"Stop that, woman," he said more harshly than he'd intended. "I forbid you to cry."
She cried harder. Big fat tears rolled down her cheeks, stopping at her chin, then splashing onto her neck. Red splotches branched from the corners of her eyes and spread to her temples.
Hours passed--surely these long, torturous moments could not be mere minutes--until she at last heeded his order and quieted. Shuddering with each breath, she closed her eyes. Her long, dark lashes cast shadowed spikes over the too-red bloom of her cheeks. He held his silence, allowing her this time to gather her composure. If she began crying again, he didn't know what he'd do.
"Is there...anything I can do to help you?" he asked, the words stilted. How long since he'd offered comfort to anyone? He couldn't recall, and wasn't even sure why he'd offered now.
Her eyelids fluttered open. There was no accusation in the watery depths of her gaze. No fear. Only pitying curiosity. "Have you been forced to hurt many people?" she asked. "To save your home, I mean?"
At first, he didn't answer her. He liked that she wanted to believe the best in him, but his honor demanded he warn her, not lock her in delusions about a man he'd never been. Nor would ever be. "Save your pity, Grace. You fool yourself if you think I have ever been forced to do anything. I make my own choices and act of my own free will. Always."
"That doesn't answer my question," she persisted.
He shrugged.
"There are alternatives. You could talk to people, communicate."
She was trying to save him, he realized with no small amount of shock. She knew nothing about him, not his rationale, not his past, not even his beliefs, yet she was trying to save his soul. How...extraordinary.
Women either feared him or wanted him, daring to take a beast into their beds; they never offered him more than that. He'd never wanted more. With Grace, he found himself desirous of all she had to give. She called to the deepest needs inside him. Needs he hadn't even realized he possessed.
Admitting such profound desire, even to himself, was dangerous. Except, he suddenly didn't care. Everything but this moment, this woman, this need, seemed utterly insignificant. It didn't matter that she had passed through the mist. It didn't matter that he had an oath to fulfill.
It didn't matter.
He dropped his gaze to her lips. They were so exotic, so wonderfully inviting. His own ached for hers, a soft press or a tumultuous crush. He'd never kissed before, hadn't cared to try, but right now the need to consume--and to be consumed--by that heady meeting of lips proved stronger than any force he'd ever encountered.
He gave her one warning. Only one. "Stand up or I will kiss you," he told her roughly.
Her mouth dropped opened. "Get off me so I can stand!"
He rose, and she quickly followed. They stood there, two adversaries caught in a frozen moment. The withdrawal of her body from his hadn't lessened his need, however. "I'm going to kiss you," he said. He meant to prepare her, but the words emerged more of a warning.
"You said you wouldn't if I stood," she gasped.
"I changed my mind," he said.
"You can't. Absolutely not."
"Yes."
Her gaze darted from his mouth to his eyes, and she licked her lips just the way he wanted to lick them. When she dragged her gaze up again, he met her stare, holding her captive in the crackling embers of his own. Her pupils dilated, black nearly overshadowing the brilliant turquoise hue.
He recaptured her in his arms and dragged her back down to the floor. "Will you give me your mouth?" he asked.
A sizzling pause.
I want this, Grace realized dazedly. I want him to kiss me. Whether the fire of his desire had simply burned into her, or the desire was all her own, she wanted to taste him.
Their gazes locked and she sucked in a breath. Such desire. Blistering. Had there ever been a man who had looked at her, Grace Carlyle, like this? With such longing in his eyes, as if she was a great treasure to be savored?
The outside world receded, and she saw only this sexy man. Knew only the need to give him something of herself--and take something of him. He was living, breathing sexual gratification, she mused, and more dangerous than a loaded gun, yet as gentle and tender as a bed of clouds. I truly am a danger junkie, she thought, loving the contradictions of him. Was he a brute or a lamb--and which did she crave more?
"I shouldn't want to kiss you," she breathed.
"But you do."
"Yes."
"Yes," Darius repeated. Needing no more encouragement, he brushed his lips against hers once, twice. She immediately opened, and his tongue swept inside. She moaned. He moaned. Her arms glided up his chest and locked around his neck. He instinctively deepened the kiss, slipping and sliding and nipping at her mouth just the way he'd imagined. Just the way he wanted, uncaring if he were doing it right.
Their tongues thrust and withdrew, slowly at first, then growing in intensity, becoming as uncivilized as a midnight storm. Becoming wild. Becoming the kind of kiss he'd secretly dreamed of, the kind of kiss that caused the strongest of men to lose all sense of self--and be glad for the loss. Her legs relaxed around him, beckoning him closer, and he fitted himself into her every hollow, hard where she was soft.
"Darius," she said on a raspy pant.
Hearing his name on her lips was sheer bliss.
"Darius," she repeated. "Tastes good."
"Good," he whispered brokenly.
Caught in the same storm, she boldly rubbed herself against the hardness of his erection. Rubbed herself against all of him. Surprise mingled with arousal in her expression, as if she couldn't believe what she was doing but was helpless to stop. "This can't be real," she said. "I mean, you feel too good. So good."
"And you taste like--" Darius plunged his tongue deeper inside her mouth. Yes, he tasted her. Truly tasted her. She was sweet and tangy all at once, unfailingly warm. Flavored as delicately as aged wine. Had he ever sampled anything so delicious? "Ambrosia," he said. "You taste like ambrosia."
He buried one hand in her hair, luxuriating in the softness. His other hand traveled down her shoulder, down the slope of her breast, her ribs and over her thigh. She quivered, tightening her legs around his waist. He brought his hand back up and did it all over again. She purred low in her throat.
He wondered what she looked like just then, and wanted to see her eyes as he took his time with her, as he pleasured her in a way he'd never done with another woman. The concept of watching her, seeing her take her pleasure, was as foreign as his desire to taste her, but the need was there. He tore himself away from her mouth, breaking the kiss--surely the most difficult task he'd ever performed--and lifted slightly.
His exhalations came shallow and fast, and as he gazed down at her, his jaw clenched. Her eyes were closed, her swollen lips parted. The fiery red of her tresses was an erotically tousled mass around her face. Her cheeks glowed a rosy-pink, and the freckles on her nose seemed darker, more exotic.
She wanted him as desperately as he wanted her. His shaft hardened dangerously with the knowledge. She probably felt the same hopeless fascination and undeniable tug that he did. A tug he didn't understand. His soul was too black, hers too light. They should despise each other. They should have desired distance.
He should have desired her death.
He didn't.
She slowly opened her eyes. The delicate tip of her tongue darted out and traced her lips, leaving a glistening trail of moisture. How soft and fragile she was. How utterly beautiful.
"I'm not ready for you to stop," she said with a seductive smile.
He didn't respond. Couldn't. His vocal cords suddenly seized as something constricted in his chest, something arctic and scorching at the same time. Affection. I should not have kissed her. He jerked up and onto his knees, straddling her hips.
How could he have allowed something like this to happen, knowing he had to destroy her?
He was the one who deserved death.
"Dariu
s?" she said questioningly.
Guilt perched heavily on his shoulders, but he fought past it. He always fought past it. He could not allow even guilt in his life if he hoped to survive.
As he continued to watch her, her expression turned to confusion and she gingerly lifted to her elbows. Those long, red curls cascaded down her shoulders in sensual disarray, touching her in all the places he yearned to touch. Her shirt gaped open over one creamy shoulder.
Silence thickened between them. Smiling bitterly, he wet the tips of two fingers and traced the lushness of her lips, letting the healing qualities of his saliva ease the puffiness and erase the evidence of his possession. She surprised him by sucking his fingers into her mouth just as he'd done to her earlier. Feeling the hot tip of her tongue caused his every muscle to bunch in expectation. He hissed in a breath and tugged his fingers away.
"Darius?" she said, her confusion growing.
He'd come here to question her, but the moment he'd seen her, touched her, tasted her, those questions had fled. Yes, he'd managed to ask her one or two, but the need to capture a glimmer of her innocent flavor had been so fierce he'd soon forgotten his purpose.
He'd forgotten Javar. He'd forgotten Atlantis.
He would not forget again.
If only he could prove her duplicitous, he could kill her now without a qualm, then rip her image from his mind. As it was, he wasn't sure he could force himself to even chip one of her pink oval-shaped nails. The thought unnerved him, battered against him, and filled him with the urge to howl at the gods. Failure to act against her would mean breaking his vow and surrendering his honor. But hurting her would mean obliterating the last shreds of his humanity.
Gods, what was he going to do?
He felt shredded as he lunged to his feet. A cold sweat popped on to his brow, and it required all of his strength to spin and stalk to the door. There, he paused. "Do not attempt to escape again," he said, not glancing back at her. If he faced her, he might lose the strength required to leave her. "You will not like what happens if you do."
"Where are you going? When will you be back?"
"Remember what I said." The thick ivory opened for him, and he stepped into his bathing room. Then the door sealed automatically, not emitting a single noise as it blocked her dangerous beauty from his view.
Grace sat where she was, shaking with...hurt? He'd wanted her, hadn't he? If so, why had he left her reeling from the intensity of his kiss?
Why had he left her at all?
He'd walked blithely away, almost callously, as if they'd done nothing more than discuss their least favorite disease. She laughed humorlessly.
Had he merely toyed with her? While she panted and ached for him, while she bathed in the decadence, the wildness and the exquisite need, had he merely sought to control her? To gain the answers he seemed to think she possessed?
Perhaps it was best that he'd left, she thought furiously. He was a confessed assassin, but if he'd stayed, she would have stripped herself naked, stripped him naked, then made love to him right here on the floor.
For that one moment in his arms, she'd finally felt whole and she hadn't wanted the feeling to end.
This hunger he awakened inside her...it was too intense to be real, but too real to be denied.
Beneath his cold, untouchable mask, she'd thought she had seen a fire blazing inside him, a tender fire that licked sweetly rather than devoured needlessly. When he'd gazed down at her so carnally and said, "I want to kiss you," she'd been so sure the fire was there, simmering under the surface of his skin.
Her long repressed hormones cried out whenever he was near, assuring her that any intimate contact with him would be wild and wicked. The kind she'd fantasized about for years now. The kind she read about in romance novels, then lay in bed, wishing a man was beside her.
Enough! You need to find a way out of here. Forget about Darius and his kisses.
Though her body protested something so sacrilegious, forgetting such an earth-shattering experience, Grace pushed the kiss to the back of her mind then dug the medallion from her pocket and anchored it around her neck, where it belonged. Ha! Take that, Darius.
She vaulted to her feet and spun in a circle, hoping that by searching the chamber this second time, she'd find a way out. A hidden latch, a sensor, something. When she saw only the same jagged walls, with no break in the pattern, she cursed under her breath. How did Darius enter and exit without so much as a word or touch?
Magic, most likely.
She blinked in surprise at the ease with which she entertained such a concept. Magic. Yesterday she would have committed anyone who claimed magic spells were real to a psych ward. Now, she knew better. She could speak a language she'd never learned.
Not possessing any magic of her own, she decided to ram into the door with her shoulder. She prayed she didn't break a bone as she girded herself for impact.
One breath, two. She rushed forward.
She never hit.
The door slid right open.
She nearly tripped over her own feet but managed to slow her momentum. When she stopped, she glared over at the door. If she didn't know better, she'd swear it was alive and purposefully tormenting her. There had been no reason for it to open this time. No reason except the medallion...Her eyes widened and she fingered the warm, ridged alloy at her neck. Of course. It had to be some sort of passkey, like a motion detector. That explained why Darius hadn't wanted her to have it.
I can escape, she thought excitedly. She surveyed her new surroundings. She wasn't in the hallway she'd expected. She was in some type of bathing room. There was a lavender chaise longue piled high with beaded, satin pillows; a large glistening pool rested inside a stone ledge. Towering, twisted columns. Multiple layers of sheer fabric hung from the ceiling. A decorator's dream.
In each of the three corners was an archway leading off somewhere. Grace debated which direction to take. Sucking in a deep breath, she raced through the center route. Her legs ate up the distance as she pumped her arms. The walls consisted of one jewel stacked upon another. From ruby to sapphire, topaz to emerald, the gems were interspersed with weblike gold filigree.
There were enough riches in this one little hallway to feed an entire country. Even the least avaricious of people would have trouble resisting such allure. That was exactly what Darius guarded against, she realized, the greed of modern day society. Exactly why he killed.
With all of this obvious wealth, she expected servants or guards, but she remained alone as she ran and ran and ran. A light at the end of the hallway caught her eye--and no, she didn't miss the irony of that. Huffing from exertion, she headed straight into the light. She may not have an exciting life to get back to, but at least she had a life. She had her mother, her aunt Sophie and Alex. Here she had only fear.
And Darius's kisses.
She scowled, not liking the heady thrill she received from the remembrance of his lips against hers, of his tongue invading her mouth oh, so sweetly. Of his body pressing into hers.
Lost yet again in the memory of such a soul-searing kiss, she didn't hear the frenzied male voices until it was too late. A table of weapons whizzed past before Grace spurted to a halt. Sand flicked around her ankles. Her mouth dropped open, as did the pit of her stomach.
Oh, my God.
She'd escaped Darius only to throw herself at six other warriors just like him.
CHAPTER SIX
GRACE STOOD at the edge of a huge arena of white stone and marble that resembled a restored Roman coliseum. Only the ceiling marred the illusion, boasting the same sea-covered crystal dome that comprised the rest of the...building? Castle?
Wide and long, the arena spanned the length of a football field. The air was scented with sweat and dirt, courtesy of the six men brandishing swords and basically trying to annihilate each other. Their grunts and groans blended with the cringe-worthy clang of metal. They had yet to notice her.
Her heart thudded in her chest, and she
whipped around, intent on running back down the corridor. When she spied yet another warrior, this one just entering the far end, she scooted to the side, out of sight. Had he seen her? She didn't know; she only knew the nearest exit was blocked. The nearest exit was blocked!
"Calm down," she whispered. She'd wait two minutes. Surely the hallway would be clear by then; surely for such a short amount of time she could stay right here and remain unnoticed. Then she'd escape. Simple. Easy.
Please let it be simple and easy.
"Who taught you to fight, Kendrick?" one man snarled. He was the tallest man present, with broad shoulders and ropelike muscles. His pale hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and the long length of it slapped his cheek as he shoved his opponent to the ground. "Your sister?"
The one called Kendrick jumped to his feet, sword raised in front of him. He wore the same black leather pants and black shirt as the others. He was obviously the youngest. "Perhaps it was your sister," he growled. "After I tumbled her, of course."
Grace's jaw dropped as green scales momentarily appeared on the first man's face. When she blinked, they were gone.
The tall blonde sheathed his sword and held out his hands. He motioned for Kendrick to approach him. "If I actually had a sister, I would kill you where you stand. Since I do not, I'm merely going to beat you senseless."
A man stepped between the two combatants. He had brown hair and surprisingly sad features. He was unarmed. "That's enough," he said. "We are friends here. Not enemies."
"Shut up, Renard." A boy only slightly older than Kendrick jumped into the argument. He pointed the tip of his sword at the sad one's chest. Wet strands of brown hair clung to his temples and framed the dragon tattoo that stretched up from his jawline. "It's time you and all the other lucifaeres learned you're not infallible."
Renard's golden eyes narrowed. "Remove the weapon, little hatchling, or I will gut you where you stand."
The "little hatchling's" face paled, and he did as commanded.
Grace inched backward a step. Breathe, she commanded herself. Just keep breathing. They were going to kill each other. Good news: If they were dead, they couldn't stop her from escaping.
"Smart move," another male said. This one had strawberry-blond hair and a breathtakingly beautiful face, which thoroughly contrasted with the fact that he was polishing a two-pronged hatchet. Dry amusement gleamed in his golden eyes. "Renard has killed men for less. I guess it helps that he knows exactly where to cut them, where to make them bleed and suffer for days at a time before finally, mercifully dying."