***
Isadora jolted awake in a cold sweat.
The sheets beneath her were wet and her heart was pumping as if she’d just competed in the modern-day Olympics. She focused on drawing air into her lungs as she glanced around the plush bedroom, with its heavy brocade drapes, antique furnishings, curved sitting area and soaring ceilings.
The castle. Her suite. A place these days she hated to call home.
It took her moments to realize she wasn’t actually in a small corner bookstore in the human world, one lined with wooden shelves and trailing plants and smelling of smoldering vanilla and the stench of impending death.
But she knew, without a doubt, that Theron was there. She could see him as clearly as if he were beside her now.
She threw the covers back and bolted for the door, barely caring that she was wearing her sleeping gown, that her hair was a mess or even that her feet were bare. She needed to get to her father. To find Theron. To warn him before he walked into a trap.
Her bedroom door flew open and banged against the wall. She gathered the floor-length, flimsy white skirt of her gown in her hands and raced down the corridor. As it was night, candles lit by servants lined the stone hallway. For a fleeting moment as she ran, she found it ironic that in this day and age, with their technology, her father still insisted on burning candles in the castle. He was as old-school as they came.
She rounded the corner, her hair flying behind her, and reached one hand out to grab the stone balustrade. The muscles in her thighs burned as her feet landed on the marble steps and she skipped stairs to get to the fourth floor as quickly as possible. Breathing heavy, she palmed the last railing and sailed around the corner, only to slam into a wall of muscle.
A gasp rushed out of her. Her hands flew out to the side to steady herself as the floor gave beneath her feet. And for one illuminating moment, she had a horrible premonition she was going to fall to her death from a towering height.
Which was ironic, and just plain wrong, wasn’t it? She could see into everyone else’s future but her own, so she didn’t know exactly how she was going to die. Though this would be a nasty way to go.
Strong fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arms, and before she could right herself, she was jerked forward and up against solid steel once more. She recognized the scent of the Argonaut holding her. And the wicked chuckle rumbling in his chest was one she’d never forget.
“Oh, Princess. What a precarious position we find ourselves in this night.”
Demetrius.
She teetered dangerously close to the edge. All he had to do was let go and she’d tumble backward and crack her head wide open on the marble her father so loved.
“I find myself in a conundrum,” he whispered in a menacing voice close to her ear. “To be the hero—or the villain, as you so peg me. Beg me to save you, Princess, so I can choose which one to be.”
Isadora’s adrenaline spiked. Every horrible sensation she’d ever had about Demetrius rushed through her. She knew he would let her go just to watch her suffer.
“Demetrius!”
Heavy footsteps echoed at Demetrius’s back. Isadora gasped again as those bruising hands yanked her against that unforgiving chest and Demetrius turned them both.
“What’s happening here?”
She recognized the other voice. Zander. One of Theron’s Argonauts. The most unpredictable, and rumor had it, the only one who couldn’t be killed.
Right now, teetering on the edge of this precipice, with Demetrius the only thing between her and death, she’d have loved to be immortal.
“Just saving the day,” Demetrius said, pulling her even closer until she felt like gagging. “It seems the night has drawn out all kinds.”
As quickly as Demetrius had captured her, he let go, and she found herself swaying on her own feet. Zander grasped her arm to steady her. “You don’t look well, Princess.”
“I—I’m fine.” Isadora wiped a hand over her brow, swallowed hard to get her composure. And remembered why she’d flown out of her bed in the first place. “I need to see my father.”
The two Argonauts exchanged looks, and as always, Demetrius was a like a solid, stone, unyielding presence beside her, one she couldn’t get away from fast enough.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Zander said. “Your father’s resting.
“You don’t understand. I have to—”
Zander turned her toward the stairs. “We’ll take you back to your suite.”
“No. I—”
“These are dangerous times, Princess. And you’re not well. Your father’s asked that we ensure your safety.”
Dangerous times? What in Hades did that mean?
Isadora found herself being led down the stairs away from her goal, while questions and disbelief whirled through her mind. Demetrius’s heavy footsteps echoed closely at her back.
When they reached the second floor her brain finally kicked back into gear and she jerked to a stop. “No. Wait. I need to find Theron. I need to talk to him. I need—”
“Theron’s on business for the king. He’ll contact you when he returns. Now, Princess—”
Screw that. Isadora’s jaw flexed and she dug her bare heels into the marble. She was going to be queen. These two Argonauts couldn’t tell her what to do.
And just as she was about to lay into Zander with that, those sickeningly familiar hard arms swept her off the floor from behind, and she found herself cradled, not so gently, against Demetrius.
“Enough argument. You’re to remain in your suite until the king deems you’re well enough to venture out. End of story, Princess.”
The last word was sneered, and she struggled against his hold, but it was useless. Moments later she was dumped on her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin, with the echo of resounding footsteps swirling in the room as the Argonauts swept out. Then she was alone, the only sound the click of a key turning in the double doors from the outside.
And she knew then she wasn’t being protected. Not from any outside threat or for the sake of her health. She was a prisoner. And her father had just issued her death sentence.
Chapter Twelve