight of his bare chest. She heard his laugh, and then his hands were on her once more, catching her shoulders and turning her around. "Don't worry, my pet. You won't be seeing anything that might shock you." And he pulled the neck cloth over her eyes, effectively blinding her. She wanted to fight back, to struggle, but that would give him an excuse to touch her further, and the less she felt the brush of his cool fingers the better. "That's right," he said, his voice soft and approving. "Now give me your arm and we'll give you a taste of damnation." "Do you really find blasphemy that entertaining?" she said, trying not to start when he took her hand and placed it on his arm. "Always." She'd never put her hand on any arm that wasn't covered by layers of clothing, including a coat. The devil who oversaw these revels, be he Monsieur le Comte or something else, wore only a thin shirt made of the finest lawn. In her sudden world of darkness she was acutely aware of the feel of his arm beneath her fingers. The sinew and bone. The unexpected warmth of his skin, when his hands and his heart were so cold.”

BlindfoldedDark KingFrancis Rohan
Book:Ruthless
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