Michele Hauf - Seraphim

Here in the long-stretching shadows of the forest the sword she wielded caught no sunlight to gleam or sparkle. But the motion of sharp, swift steel, and alluring female curves worked an orchestration of power, fire and beauty. What this woman lacked in physical strength was made up for with stealthiness. Feline prowess moved long legs—bent at the knee, her feet planted—to direct the sword’s path. Chain mail and armor shrouded any feminine charm she might possess. But the notion that there, beneath the silver mesh, lay temptation, planted itself in Dominique’s mind and clung like a burr to wool.

This warrior, this self-proclaimed Amazon, was not a woman to be wasted on such feebleness as the ill-fated Henri de Lisieux. Seraphim d’Ange was fire, and feral wickedness, and bright pride.

Fierce concentration kept her attention from his approach, until he was within distance to challenge. Her figure drew a graceful line through the icy air.

A few more steps, close enough to wound with a swift lunge…

“You’re up rather early, San Juste.” She expelled a controlled breath and swung her blade around to face him. The tip of her sword skimmed one of the hematite stones sewn onto his cloak. “I could have your head if I wish.” A lift of her dark brow spoke defiance.

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