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A Kiss Of Shadows :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 221 из 338But he forced my other hand behind my back until he could grip both my wrists in one of his hands. His hands were not that large, and to get a firm grip meant my wrists were ground together, bruising. I'd have struggled more if I'd thought I could get away, but even if I escaped Doyle, he'd seen the gun. There was nothing I could do about it, so I didn't struggle. But I was not happy.
Doyle used his other arm to pick me up and lower me to the ground in a sitting position. Except for my wrists it was all done gently enough. He knelt, his cloaked back still hiding us from the other men. As his hand hovered over my leg, moving toward the gun, I thought about kicking him, being difficult, but there was no point. He could have crushed my wrists with no effort. I might get the gun back tonight. If he crushed my arms, my options were over. He slid the gun out of the ankle holster. I sat on the floor and let him do it. I stayed passive in his grip, let him move my body as he wanted. Only my eyes weren't passive—I couldn't keep the anger out of them. No, I wanted him to see the anger.
He let me go and slid the gun behind his own back, though the leather pants were tight enough that it couldn't have been comfortable. I hoped it dug into his back until he bled.
He took one of my hands, helping me stand. Then he turned with a flourish of his cape to present me to the other guards, one hand holding mine as if we were about to make a grand entrance down a long marble staircase. It was an odd gesture for the grey hallway and what had just happened. I realized that Doyle was uneasy about the gun or his choice of taking it, or maybe wondering if I had other weapons. He was ill at ease and he was covering.
"A small disagreement, nothing more," he said.
"A disagreement about what?" The voice belonged to Frost, Doyle's second in command. Other than the fact that they were both tall, physically they were almost opposites. The hair that fell in a glimmering curtain to Frost's ankles was silver, a shimmering metallic silver like Christmas tree tinsel. The skin was as white as my own. The eyes were a soft grey like a winter sky before a storm. His face was angular and arrogantly handsome. His shoulders were a touch broader than Doyle's, but other than that they were both very alike and very unalike.
He wore a silver jerkin that hit him just above the knees to meet the silver cloth of his pants, tucked into silver boots. The jeweled belt at his waist was silver studded with pearls and diamonds. It matched the heavy necklace that graced his chest. He gleamed as if he'd been carved all of one great silver piece, more statue than man.
Doyle used his other arm to pick me up and lower me to the ground in a sitting position. Except for my wrists it was all done gently enough. He knelt, his cloaked back still hiding us from the other men. As his hand hovered over my leg, moving toward the gun, I thought about kicking him, being difficult, but there was no point. He could have crushed my wrists with no effort. I might get the gun back tonight. If he crushed my arms, my options were over. He slid the gun out of the ankle holster. I sat on the floor and let him do it. I stayed passive in his grip, let him move my body as he wanted. Only my eyes weren't passive—I couldn't keep the anger out of them. No, I wanted him to see the anger.
He let me go and slid the gun behind his own back, though the leather pants were tight enough that it couldn't have been comfortable. I hoped it dug into his back until he bled.
He took one of my hands, helping me stand. Then he turned with a flourish of his cape to present me to the other guards, one hand holding mine as if we were about to make a grand entrance down a long marble staircase. It was an odd gesture for the grey hallway and what had just happened. I realized that Doyle was uneasy about the gun or his choice of taking it, or maybe wondering if I had other weapons. He was ill at ease and he was covering.
"A small disagreement, nothing more," he said.
"A disagreement about what?" The voice belonged to Frost, Doyle's second in command. Other than the fact that they were both tall, physically they were almost opposites. The hair that fell in a glimmering curtain to Frost's ankles was silver, a shimmering metallic silver like Christmas tree tinsel. The skin was as white as my own. The eyes were a soft grey like a winter sky before a storm. His face was angular and arrogantly handsome. His shoulders were a touch broader than Doyle's, but other than that they were both very alike and very unalike.
He wore a silver jerkin that hit him just above the knees to meet the silver cloth of his pants, tucked into silver boots. The jeweled belt at his waist was silver studded with pearls and diamonds. It matched the heavy necklace that graced his chest. He gleamed as if he'd been carved all of one great silver piece, more statue than man.