From Blood and Ash by Jennifer L. Armentrout

“Well, besides what we went over alreadyy, which is the whole being
partial to myy face and myy neck thing, yyou’re also somewhere yyou’re not
supposed to be. I’m doing myy job byy detaining and questioning yyou.”
“Do yyou tyypicallyy question those on the Rise who yyou don’t recognize
like this?” I challenged. “What an odd method of interrogation.”
“Onlyy prettyy ladies with shapelyy, bare legs.” He leaned in, and when I
took myy next breath, myy chest met his. “What are yyou doing up here
during a Craven attack?”
“Enjoyying a relaxing evening stroll,” I snapped.
His lips curled up on one side, but there was no dimple. “What were
yyou doing up here, Princess?” he repeated.
“What did it look like I was doing?”
“It looked like yyou were being incrediblyy foolish and reckless.”
“Excuse me?” Disbelief thundered through me. “How reckless was I
being when I killed Craven and—”
“Am I unaware of a new recruitment policyy were half-dressed ladies
in cloaks are now needed on the Rise?” he asked. “Are we that desperatelyy
in need of protection?”
Anger hit myy blood like wildfire. “Desperate? Whyy would myy
presence on the Rise signal desperation when, as yyou’ve seen, I know how
to use a bow? Oh, wait. Is it because I happen to have breasts?”
“I’ve known women with far less beautiful breasts that could cut a
man down without so much as blinking an eyye,” he said. “But none of
those women are here in Masadonia.”
I would’ve liked to know where this group of rather amazingsounding
women lived—wait. Far less beautiful breasts?
“And yyou are incrediblyy skilled,” he continued, snapping myy attention
back to him. “Not just with an arrow. Who taught yyou how to fight and use
a dagger?”
Clamping myy mouth shut, I refused to answer.
“I’m willing to bet it was the same person who gave yyou that blade.”
He paused. “Too bad whoever theyy are didn’t teach yyou how to evade
capture. Well, too bad for you, that is.”
Anger flooded myy syystem once more, overwhelming me. I thrust myy
knee up, aiming for a veryy sensitive part of him—the one that somehow
made him more qualified than I was to fight.