Praise for the novels of New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Gena Showalter

Heart of the Dragon

“Lots of danger and sexy passion give lucky readers

a spicy taste of adventure and romance.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Filled with steamy sex, adventure, and a sprinkle

of humour…a fantastic book!”

—Myshelf.com

Jewel of Atlantis

“Showalter has created a ripe mythological world

populated with fascinating creatures and dark lore…

For extraordinary escapism, read this book.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Shines like the purest gem…Rich in imagery and

evocative detail, this book is a sterling example of

what makes romance novels so worthwhile.”

—A Romance Review, 5 stars

The Nymph King

“A world of myth, mayhem and love under the sea!”

—New York Times bestselling author J.R.Ward

“I want to visit Atlantis! Deliciously evocative and

filled with sexy men, The Nymph King is every

woman’s fantasy come to sizzling life. A must read.”

—New York Times bestselling author P.C. Cast

“Gena Showalter’s stories hum with fast pacing and characters that leap off the page. Pick up one of Gena’s books! You won’t be disappointed!”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Kenner

Atlantis

New York Times bestselling author

GENA SHOWALTER

invites you to enter Atlantis,

a world of dark seduction and powerful magic…

HEART OF THE DRAGON

JEWEL OF ATLANTIS

THE NYMPH KING

THE VAMPIRE’S BRIDE

Heart of the Dragon
Gena Showalter

www.mirabooks.co.uk

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author GENA SHOWALTER has been praised for her “sizzling page-turners” and “utterly spellbinding stories”. She is the author of more than seventeen novels and anthologies, including breathtaking paranormal and contemporary romances, cutting-edge young adult novels and stunning urban fantasy. Readers can’t get enough of her trademark wit and singular imagination.

To learn more about Gena and her books, please visit www.genashowalter.com and www.genashowalterblogspot.com.

Other sexy, steamy reads from Gena Showalter and MIRA Books

ATLANTIS

HEART OF THE DRAGON

JEWEL OF ATLANTIS

THE NYMPH KING

THE VAMPIRE’S BRIDE

LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD

THE DARKEST NIGHT

THE DARKEST KISS

THE DARKEST PLEASURE

THE DARKEST WHISPER

DARK BEGINNINGS

THE DARKEST PASSION

THE DARKEST LIE

More stunning tales from Gena Showalter are coming your way…

INTERTWINED

UNRAVELLED

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

You survived a childhood of mind-numbing pain and abject humiliation. You survived a childhood of utter terror and unimaginable horror. Somehow, some way, you survived a childhood with me as your babysitter. Thankfully I’ve found a better outlet for my…creative spirit.

To Auston and Casey Dowling. I love you both.

To Debbie Splawn-Bunch, who wouldn’t let me title this book Extra Crispy Love.

Prologue
Atlantis

“DO YOU FEEL IT, BOY? Do you feel the mist preparing?”

Darius en Kragin squeezed his eyes tightly closed, his tutor’s words echoing in his mind. Did he feel it? Gods, yes. Even though he was only eight seasons, he felt it. Felt his skin prickle with cold, felt the sickening wave of acid in his throat as the mist enveloped him. He even felt his veins quicken with a deceptively sweet, swirling essence that was not his own.

Fighting the urge to bolt up the cavern steps and into the palace above, he tensed his muscles and fisted his hands at his sides.

I must stay. I must do this.

Slowly Darius forced his eyelids to open. He released a pent-up breath as his gaze locked with Javar’s. His tutor stood shrouded by the thickening, ghostlike haze, the bleak walls of the cave at his back.

“This is what you will feel each time the mist summons you, for this means a traveler is nearby,” Javar said. “Never stray far from this place. You may live above with the others, but you must always return here when called.”

“I do not like it here.” His voice shook. “The cold weakens me.”

“Other dragons are weakened by cold, but not you. Not any longer. The mist will become a part of you, the coldness your most beloved companion. Now listen,” he commanded softly. “Listen closely.”

At first Darius heard nothing. Then he began to register the sound of a low, tapering whistle—a sound that reverberated in his ears like the moans of the dying. Wind, he assured himself. Merely wind. The turbulent breeze rounded every corner of the doomed enclosure, drawing closer. Closer still. His nostrils filled with the scent of desperation, destruction and loneliness as he braced himself for impact.

When it finally came upon him, it was not the battering force he expected, but a mockingly gentle caress against his body. The jeweled medallion at his neck hummed to life, burning the dragon tattoo etched into his flesh only that morning.

He crushed his lips together to silence a deep groan of uncertainty.

His tutor sucked in a reverent breath and splayed his arms wide. “This is what you will live for, boy. This will be your purpose. You will kill for this.”

“I do not want my purpose to stem from the deaths of others,” Darius said, the words tumbling from his mouth unbidden.

Javar stilled, a fiery anger kindling in the depths of his ice-blue eyes, eyes so unlike Darius’s own—unlike every dragon’s. All dragons but Javar possessed golden eyes. “You are to be a Guardian of the Mist, a king to the warriors here,” Javar said. “You should be grateful I chose you among all the others for this task.”

Darius swallowed. Grateful? Yes, he should have been grateful. Instead he felt oddly…lost. Alone. So alone and unsure. Was this what he truly wanted? Was this the life he craved for himself? His gaze skimmed his surroundings. A few broken chairs were scattered across the dirt and twig-laden ground. The walls were black and bare. There was no warmth, only cold, biting reality and the lingering shadow of hopelessness. To become Guardian meant pledging his existence, his very soul to this cave.

Gaze narrowed, Javar closed the distance between them, his boots harmonizing with the drip, drip of water. His lips pulled in a tight scowl, and he gripped Darius’s shoulders painfully. “Your mother and father were slaughtered. Your sisters were raped and their throats slit. Had the last Guardian done his duty, your family would still be with you.”

Pain cut through Darius so intensely he nearly clawed out his eyes to blacken the hated images hovering before them. His graceful mother twisted and bent, lying in a crimson river of her own blood. The bone-deep gashes in his father’s back. His three sisters…His chin trembled, and he blinked away the stinging tears in his eyes. He would not cry. Not now. Not ever.

Mere days ago, he had returned from hunting and found his family dead. He had not cried then. Nor had he shed a tear when the invaders who plundered his family were slaughtered in retribution. To cry was to show weakness. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin.

“That’s right,” Javar said, watching him with a glint of pride. “Deny your tears and keep the hurt inside you. Use it against those who hope to enter our land. Kill them with it, for they only mean us harm.”

“I want to do as you say. I do.” He glanced away. “But—”

“Killing travelers is your obligation,” Javar interrupted. “Killing them is your privilege.”

“What of innocent women and children who mistakenly stumble through?” The thought of destroying such purity, like that of his sisters, made him loathe the monster Javar was asking him to become—though not enough to halt this course he had set for himself. To protect his friends, he would do whatever was asked of him. They were all he had left. “May I set them free on the surface?”

“You may not.”

“What harm can children do our people?”

“They will carry the knowledge of the mist with them, ever able to lead an army through.” Javar shook him once, twice. “Do you understand now? Do you understand what you must do and why you must do it?”

“Yes,” he replied softly. He stared down at a thin, cerulean rivulet that trickled past his boots, his gaze following the gentleness and serenity of the water. Oh, that he possessed the same serenity inside himself. “I understand.”

“You are too tender, boy.” With a sigh, Javar released him. “If you do not erect stronger defenses inside yourself, your emotions will be the death of you and all those you still hold dear.”

Darius gulped back the hard lump in his throat. “Then help me, Javar. Help me rid myself of my emotions so that I might do these deeds.”

“As I told you before, you have only to bury your pain deep inside you, somewhere no one can ever hope to reach it—not even yourself.”

That sounded so easy. Yet, how did one bury such tormenting grief? Such devastating memories? How did one battle the horrendous agony? He would do anything, anything at all, to find peace.

“How?” he asked his tutor.

“You will discover that answer on your own. Much sooner than you think.”

Magic and power began swirling more intently around them, undulating, begging for some type of release. The air expanded, coagulated, leaving a heady fragrance of darkness and danger. A surge of energy ricocheted across the walls like a bolt of lightning, then erupted in a colorful array of liquid sparks.

Darius stilled as horror, dread and yes, anticipation sliced a path through him.

“A traveler will enter soon,” Javar said, already tense and eager.

With shaky fingers, Darius gripped the hilt of his sword.

“They always experience disorientation at first emergence. You must use that to your advantage and destroy them the moment they exit.”

Could he? “I’m not ready. I cannot—”

“You are and you will,” Javar said, a steely edge to his tone. “There are two portals, the one you are to guard here and the one I guard on the other side of the city. I am not asking you to do anything I would not—and have not done—myself.”

In the next instant, a tall man stepped from the mists. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face pale, and his clothing disheveled. His hair was thick and silvered, and his tanned skin was lined with deep wrinkles. He had the look of a scholar, not of war or evil.

Still trembling, Darius unsheathed his weapon. He almost doubled over from the sheer force of his conflicting emotions. A part of him continued to scream to run away, to refuse this task, but he forced himself to remain. He would do this because Javar was right. Travelers were the enemy, no matter who they were, no matter what their purpose.

No matter their appearance.

“Do it, Darius,” Javar growled. “Do it now.”

The traveler’s eyelids jolted open. Their gazes suddenly clashed together, dragon gold against human green. Resolve against fear. Life against death.

Darius raised his blade, paused only a moment—stop, run, do not—then struck. Blood splattered his bare chest and forearms like poisoned rain. A gargled gasp parted the man’s lips, then slowly, so slowly, his lifeless body sank to the ground.

For several long, agonizing moments, Darius stood frozen by the fruit of his actions. What have I done? What have I done! He dropped the sword, distantly hearing a clang as the metal thudded into the dirt.

He hunched over and vomited.

Surprisingly, as he emptied his stomach, he lost the agony inside him. He lost his regret and sadness. Frigid ice enclosed his chest and what was left of his soul. He welcomed and embraced the numbness until he felt only a strange void. All of his heartache—gone. All of his suffering—gone.

I have done my duty.

“I am proud of you, boy.” Javar slapped his shoulder in a rare show of affection. “You are ready to take your vows as Guardian.”

As Darius’s shaking ceased, he straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Yes,” he said starkly, determinedly, craving more of this detachment. “I am ready.”

“Do it, then.”

Without pausing for thought, he sank to his knees. “In this place I will dwell, destroying the surface dwellers who pass through the mist. This I vow upon my life. This I vow upon my death.” As he spoke the words, they mystically appeared on his chest and back, black and red symbols that stretched from one shoulder to the other and glowed with inner fire. “I exist for no other purpose. I am Guardian of the Mist.”

Javar held his stare for a long while, then nodded with satisfaction. “Your eyes have changed color to mirror the mist. The two of you are one. This is good, boy. This is good.”

Chapter One
Three hundred years later

“HE DOESN’T LAUGH.”

“He never yells.”

“When Grayley accidentally stabbed Darius’s thigh with a six-pronged razor, our leader didn’t even blink.”

“I’d say all he needs is a few good hours of bed sport, but I’m not even sure he knows what his cock is for.”

The latter was met with a round of rumbling male chuckles.

Darius en Kragin stepped inside the spacious dining hall, his gaze methodically cataloging his surroundings. The ebony floors gleamed clean and black, the perfect contrast for the dragon-carved ivory walls. Along the windows, gauzy drapes whisped delicately. Crystal ceilings towered above, reflecting the tranquillity of seawater that enclosed their great city.

He moved toward the long, rectangular dining table. The tantalizing aroma of sweetmeats and fruit should have wafted to his nostrils, but over the years his sense of smell, taste and color had deteriorated. He smelled only ash, tasted nothing more than air, and saw only black-and-white. He’d willed those senses away. Better, easier to exist in a void. Only sometimes did he wish otherwise.

One warrior caught sight of him and quickly alerted the others. Silence clamped tight fingers around the chamber. Every male present whipped his focus to his food, as if roasted fowl had suddenly become the most fascinating thing the gods had ever created. The jovial air visibly darkened.

True to his men’s words, Darius claimed his seat at the head of the table without a smile or a scowl. Only after he’d consumed his third goblet of wine did his men resume their conversation, though they wisely chose a different subject. This time they spoke of the women they had pleasured and the wars they had won. Exaggerated tales, all. One warrior even went so far as to claim he’d gratified four women at the same time while successfully storming his enemy’s gate. For a nymph, that was possible. A dragon? No.

Darius had heard the same stories a thousand times before. He swallowed a mouthful of tasteless meat and asked the warrior beside him, “Any news?”

Brand, his first in command, leveled him a grim smile and shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” His light hair hung around his face in thick war braids, and he hooked several behind his ears. “The vampires are acting strangely. They’re leaving the Outer City and assembling here in the Inner City.”

“They rarely come here. Have they given no indication of why?”

“It cannot be good for us, whatever the reason,” Madox said, jumping into the conversation. “I say we kill those that venture too close to our home.” He was the tallest dragon in residence and always ready for combat. He perched at the end of the table, his elbows flat on the surface, both hands filled with meat. “We are ten times stronger and more skilled than they are.”

“We need to obliterate the entire race,” the warrior on his left supplied. Renard was the kind of man others wanted to guard their backs in battle. He fought with a determination matched by few, was fiercely loyal and had studied the anatomy of every species in Atlantis so he knew exactly where to strike each to create the most damage. And the most pain.

Years ago, Renard and his wife had been captured by a group of vampires. He’d been chained to a wall, forced to watch as his wife was raped and drained. When he escaped, he brutally destroyed every creature responsible, but that had not lessened his heartache. He was a different man than he’d been, no longer full of laughter and forgiveness. What Darius hated most was that a rogue group of dragons had mimicked the tale, doing the same thing to the vampire king, who had not been responsible for Renard’s tragedy, but who now blamed Darius for it. Thus, a war erupted between their races.

“Perhaps we can petition Zeus for their extinction,” Brand replied.

“The gods have long since forgotten us,” Renard said with a shrug. “Besides, Zeus is like Cronus in so many ways. He might agree, but do we really want him to? We are all creations of the Titans, even those we loathe. If Zeus annihilates one race, what is to stop him from wiping out others?”

Brand gulped back the last of his wine, his eyes fierce. “Then we will not ask him. We will simply strike.”

“The time has come for us to declare war,” Madox growled in agreement.

The word “war” elicited smiles across the expanse of the room.

“I agree that the vampires need to be eliminated. They create chaos and for that alone they deserve to die.” Darius met each warrior’s stare, one at a time, holding it until the other man looked away. “But there is a time for war and a time for strategy. Now is the time for strategy. I will send a patrol into the Inner City and learn the vampires’ purpose. Soon we will know the best course of action.”

“But—” one warrior began.

He cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Our ancestors waged the last war with the vampires, and while we might have won, our losses were too great. Families were torn asunder and blood bathed the land. We will have patience in this situation. My men will not jump hastily into any skirmish.”

A disappointed silence slithered from every man present, wrapping around the table, then climbing up the walls. He wasn’t sure if they were considering his words, or revolt.

“What do you care, Darius, if families are destroyed? I’d think a heartless bastard like you would welcome the violence.” The dry statement came from across the table, where Tagart reclined in his seat. “Aren’t you eager to spill more blood? No matter that the blood is vampire rather than human?”

A sea of angry growls grew in volume, and several warriors whipped to face Darius, staring at him with expectation, as if they waited for him to coldly slay the warrior who had voiced what they had all been thinking. Tagart merely laughed, daring anyone to act against him.

Do they truly consider me heartless? Darius wondered. Heartless enough to execute his own kind for something so trivial as a verbal insult? He was a killer, yes, but not heartless.

A heartless man felt nothing, and he felt some emotions. Mild though they were. He simply knew how to control what he felt, knew how to bury it deep inside himself. That was the way he preferred his life. Intense emotions birthed turmoil, and turmoil birthed soul-wrenching pain. Soul-wrenching pain birthed memories…His fingers tightened around his fork, and he forced himself to relax.

He would rather feel nothing than relive the agony of his past—the same agony that could very well become his present if he allowed a single memory to take root and sprout its poisonous branches.

“My family is Atlantis,” he finally said, his voice disturbingly calm. “I will do what I must to protect her. If that means waiting before declaring war and angering every one of my men, then so be it.”

Realizing Darius could not be provoked, Tagart shrugged and returned his attention to his meal.

“You are right, my friend.” Grinning broadly, Brand slapped his shoulder. “War is only fun if we emerge the victor. We heed your advice to wait most readily.”

“Kiss his ass any harder,” Tagart muttered, “and your lips will chap.”

Brand quickly lost his grin, and the medallion hanging from his neck began to glow. “What did you say?” he demanded quietly.

“Are your ears as feeble as the rest of you?” Tagart pushed to his feet, leaving his palms planted firmly on the glossy tabletop. The two men glared at each other from across the distance, a charged stillness sparking between them. “I said, kiss his ass any harder, and your lips will chap.”

With a growl, Brand launched himself over the table, knocking dishes and food to the ground in his haste to attack Tagart. In midspring, reptilian scales grew upon his skin and narrow, incandescent wings sprouted from his back, ripping his shirt and pants in half, transforming him from man to beast. Fire spewed from his mouth, charring the surface of everything in its path.

The same transformation overtook Tagart, and the two beasts grappled to the ebony floor in a dangerous tangle of claws, teeth and fury.

Dragon warriors were able to change into true dragons whenever they desired, though the transformation happened of its own volition whenever raging emotions gripped them. Darius himself had not experienced a change, impromptu or otherwise, since he discovered his family slaughtered over three hundred years ago. To be honest, Darius suspected his dragon form was somehow lost.

Tagart snarled when Brand threw him into the nearest wall, cracking the priceless ivory. He quickly recovered by whipping Brand’s face with his serrated tail, leaving a jagged and bleeding wound. Their infuriated snarls echoed as deep and sharp as any blade. A torrent of flame erupted, followed quickly by an infuriated hiss. Over and over they bit and lashed out at each other, separated, circled, then clashed together again.

Every warrior save Darius leapt to his feet in a frenzy of excitement, hurriedly taking bets on who would win. “Eight gold drachmas on Brand,” Grayley proclaimed.

“Ten on Tagart,” Brittan shouted.

“Twenty if they both kill each other,” Zaeven called excitedly.

“Enough,” Darius said, his tone even, controlled.

The two combatants jumped apart as if he’d screamed the command, both panting and facing each other like penned animals, ready to attack again at any moment.

“Sit,” Darius said in that same easy tone.

Rather than obey this time, they growled gut-turally at each other. Not so the rest. They sat. While they might wish to continue cheering and taking bets, Darius was their leader, their king, and they knew better than to defy him.

“I did not exclude you from the command,” he said to Tagart and Brand, adding only slightly to his volume. “You will calm yourselves and sit.”

Both men leveled narrowed gazes on him. He arched a harsh brow and motioned with his fingers a gesture that clearly said, “Come and get me. Just don’t expect to live afterward.”

Minutes passed in suspended silence until finally, the panting warriors assumed human form. Their wings recoiled, tucking tightly into the slits on their backs; their scales faded, leaving naked skin. Because Darius kept spare clothing in each room of the palace, they were able to grab a pair of pants from the wall hooks. Partially dressed now, they righted their chairs and eased down.

“I will not have discord in my palace,” Darius told them.

Brand wiped the blood from his cheek and flicked Tagart a narrowed glare. In return, Tagart bared his sharp teeth and released a cutting growl.

They were already on the verge of morphing again, Darius realized.

He worked a finger over his stubbled chin. Never had he been more thankful that he was a man of great patience, yet never had he been more displeased with the system he had fashioned. His dragons were divided into four units. One unit patrolled the Outer City, while another patrolled the Inner. The third was allowed to roam free, pleasuring women, losing themselves in wine or whatever other vice they desired. The last had to stay here, training. Every four weeks, the units rotated.

These men had been here two days—a mere two days—and already they were restless. If he did not think of something to distract them, they might very well kill each other before their required time elapsed.

“What think you of a tournament of sword skill?” he asked determinedly.

Indifferent, some men shrugged. A few moaned, “Not again.”

“No,” Renard said with a shake of his dark head, “you always win. And besides that, there is no prize.”

“What would you like to do, then?”

“Women,” one of the men shouted. “Bring us some women.”

Darius frowned. “You know I do not allow females inside the palace. They pose too much of a distraction, causing too many hostilities between you. And not the easy hostilities of a few moments ago.”

Regretful groans greeted his words.

“I have an idea.” Brand faced him, a slow smile curling his lips, eclipsing all other emotions. “Allow me to propose a new contest. Not of physical strength, but one of cunning and wits.”

Instantly every head perked up. Even Tagart lost his wrathful glare as interest lit his eyes.

A contest of wits sounded innocent enough. Darius nodded and waved his hand for Brand to continue.

Brand’s smile grew wider. “The contest is simple. The first man to make Darius lose his temper, wins.”

“I do not—” Darius began, but Madox spoke over him, his rough voice laden with excitement.

“And just what does the winner gain?”

“The satisfaction of besting us all,” Brand replied. “And a beating from Darius, I’m sure.” He offered them a languid shrug and leaned back in the velvet cushions of his chair. He propped his ankles on the tabletop. “But I swear by the gods every bruise will be worth it.”

Eight sets of eyes swung in Darius’s direction and locked on him with unnerving interest. Weighing options. Speculating. “I do not—” he began again, but just like before he was silenced.

“I like the sound of this,” Tagart interjected. “Count me in.”

“Me, too.”

“And me, as well.”

Before another man could so easily ignore him, Darius uttered one word. Simple, but effective. “No.” He swallowed a tasteless bite of fowl, then continued with the rest of his meal. “Now, tell me more of the vampires’ doings.”

“What about making him smile?” Facing Brand, Madox shoved eagerly to his feet and leaned over the table. “Does that count? It’s a show of emotion and as rare as his temper.”

“Absolutely.” Brand nodded. “But there must be a witness to the deed, or no winner can be declared.”

One by one, each man uttered, “Agreed.”

“I will hear no more talk of this.” When had he lost control of this conversation? Of his men? “I—” Darius snapped his mouth closed. His blood was quickening with darkness and danger, and the hairs at the base of his neck were rising.

The mist prepared for a traveler.

Resignation rushed through him and on the heels of that was cold determination. He eased up, his chair skidding slightly behind him.

Every voice tapered to silence. Every expression became curious.

“I must go,” he said, the words flat, hollow. “We will discuss a tournament of sword skill when I return.”

He attempted to stride from the room, but Tagart leapt up and over the table and swiveled in front of him. “Does the mist call you?” the warrior asked, casually leaning one arm against the door frame and blocking the only exit.

Darius gave him no outward reaction. But then, when did he ever? “Step out of my way.”

Tagart arched an insolent brow. “Make me.”

Someone snickered behind him.

With or without his approval, it seemed the game had already begun. This wasn’t like his men. They must be more bored than he’d thought.

Darius easily lifted Tagart by his shoulders and tossed the stunned man aside, slamming him into the far wall. He thudded to the floor in a gasping heap. Without facing the others, Darius asked, “Anyone else?”

“Me,” came an unhesitant and unrepentant reply. A blur of black leather and silver knives, Madox rushed to stand at his side, watching him intently, gauging his reaction. “I want to stop you. Does that make you angry? Make you want to scream and rail at me?”

An unholy light entered Tagart’s eyes as he scrambled to his feet. He curled his fingers around the hilt of a nearby sword and stalked to Darius, his motions slow and deliberate. Never once pausing to consider the stupidity of his actions, he pointed the razor-sharp tip of the blade at Darius’s neck.

“Would you show fear if I vowed to kill you?” the infuriated man spat.

“That’s taking things too far,” Brand growled, joining the growing group around him.

A drop of blood slithered down Darius’s throat. The nick should have stung, but he felt nothing, not a single sensation. Only that ever-present detachment.

No one realized his intentions. One moment Darius stood still, seemingly accepting of Tagart’s assault, but the next he had his own sword unsheathed and directed at Tagart’s neck. The man’s eyes widened.

“Put your weapon away,” Darius told him, “or I will kill you where you stand. I care not whether I live or die, but you, I think, care greatly for your own life.”

One second dragged into two before a narrow-eyed Tagart lowered his sword.

Darius lowered his own weapon; his features remained stony. “Finish your meal, all of you, then retire to the practice arena. You will exercise until you have not the strength to stand. That’s an order.”

He strode from the chamber quite aware he had not given his men the reaction they craved.

DARIUS DESCENDED the cave steps four at a time. Ready to finish the deed and resume his meal in private, he removed his shirt and tossed the black fabric into a far corner. The medallion he wore, as well as the tattoos on his chest, glowed like tiny pinpricks of flame, waiting for him to fulfill his vow.

Expression blank, mind clear, he tightened his clasp on his sword, positioned himself to the left of the mist…and he waited.

Chapter Two

GRACE CARLYLE ALWAYS hoped she’d die from intense pleasure while having sex with her husband. Well, she wasn’t married, and she’d never had sex, but she was still going to die.

And not from intense pleasure.

From heat exhaustion? Maybe.

From hunger? Possibly.

From her own stupidity? Absolutely.

She was lost and alone in the freaking Amazon jungle.

As she strode past tangled green vines and towering trees, beads of sweat trickled down her chest and back. Small shards of light seeped from the leafy canopy above, providing hazy visibility. Barely adequate, but appreciated. The smells of rotting vegetation, old rain and flowers mingled together, forming a conflicting fragrance of sweet and sour. She wrinkled her nose.

“All I wanted was a little excitement,” she muttered. “Instead I end up broke, lost, and trapped in this bug-infested sauna.”

To complete her descent into hell, she expected the sky to open and pour out a deluge of rain at any moment.

The only good thing about her current circumstances was that all this hiking and sweating might actually help her lose a few pounds from her too-curvy figure. Not that losing weight did her any good here. Except, perhaps, in the newspapers.

New Yorker found dead in Amazon

A shame. She was hot!

Scowling, she swatted a mosquito trying to drink her arm dry—even though she’d applied several layers of ucuru oil to prevent such bites. Where the hell was Alex? She should have run into her brother by now. Or, at the very least, stumbled upon a tour group. Or even blundered upon an indigenous tribe.

If only she hadn’t taken an extended leave of absence from AirTravel, she’d be soaring through the air, relaxed and listening to the hypnotic hum of a jet engine.

“I’d be in an air-conditioned G-IV,” she said, slashing her hand like a machete through the thick, green foliage. “I’d be sipping vanilla Coke.” Another slash. “I’d be listening to my coworkers discuss stiletto heels, expensive dates and mind-shattering orgasms.”

And I’d still be miserable, she thought, wishing I were anywhere else.

She stopped abruptly and closed her eyes. I just want to be happy. Is that too much to ask?

Obviously.

So often lately she battled a sense of discontent, a desire to experience so much more. Her mother had tried to warn her what such discontent would bring her. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” she’d admonished. But had Grace listened? Noooo. Instead she’d followed her aunt Sophie’s lovely bit of wisdom. Aunt Sophie, for God’s sake! The woman who wore leopard print spandex and cavorted with mailmen and strippers. “I know you’ve done some exciting things, Gracie honey,” Sophie had said, “but that’s not really living. Something’s missing from your life and if you don’t find it, you’ll end up a shriveled old prune like your mom.”

Something was missing from Grace’s life. She knew that, and in an effort to find that mysterious “something,” she’d tried speed dating, Internet dating and singles bars. When those failed, she decided to give night school a try. Not to meet men, but to learn. Not that the cosmetology classes had done her any good. The best stylists in the world couldn’t tame her wild red curls. After that, she’d tried race-car driving and step class. She’d even gotten her belly button pierced. Nothing helped.

What would it take to make her feel whole, complete?

“Not this jungle, that’s for sure,” she grumbled, jolting back into motion. “Someone please tell me,” she said to the heavens, “why satisfaction always dances so quickly out of my reach. I’m dying to know.”

Traveling the world had always been her dream, and becoming a flight attendant for a private charter had seemed like the perfect job for her. She hadn’t realized she would become an airborne waitress, jaunting from hotel to hotel, never actually enjoying the state/country/hellhole she found herself in. Sure, she’d scaled mountains, surfed the ocean waves and jumped from a plane, but the joy of those adventures never remained and like everything else she’d tried, they always left her feeling more unsatisfied than before.

That’s why she had come here, to try something new. Something with a bit more danger. Her brother was an employee of Argonauts, a mythoarchaeological company that had recently discovered the crude glider constructed by Daedalus of Athens—a discovery that rocked the scientific and mythological communities. Alex spent his days and nights delving deep into the world’s myths, proving or disproving them.

With such a fulfilling job, he didn’t have to worry about becoming a shriveled old prune. Not like me, she lamented.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Grace increased her pace. About a week ago, Alex had shipped her a package containing his journal and a gorgeous necklace with two dangling, intertwined dragon heads. No note of explanation accompanied the gifts. Knowing he was in Brazil and looking for a portal that led into the lost city of Atlantis she’d decided to join him, leaving a message on his cell phone with details of her flight.

With a sigh, she fingered the dragon chain hanging at her neck. When Alex failed to pick her up at the airport, she should have returned home. “But nooo,” she said with deep self-loathing, suddenly more aware of her dry, cotton mouth. “I hired a local guide and tried to find him. ‘Sí, senhorina,’” she mimicked the guide. “‘Of course, senhorina. Anything at all, senhorina.’”

“Bastard,” she muttered.

Today, two miserable days into her trek, her kind, considerate, I-only-want-to-help-you guide had stolen her backpack and abandoned her here. Now she had no food, no water, no tent. She did, however, have a weapon. A weapon she had used to shoot that bastard in the ass as he ran away. The memory caused her lips to curl in a slow smile, and she lovingly patted the revolver resting in the waist of her dirty canvas pants.

Her smile didn’t last long, however, as the midday heat continued to pound against her. In all her wildest dreams, her need for fulfillment had never ended like this. She’d envisioned laughter and—

Something hard slammed into her head and jostled her forward. She yelped, her heart pounding in her chest as she rubbed her now throbbing temple and skimmed her gaze over the ground, searching for the source of her pain.

Oh, thank you, thank you, she mentally cried when she spied the rosy-colored fruit. Mouth watering, she studied the delicious-looking juice seeping from the smashed remains. Was it poisonous? And did she care if it was? She licked her lips. No, she didn’t care. Death by poison was preferable to walking away from this unexpected treasure.

Just as she reached down to scoop up what she could, another missile crashed into her back.

She gasped and jerked upright.

Spinning, she sent her narrowed gaze through the trees. About ten yards away and fifteen feet up she discovered a small, hairy monkey holding a piece of fruit in each hand. Her jaw dropped open in disbelief. Was he…smiling?

He swung back both of his arms and launched each piece at her. She was too stunned to move and simply watched as they splattered against her pants, stinging her thighs with their impact. Laughing, proud of himself, the monkey jumped up and down and waved his limbs wildly through the air.

She knew what he was thinking: ha, ha, there’s nothing you can do about it. This was too much. Robbed, abandoned, then assaulted by a primate who should pitch for the Yankees. Scowling, at her wit’s end, she picked up the fruit, claimed two mouthwatering bites, paused, claimed two more bites, then launched what was left. She nailed her target in the ear. He lost his smile.

“Nothing I can do about it, huh? Well, take that, you rotten fuzz ball.”

Her victory was short-lived. In the next instant, fruit sailed at her from every direction. Monkeys littered the trees! Realizing she was outnumbered and outgunned, Grace grabbed what fruit she could, ducked behind a tree, jumped over a swarm of fire ants and ran. Ran without knowing what direction she traveled. Ran until she was certain her lungs would collapse from exertion.

When she finally slowed her pace, she sucked in a breath, then bit into her bounty. Sucked in another breath, then bit into the fruit again, continually alternating between the two. As the sweet juices ran down her throat, she moaned in surrender.

Life is good, she thought.

Until another hour passed. By then her body forgot that she’d had any nourishment, and lethargy beat rough fists inside her, causing her feet to drag. Her bones were liquefying, and her mouth felt dryer than sand. But she kept walking, each step creating a mantra in her brain. Find. Alex. Find. Alex. Find. Alex. He was out here somewhere, looking for that silly portal, perhaps blithely unaware of her presence. Why couldn’t he have been at the coordinates his journal had claimed he’d be? Where the hell was he?

Unfortunately the deeper she roamed through the jungle the more lost and alone she became. The trees and liana thickened, as did the darkness. At least the scent of rot evaporated, leaving only a luscious trace of wild heliconias and dewy orchids. If she didn’t find shelter soon, she would collapse wherever she found herself, helpless against nature. Though her vaccinations were up-to-date, she hated snakes and insects more than hunger and fatigue.

Several yards, a tapir and two capybaras later, she had made no progress that she could see. Her arms and legs were so heavy they felt like steel clubs. Not knowing what else to do, she sank to the ground. As she lay there, she heard the gentle song of the insects and the—Her eardrums perked. The peaceful trickle of water? She blinked, listening more intently. Yes, she realized with excitement. She was actually hearing the glorious swoosh of water.

Get up, she commanded herself. Get up, get up, get up!

Using every bit of strength she possessed, she pushed to her hands and knees and crawled into a thick tangle of vegetation. Forest life pulsed vibrantly around her, mocking her weakness. Brilliant, damp green leaves parted and the ground became wetter and wetter until becoming completely submerged by an underground spring. The clear, turquoise water smelled clean and refreshing.

Shaking with the force of her need, she cupped her hands together, scooped up the cool, heavenly liquid and drank deeply. Her parched lips welcomed every wet, delicious drop…until her chest began to burn, hotter and hotter, like she was swallowing molten lava. Except, the sensation came from the outside of her body, not the inside.

The heat became unbearable, and she shrieked. Jolting up, her gaze locked on to the twin dragon heads dangling from the silver chain around her neck. Both sets of ruby eyes were glowing a bright, eerie red.

She tried to jerk the thing over her head but was suddenly propelled forward by an invisible force. Arms flailing, she broke past an amazingly thick wall of flora. Light gave way to muted dark as she was dragged, grunting and fighting, several yards. Finally, she stilled, and the medallion cooled against her chest.

Her eyes grew impossibly round as she studied her new surroundings. She had entered some sort of cave. Drip. Drip. Droplets of water beat against the rocky floor. A cool, welcoming breeze kissed her face as relief nearly buckled her knees. The tranquil ambiance flowed into her, helping to calm her racing heart and labored breathing.

“All I need now is the powdered eggs, canned beans and coffee that were in my pack and I’ll die happy.”

Too exhausted to care what might be inside, waiting for a tasty human to appear, she scrambled deeper inside the passage and down a steep incline. The ceiling constricted and lowered, until she had to crouch and kneel. How long she crawled, she didn’t know. Minutes? Hours? She only knew she needed to find a smooth, dry surface so that she could sleep. Gradually a ribbon of light appeared. The welcome beam snaked around the corner like a summoning finger. She followed.

And found Paradise.

Light crowned a small, iridescent pool of…water? The dappled ice-blue liquid seemed thicker than water, almost like a clear, transparent gel. Instead of lying on the ground, however, the pool hung upright at a slight angle, much like a portrait on a wall. Yet there was no wall to support it.

Why wasn’t it spilling over? she wondered dazedly. Her foggy brain couldn’t quite sort through the bizarre information. Balmy tendrils of mist enveloped the entire haven. A few ethereal strands reached the cavern top, swirling, circling, then gently dipping back down.

She uttered a nervous laugh, and the sound echoed all around her.

Grace reached out carefully, meaning only to touch and examine the strange substance. At the moment of contact, a violent jolt exploded within her, and she felt as if her entire being was sucked into a vacuum, pulling her, tugging her in every direction.

The world crumbled, breaking around her piece by fragile, needed piece, until finally ceasing to exist. Terror unfurled and consumed her. She was falling slowly, falling down. Her arms reached out, desperate for a solid anchor, yet no tangible object greeted her palms.

That’s when the screams began. High-pitched, disharmonized, like a thousand screeching children running all around her. She covered her ears to block the sound. She needed the noise to stop, had to make it stop. But the screams only grew louder. More intense.

“Help me!” she cried.

Stars burst like fireworks at her side, spinning her round and round. Spinning her up and down. Waves of nausea churned inside her stomach, and she tried valiantly to regain any sense of time or place.

Suddenly everything quieted.

Her feet touched a hard surface; she swayed but didn’t fall. The nausea slowly receded. Cautiously she shifted her feet, ascertaining that she truly stood on a stable foundation.

In. Out. Relieved, she drew in a breath and slowly let it out. In. Out. When her head cleared, she cracked open her eyelids. A haze of dew still rose from the small pool like strands of pale, glistening ivy composed entirely of fairy dust. The beautiful sight was spoiled only by the stark contours of the gloomy cavern—a cavern that was different from the one she’d first entered.

Her brows furrowed. Here, the rocky walls were covered with strange, colorful markings, like liquid gold upon forgotten ash. And…was that splattered blood? Shuddering, she tore her gaze away. The floor was damp, burdened with odd-shaped twigs, rocks and straw. Several crudely carved chairs pushed against the far corner.

Instead of miserable humidity, she inhaled air as cold as winter ice. Air that possessed a sickeningly metallic bite. The walls were taller, wider. And when she’d first entered, the dappled pool had been on the right side, not on the left.

How had her surroundings changed so drastically and quickly without her moving a step? She shivered. What was going on? This couldn’t be a dream or a hallucination. The sights and smells were too real, too frightening. Had she died? No, no. This certainly wasn’t heaven, and it was too cold to be hell.

So what had happened?

Before her mind could form an answer, a twig snapped.

Grace’s chin whipped to the side, and she found herself staring up into cold, ice-blue eyes that swirled in startling precision with the mist. She sucked in an awed breath. The owner of those extraordinary eyes was the most ferociously masculine man she’d ever seen. A scar slashed from his left eyebrow all the way to his chin. His cheekbones were sharp, his jaw square. The only softness to his face was his gloriously lush mouth that somehow gave him the hypnotic beauty of a fallen angel.

He stood in front of her, at least six foot five and pure, raw muscle. He was shirtless, his stomach cut into several perfect rows of strength. A six-pack, she mused, the first she’d ever seen in real life. Shards of mist fell around him like glittery drops of rain, leaving glistening beads of moisture on his bronzed, tattooed chest.

Those tattoos were glowing, but more than that, they appeared alive. A fierce dragon spread crimson wings and seemed to be flying straight out of his skin, like a 3-D image come to dazzling life. The dragon’s tail dipped low, past the waist of the black leather pants. Around its body were black symbols that boasted curling slashes and jagged points. These stretched the length of his collarbone and around the biceps.

The man himself proved more barbarous than his tattoos. He held a long, menacing sword.

A wave of fear swept through her, but that didn’t stop her from staring. He was utterly savage. Fascinatingly sensual. He reminded her of a caged, wild animal. Ready to strike. Ready to consume. Danger radiated from his every pore, from the dark rim of his crystalline, predator eyes, to the blades strapped to his boots.

With a flick of his wrist, he twirled the sword around his head.

She inched backward. Surely he didn’t mean to use that thing. My God, he was lifting it higher as if he really did mean to…“Whoa, there.” She managed a shaky laugh. “Put that away before you hurt someone.” Namely me.

He gave the lethal weapon another twirl, brandishing the sharp silver with strong, sure hands. His washboard abs rippled as he moved closer to her. Not a trace of emotion touched his expression. Not anger, fear, or mischievousness, offering her no clue as to why he felt the need to practice sword-slicing techniques in front of her.

He stared at her. She stared back, and told herself it was because she was too afraid to look away.

“I mean you no harm,” she managed to croak out. Time dragged when he didn’t respond.

Before her horror-filled eyes, his sword began to slice downward, aimed straight for her throat. He was going to kill her! On instinct, she swiped her gun from the waist of her pants. Her breath snagged in her throat, burning like acid as she squeezed the trigger. Click, click, click.

Nothing happened.

Shit. Shit! The cylinder was empty. She must have used all of her bullets on her bastard of a guide. The gun shook in her hand, and terror wrapped around her with the chill of a wintry storm. Her gaze scanned the cave, searching for a way out. The mist was the only exit, but the savage warrior’s big, strong body now blocked it.

“Please,” she whispered, not knowing what else to do or say.

Either the man didn’t hear her, or he didn’t care what she said. His sharp, deadly sword continued to inch closer and closer to her neck.

She squeezed her eyelids tightly shut.

Chapter Three

DARIUS UTTERED a fierce curse and allowed his sword to pass just in front of the woman, never actually touching her. The action danced a delicate breeze through the red tendrils of her hair. The fact that he could see the actual color, a tempest of carmine that tumbled around her shoulders, startled him enough that he hesitated to destroy the possessor of such brilliance.

He fought past his shock and gripped his weapon at his side, trying to prepare his limbs to wreak destruction. Trying to force icy determination through his veins and push away any thoughts of mercy or sorrow. He knew what he had to do. Strike. Destroy.

That was his oath.

But her hair…His eyes basked in their first intake of color in over three hundred years. His fingers itched to touch. His senses longed to explore. He should have hated it. He’d wanted his senses barren. Hadn’t he? But he’d looked at her, thought of the family he’d once loved, and his determination had cracked. That crack had been all his senses needed to activate.

Kill, his mind demanded. Act!

His teeth gnashed together, and his shoulders tightened. His tutor’s voice echoed through him. “Killing travelers is your obligation. Killing them is your privilege.”

There were times, like now, he loathed the tasks he performed, but never once had he hesitated to do what was needed. He’d simply continued on, assassination after assassination, knowing there was no other alternative for him. His dragon life force had long since overpowered his mortal side. There was a conscience living inside him, yes, but it was shriveled and decayed from lack of use.

So why was he hesitating now, with this traveler?

He studied her. Freckles dotted every inch of her skin, and streaks of dirt marred her jaw. Her nose was small and elfin, her lashes thick, sooty, and so long they cast spiky shadows on her cheeks. Slowly she opened her eyes, and he sucked in a heated breath. Her eyes were green and flecked with ribbons of blue, each color dusted with determination and fear. These new colors mesmerized him, enchanted him. Made his every protective instinct surface. Worse…

It shouldn’t have—gods, it shouldn’t have—but desire coiled inside him, powerful coils that refused to loosen their grip.

When the woman realized his sword tip pointed to the ground, she crouched down ever so slightly, clutching an oddly shaped metal object. He could only assume she was in attack position. She was frightened, true, but to survive she would fight him with all of her strength.

Could he really destroy such bravery?

Yes. He must.

He would.

Mayhap he truly was the heartless beast Tagart had called him. No, surely not, he thought in the next instant. The very actions that made him evil made him a keeper of the peace and provided safety for all residing in Atlantis.

There could be no other way.

Yet looking at this newest intruder, really looking at her, he felt like a beast. Her features were so guileless, so angelic, sparks of some unfamiliar emotion crackled within him. Concern? Regret? Shame?

A combination of all three?

The sensation was so new, he had trouble identifying exactly what it was. What made this traveler so different from the others that he hesitated—and, gods forbid, felt desire? The fact that she resembled a delicate fairy queen? Or the fact that she was everything he’d always secretly wanted—beauty, gentleness and joy—but knew he could never have?

Unbidden, his gaze drank in the rest of her. She was not tall, but had a regal bearing that gave her an air of height. Her skin was smudged with grime and sweat that did nothing to detract. Her clothing fit her rounded curves to perfection and paid her beauty proper homage.

More unwelcome sensations pulsed through him, unnamable sensations. Hated sensations. He should feel nothing; he should remain detached. But he felt; and he wasn’t. He yearned to trace his fingertips all over her, to immerse himself in her softness, to bask in her colorful brilliance. He yearned to taste, yes, actually taste her entire body and drive away the flavor of nothingness.

“No,” he said, more for his benefit than her own. “No.”

He must destroy her.

She had broken the law of the mist.

All those years ago a Guardian had failed to accomplish his duty, had failed to protect Atlantis, and in turn brought about the deaths of many people—people Darius had loved. He could not, would not allow even this fairy queen to survive.

Knowing this, Darius still remained in place, un-moving. His cold, hard logic warred against his primitive, male appetite. If only the woman would glance away…but seconds turned to minutes, and her gaze remained fixed on him, studying. Perhaps even appreciating.

Desperate to escape the mental hold she had on him, he demanded, “Turn your gaze, woman.”

Slowly, so slowly, she shook her head, whisking red tendrils around her temples. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Even her voice was innocent, soft and lyrical, a caress of his senses. Yet he had no idea what she had said.

“Damn this,” he muttered. “And damn me.”

The corners of his lips twitched in a scowl. He commanded himself to remain indifferent to her even while he sheathed his sword and closed the distance between them. There was no reason to do what he was about to do, but he could not stop himself. His actions were no longer controlled by his mind, but by some force he didn’t understand or want to acknowledge.

She gasped at his approach. “What are you doing?”

He pressed her back, crowding her until she met the rock-lined wall; she kept the metal object directed at him, the silly thing clicking over and over again. Did she truly expect to protect herself from a dragon warrior with such a useless object? He easily pried it from her fingers and tossed it behind his shoulder. Unbeaten, she lashed out, kicking and hitting and scratching like a wild demon.

He secured her by the wrists, pinning them above her head. “Cease,” he said. When she continued to squirm, he sighed and waited for her to tire. Only a few minutes passed before her movements slowed, then halted altogether.

“You’ll go to prison for this,” she said, dragging in breath after breath.

Her warm exhalations caressed his chest, their intoxicating sweetness a tangible entity that prodded his memory, another gentle reminder of the family he couldn’t quite banish from his mind. He almost jerked away from her, but the scent of fear and orchids enveloped him, a sensual declaration of her appeal. He’d smelled nothing but ash for so long; he couldn’t help but luxuriate in this new fragrance. Inhaling deeply, he pressed against her, brushing her body with his, closing all hint of separation. The need to touch her, any part of her, refused to leave him.

She shivered. From the cold? he wondered. Or from a turbulent desire similar to his own? Her nipples were pebbled against his ribs, erotically abrading, and as he watched her nibble her soft bottom lip, the arousal he felt for her became a storm. A desperate, wild storm. A storm so intense it was like a supernatural entity. His dragon’s blood flowed to his cock like a freshly sprung river, hot and consuming.

His lips curled into a self-disparaging smile. The moment he realized he was actually smiling, he frowned. How his men would have laughed to crown this dainty creature the winner of their wager. Yet he couldn’t seem to make himself care. By the gods, he’d never felt anything so perfect, so right.

His captive blinked up, and their gazes collided. Had white-hot sparks of awareness visibly enveloped them at that moment he would not have been surprised.

This woman is your enemy, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth and shifting his hips so that his erection remained a safe distance away.

“The mind is open, the ears will hear,” he bit out. “Understand we do, apart or near. My words are yours—your words are mine. This I speak. This I bind. From this moment, through all of time.”

Still watching her, he said, “Do you understand my words now?”

“Yes. I—I do.” Her eyes widened, darkening with renewed flecks of alarm. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she struggled to form a coherent rejoinder. “How?” was all she could manage. Her voice was strained. Then, she added more strongly, “How?”

“I cast a spell of comprehension over your mind.”

“Spell? No, no. That’s not possible.” She shook her head. “I speak three languages, and I had to work hard to learn every one of them. What did you do to me? What did you do to my brain?”

“I have already explained that to you.”

“Don’t tell me the truth, then.” She laughed, the sound emerging desperate rather than humorous. “None of this matters, anyway. Tomorrow morning I’ll wake up and discover this was all a horrible nightmare.”

No, she wouldn’t, he thought, hating himself more at that moment than ever before. Tomorrow’s dawning she would not wake at all. “You should not have come here, woman,” he said. “Do you care nothing for your life?”

“Is that a threat?” She fought against his hold. “Let me go.”

“Cease your struggles. Your actions merely press your body deeper into mine.”

She immediately stilled.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m an American citizen, and I know my rights. You can’t keep me here against my will.”

“I can do anything I like.”

All color drained from her face because there was no denying the truth of his words.

To prolong her demise like this is cruel, his mind shouted. Close your eyes and strike.

Once again his mind and body acted as separate entities. He found himself releasing her and stepping backward. She leapt away from him as if he were a bloodsucking vampire or a hideously misshapen Formorian.

He focused all of his might on her destruction, looking anywhere except her enigmatic, sea-colored eyes, thinking of anything except her fierce, admirable spirit. Her shirt was torn and gaped down the middle, revealing the hint of two perfect breasts encased in pale pink lace. Another spark of desire flared inside him. Until his gaze locked on the two sets of rubied eyes that hung in the valley of her breasts.

His breath snagged as he studied the ornament more intently. Surely that was not…could not be…

But it was.

A frown cemented his features, and his fingers fisted so tightly his bones almost snapped. How had this woman come to possess such a sacred talisman? The gods awarded every dragon warrior a Ra-Dracus, a Dragon’s Fire, upon reaching manhood, and a warrior never removed his gift, not for any reason save death. The markings etched at the base of this one were familiar to him, but he could not recall exactly to whom it belonged.

Not this woman, that much he knew. She was not a dragon, nor was she a child of Atlantis.

His frown deepened. Ironically the very oath that commanded him to harm her also compelled him to keep her alive until she explained how and why she had the medallion. Reaching out, he attempted to remove it from her neck. She slapped his palm and scampered backward.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she demanded.

“Give me the medallion.”

She didn’t cower at his hard tone as most would have done. Nor did she jump to obey. No, she returned his gaze with unflinching courage. Or stupidity. She remained firmly in place now, hands at her side.

“Don’t come any closer,” she told him.

“You wear the mark of a dragon,” he continued. “And you, woman, are no dragon. Give me the medallion.”

“The only thing I’ll give you is an ass-kicking, you rotten thief. Stay back.”

He leveled her with a resolute gaze. She was defensive and fearful. Not a good combination when trying to obtain answers. He almost sighed. “I am called Darius,” he said. “Does that ease your fears?”

“No, no it doesn’t.” Contrary to her words, her muscles relaxed slightly. “My brother gave me this necklace. It’s my only link to him these days, and I’m not giving it up.”

Darius worried a hand down his face. “What is your name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“What is your name?” he repeated. “Do not forget who holds the sword.”

“Grace Carlyle,” she reluctantly supplied.

“Where is your brother now, Grace Carlyle?” Her name floated easily from his tongue. Too easily. “I wish to speak with him.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

And she did not like that she did not know, he realized, studying the worry in her eyes. “No matter,” he said. “The medallion does not belong to him, either. It belongs to a dragon, and I will have it back.”

She studied him for a long, silent moment, then offered him a sunny if brittle smile. “You’re right. You can have it. I just need a moment to take it off.” She raised her arms as if she meant to do as she’d claimed—take it off. But in the next instant, she darted forward until she stood poised at the mist’s entrance. His arm snaked out and jerked her back into the hard circle of his body. She gasped on impact.

Had his reflexes not been so quick, he would have lost her.

“You dare defy me?” he said, perplexed. As leader of this palace, he was used to having his every command obeyed. Well, before today and his army’s game. That this woman opposed him was shocking, yet somehow added to her appeal. She was not a warrior and had no defense against him.

“Let me go!”

He held steady. “Struggling is pointless and merely delays what must be done.”

“What must be done?” Instead of calming, she beat her pointy little elbows into his stomach. “What the hell must be done?”

He whirled her around and used one of his hands as a shackle, locking her against him, chest to chest, hardness to softness.

“Be still!” he shouted. Then blinked. Shouted? Yes, he’d actually raised his voice.

Amazingly enough, she stilled. Her breath came shallow and fast. Amid the growing quiet, he began to hear the beat of her heart, a staccato rhythm that reverberated in his ears. Their gazes narrowed on each other and looking away proved impossible. Minutes ticked by unnoticed.

“Please,” she at last whispered, and he wasn’t sure if she was asking him to release her or hold her more tightly.

He used his free hand to smooth up the velvety soft expanse of her neck, then gently flick her hair out of the way. The heat of her beckoned him to linger, and he fought the urge to glide his hands across her every feminine peak and hollow, from the plumpness of her breasts, to the slight roundness of her stomach. From the exotic slope of her legs, to the hot wetness of her center.

Was she the kind of woman who could accept and return his animal passion? Or would she find him more than she could handle?

The thought jarred him, and he gave a brutal shake of his head to dislodge it. Whether she could handle him or not didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to bed this woman.

And yet…

He easily imagined Grace naked and in his bed, her body splayed for his view. Her arms open and waiting for him. She would smile slowly, seductively, and he would inch his way atop her, graze his tongue over every curve and hollow, enjoy her as he’d never enjoyed another—or let her enjoy him—until they both collapsed.

The fantasy caused his desire to intermingle with tenderness, each sensation sparking off the other as they raced through him.

Desire he could tolerate. Tenderness he could not.

For years he’d tried to suppress his physical needs, but he’d learned that was impossible. So he’d begun to allow himself the occasional woman, taking them hard and fast, then leaving them quickly afterward. He didn’t kiss, didn’t savor. Just took them with utter detachment, an easily forgettable coupling.

He needed that same detachment now, which meant he needed to ignore Grace’s appeal. With that firmly rooted in his mind, he hurriedly unhooked the chain’s clasp from around her neck, though he was careful not to bruise her.

“Give that back,” she demanded, pulling against his hold. “It’s mine.”

“No. It is mine.”

Her expression turned venomous.

Without removing his gaze from her, Darius secured the medallion around his own neck, causing it to clang against the other Ra-Dracus. “I have many questions for you, and I expect you to answer every one,” he told her. “If you utter a single untruth, you will regret it. Is that clear?”

A strangled breath slipped past her lips.

“Do you understand?” he reiterated.

Wide-eyed, she nodded slowly.

“Then we will begin. You told me you want to give the medallion back to your brother. Why? What does he plan to do with it?”

“I—I don’t know.”

Did she lie? The angelic cast of her features suggested no untruth had ever passed from her lips. Thinking of her lips brought his gaze to them. They were plump lips. Lips made for a man’s pleasure. He ran his hand down his face, unsure what to believe, but knowing he should not imagine those lips slipping up and down his shaft, her red hair spilling over his thighs.

“Where did he acquire it?” Darius ground out.

“I don’t know,” she said hollowly.

“From who did he acquire it?”

“His boss.”

His boss…Darius’s jaw ticked. That meant there were more surface dwellers involved. “How long has the chain been in your possession?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, silently counting the days. “A little over a week.”

“Do you know what it is? Or what it does?”

“It does nothing,” she said, her brow furrowed. “It’s just a necklace. A piece of jewelry.”

He regarded her intently, studying, gauging. “How, then, did you find the mist?”

She pushed out a breath. “I don’t know, okay. I was walking around that damn jungle. I was hot and tired and hungry. I discovered an underground spring, stumbled upon the cave and crawled inside.”

“Did anyone enter the cave with you?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

She glared up at him, daring him to do what he would. “Yes, damn it. I’m certain. I was alone out there.”

“If you have lied…” He allowed his threat to hang in the air unsaid.

“I told you the truth,” she snapped.

Had she? He honestly didn’t know. He only knew that he wanted to believe every word she uttered. He was too captivated by her beauty. Too entranced by her scent. He should kill her here and now, finally, but still he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her. Not yet. Not until he’d had time and distance to put her in proper perspective.

I’m a fool, he thought. Darius grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her over his shoulder. She began kicking immediately, and her nails raked down his back.

“Put me down, you Neanderthalic bastard!” Her shrieks echoed in his ears. “I answered your questions. You have to let me go.”

“Perhaps a little time in my chamber will make those answers of yours improve. Surely you can do better than ‘I don’t know.’”

“Improve? Improve! If I’d given you different answers, I would have been lying.”

“We shall see.”

He strode up the cave stairs and into the palace above. She continued to squirm and kick, and he continued to hold her firmly with his arms. He was careful to avoid his men as he carried her to his chamber. Once there, he tossed her atop the velvet covered mattress and tied her flailing arms and legs to the posts. Seeing her splayed on his bed made him sweat and ache. Made him rock-hard. Gods, he couldn’t deal with her now, not when she looked so…eatable. Without another glance in her direction, he turned and strode into the hall. The door closed behind him of its own accord.

Sooner or later, the woman would have to die…by his own hand.

Chapter Four

ALONE IN THE ROOM, Grace tugged and squirmed until she freed her wrists. She untied the knots at her ankles and jerked upright. Alex had tied her up many times when they’d been children, so escaping seemed like child’s play. Besides that, her captor had not tied the knots that tight. As if he’d been afraid to hurt her. She dragged in a shaky breath as her gaze darted throughout the spacious interior, taking in every detail. Other than the gloriously soft bed she sprawled upon, a tiered ivory chest was the only other furnishing. Colors…so many colors glistened from the jagged walls like rainbow shards trapped in onyx. There was a cream and marble hearth, unlit and pristine. The only exit was a door with no handle.

Where the hell am I? she wondered, panic rising.

Fear and adrenaline pounded furiously through her blood. A man who could afford this type of luxury could afford an impregnable security system. She fisted her hands on the sapphire velvet coverlet as another thought invaded her mind. A man who could afford this type of luxury could afford to kidnap and torture an innocent woman with no consequences.

Shooting to her feet, she tried to fight past her fear. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. She just needed to find a way out of here. Before he returned. She raced to the door, clawing at the tiny seam. When that didn’t work, she pushed, trying to force the doors to split down the middle. The thick ivory remained firmly in place, refusing to budge even a little. She expelled a frustrated screech. She should have expected no different. Like he’d make escape that easy.

What was she going to do?

There were no windows to crawl through. And the ceiling…she glanced upward and gasped. The ceiling was comprised of layered crystal prisms, the source of the room’s light. A thin crack stretched across the middle from one end to the other, giving way to a spectacular view of swirling, turquoise liquid. Yet the liquid didn’t drip through. Fish and other sea creatures—those were not mermaids, she assured herself—swam playfully through the water.

I’m underwater. Underwater! She banged her fists against the door. “Let me out of here, damn you!”

No response was forthcoming.

“This is illegal. If you don’t let me out, you’ll be arrested. I swear you will. You’ll go to prison and be forced to have intimate relations with a man named Butch. Let. Me. Out.”

Again, no response. Her punches slowed, then stopped altogether. She rested her cheek against the coolness of the door. Where the hell am I? she wondered once more.

Something tugged at her memory…something she had read. A book or a magazine, or…Alex’s journal! she realized. The bottom dropped from her stomach, and she squeezed her eyes shut as the full implication hit her. Her brother had written about a doorway from earth to Atlantis, a portal surrounded by mist. Her mouth formed an O as a section of his text invaded her mind, clicking in place like the piece of a puzzle. Atlantis was not the home of an extraordinary race of people, but of horrible creatures found only in nightmares, a place the gods had hidden their greatest mistakes.

Her knees weakened and her stomach clenched. Turning, placing her back to the door, she sank to the cold, hard ground. It was true. She had traveled through the mist. She was in Atlantis. With horrible creatures even the gods feared.

Let this be a dream, a dream I’ll awaken from any moment. I promise I won’t complain about anything ever again. I’ll be content.

If the gods heard her, they ignored her.

Wait, she thought, shaking her head. She didn’t believe in ancient Greek gods.

I have to get out of here. She’d wanted danger and fulfillment, yes, but not this. Never this. En route to Brazil, she’d imagined how intrepid she would feel helping Alex, how accomplished she would feel proving or disproving such a well-loved myth.

Well, she’d just proved it—and she felt anything but accomplished.

“Atlantis,” she whispered brokenly, staring over at the bed. The comforter appeared quilted from glass, yet she knew exactly how soft it was. She was in Atlantis, home of minotaurs, Formorians, werewolves and vampires. And so many more creatures her brother hadn’t been able to name them all. Her stomach gave another painful clench.

Just what type of creature was her captor?

She searched her memory. Minotaurs were half bull and half human. While he may have acted like a bull, he had not possessed the physical characteristics of one. Formorians were one-armed and one-legged creatures. Again, he didn’t qualify. Could he be a werewolf or a vampire? Yet neither of those seemed right, either.

With his dragon tattoos, he seemed more like, well, a dragon. Could that be right? Didn’t dragons have scales, a tail and wings? Perhaps he was the only human here. Or perhaps he was a male nymph, a creature so sexual, so potent and virile, he could not be released into human society. That certainly explained her hopelessly powerful reaction to him.

“Darius,” she said, rolling his name across her tongue.

She shivered twice, once in fear and once in something she didn’t want to name, as his image filled her mind. He was a man of contradictions. With his swirling, ice-blue eyes, harsh, demanding tone and rock-solid muscles, he personified everything cold and callous, everything incapable of offering warmth. And yet, when he touched her, she’d felt molten lava run through her veins.

The man reeked of danger, resembling a warrior who lived with no laws but his own. Like the deliciously tantalizing warriors she read about in romance novels. This was no novel, however. This man was real. Raw and primal. Purely masculine. When he spoke, his voice resonated a dark, barely leashed power reminiscent of midnight tempests and exotic, foreign lands. Despite everything, she had been drawn to him in the cave.

Despite everything, she was still drawn to him.

Never, in all of her twenty-four years, had a man stirred such sensuous awareness inside her. That this man did, a man who had threatened her—several times—blew her mind. He’d even tried to slice her in half with that monstrous sword of his. But he didn’t hurt you, her mind whispered. Not once. His touch had been so gentle…almost reverent. At times, she’d thought his gaze was pleading with her to touch him in return.

“You need your head examined, young lady, if you actually find that man attractive.” Her mother’s stern voice reverberated in her mind. “Tattoos, swords. Not to mention the beastly way he carried you over his shoulder. Why, I was horrified.”

Then her aunt Sophie piped in, “Now, Gracie baby, don’t listen to your mother. She hasn’t had a man in years. You should offer him a little some-some. Does Darius have a single, older brother?”

“I truly do need my head examined,” she muttered. Her relatives were taking residence inside her mind, dispensing bits of advice whenever they wanted.

A wave of homesickness hit her in a way she hadn’t experienced since her first week of summer camp all those years ago. Her mother might be reserved and exacting from years of caring for Grace’s sickly father, but she loved and missed her. Her aunt loved her, too, and would have hugged her tight.

She drew her arms around her stomach, trying to mask the hollowness. Where had Darius gone? How long before he returned?

What did he plan to do with her?

Nothing good, that much she suspected.

The air here was warmer than in the cave, but the cold refused to leave her, and she trembled. Her gaze flicked up the jagged walls, to the ceiling. Climbing up might earn her scratched and bloody palms, injuries she’d willingly endure if the crystal ceiling opened wide enough for her to slip through and swim to safety.

She eased to her feet, her legs shaky. First she needed sustenance or she’d collapse—and then she’d never escape.

On top of the dresser was what looked to be a bowl of fruit and a flagon of wine. Drawing in a deep breath of sea-kissed air, she approached. Her mouth watered as she reached out and palmed an apple. Without giving herself time to contemplate the likelihood of poison, she quickly ate—more like inhaled, she thought—the delicious fruit. Then another. And another. Between bites, she sipped the sweet red wine straight from the flagon.

By the time she stepped to the edge of the wall, she felt stronger, more in control. She gripped two small ledges and hoisted herself up, balancing her feet on the sharp ebony. Up, up she scaled. She’d once climbed the Devil’s Thumb in Alaska—not her favorite memory since she’d frozen her butt off—but at least she knew how to climb properly. She dared a peek down, gulped, and thought lovingly of the harness she had used on Devil’s Thumb.

She reached the top, and her palms were indeed bruised and raw, throbbing. Using all of her might, she pushed and clawed at the crystal. “Come on,” she said. “Open for me. Please open for me.” Hope curdled in her stomach as the damn thing remained firmly closed. Near tears, she maneuvered her way down to the lowest outcropping and hopped to the floor.

She shoved her hair out of her face and took stock of her options. There weren’t many since she was stuck in this room. She could passively accept whatever Darius had planned for her, or she could fight him.

No deliberation was required. “I’ll fight,” she said, resolved.

By whatever means necessary, she had to get home, had to find and warn her brother about the dangers of the mist—if it wasn’t too late already. An image of Alex popped into her mind. His dark red hair artfully arranged around his pale face; his body lying motionless in a coffin.

She pressed her lips together, refusing to consider the possibility a moment longer. Alex was alive and well. He was. How else would he have sent her his journal and the medallion? Stamps were not sold in the afterlife.

Her gaze scanned the room again, this time looking for a weapon. There were no knickknacks. No logs in the hearth. The only item that might work was the bowl holding the fruit, but Grace wasn’t sure how much damage she could do to Darius’s fat (okay, sexy) head with a surprisingly flexible bowl.

Disappointment swam through her. What the hell could she do to escape? Make a trip cord of the sheets? She blinked. Hey, that wasn’t a bad idea. She raced over to the bed. When she lifted the silky linen, her palms ached sharply.

Despite the pain, she tied each end on either side of the sliding doors. Darius might look indomitable, but he was as vulnerable to mishap as everyone else. Even the myths of old spoke of every creature, be they human or god, as being fallible. Or in this case, fallable.

Though she lived in New York now, Grace had grown up in a little town in South Carolina, a place known for its friendliness and politeness to strangers. She’d been taught to never purposely hurt another human being. Yet she couldn’t stop a slow smile of anticipation as she studied the sheet.

Darius was about to take a tumble.

Literally.

DARIUS STALKED into the dining hall. He paused only a moment when he realized he no longer saw colors, but once again saw merely black-and-white. He inhaled a disappointed breath. When he realized he smelled nothing, he stilled. Even his newly developed sense of smell had deserted him.

Until now, he hadn’t realized just how much he missed those things.

This was Grace’s doing, of course. In her presence, his defenses had crumbled and his senses had come alive. Now that there was distance between them, he had reverted to his old ways. What kind of power did she wield that she could so control his perceptions? A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Thankfully his men had not waited for his return. They had already adjourned to the training arena as he’d ordered. Though they were several rooms over the sounds of their grunts and groans filled the air.

Lips drawn tight, Darius moved to the immense wall of windows at the back of the room. He gripped the ledge above his head and leaned forward. As high upon the cliffs as this palace sat, he was granted a spectacular view of the city below. The Inner City. Where creatures were able to relax and intermingle. Even vampires, though he did not spy the masses his men had encountered.

Crowds of Sirens, centaurs, cyclops, griffins, and female dragons ventured from shops and strolled the streets as merchants peddled their wares. Several female nymphs frolicked in a nearby waterfall. How happy they appeared, how carefree.

He craved that same peace for himself.

With a growl, he pushed himself from the ledge and paced to the edge of the table, where he gripped the end with so much force the fire resistant wood-stone snapped. He had to get himself under control before he approached the woman—Grace—again. There were too many emotions churning inside him: desire, tenderness, fury.

He stabbed and pounded at the tenderness; he kicked and shoved at the desire. They proved most resilient, hanging on to him with a viselike grip. The lushness of her beauty could charm the strongest of warriors from his vows.

By the gods, if he experienced these sensations simply from holding her wrists, from gazing into her vibrant eyes, what would he feel if he actually palmed her full, lush breasts? What would he feel if he actually parted her luscious thighs and sank the thickness of his erection inside her? His tormented moan became a roar and echoed from the crystal above. Were he ever to have that woman naked and under him—he might perish from an overload of sensation.

He almost laughed. He, a bloodthirsty warrior who was thought to possess no heart and had felt nothing more than detached acceptance for three hundred years, was agonizing over one small woman. If only he hadn’t smelled her sweetness, a subtle fragrance of flowers and sunshine. If only he hadn’t caressed the silkiness of her skin.

If only he didn’t want more.

What was it about her that defeated centuries of safeguards? he wondered. If he figured out the answer to that, he could easily resist her.

Fight, man. Fight against her enchantment. Where is your legendary discipline?

With an almost brutal slash, he jerked a shirt from one of the wall hooks. He pulled the black material over his head, covering both of the medallions he wore. The etchings at the bottom of the one Grace had worn flashed before his mind, and in a sudden burst of clarity he placed the stolen medallion with its owner. Javar, his former tutor.

Darius frowned. How had Javar lost such a precious treasure? Did Grace’s brother wield some strange power that allowed him to slip through the mist, fight Javar and win the sacred chain? Surely not, for Javar would have come to Darius for aid—if he still lived, his mind added.

Darius had spoken to his former tutor by messenger only a month ago. All had seemed well. But he knew better than anyone that a life could change in the space of a single heartbeat.

“You have to do something, Darius,” Brand growled, flying into the room. The long length of his opalescent wings stretched to fill the doorway. Without a pause in their glide, his clawed feet smoothly touched the ground. He began striding closer. His sharp, lethal fangs were bared in an ominous scowl, a beacon of white against his scales.

Darius gave his friend a hard stare, careful to withdraw all emotion from his features. By word or deed, he refused to let any of his men know just how precariously he clung to his control. They would ask questions, questions he did not want to answer. Questions he honestly had no answers for.

“I will not speak with you until you calm down,” he said. He crossed his arms over the width of his chest and waited.

Brand drew in a deep breath, then another, and very slowly his dragon form receded, revealing a bronzed chest and human features. His fangs retracted. The cut on his cheek had already healed, a courtesy of his regenerative blood. Darius fingered the scar on his own cheek. He’d acquired the injury from the nymph king years ago during battle and he’d never understood why he’d been left with such a mark.

“You have to do something,” Brand repeated more calmly. He claimed the only clothes left on the hooks and tugged them on. “We’re ready to kill each other.”

Darius had met Brand not long after he’d moved into the palace. They’d both been young, barely more than hatchlings, and both their families had been slain during the human raid. From the beginning, he and Brand had shared a bond. Brand had always laughed and talked with him, made sure he was invited to participate in every dragon activity. While Darius had declined—even then he had kept himself a strict mental distance from others—he’d found companionship with Brand, found someone to listen to and trust.

“Blame your silly game,” Darius said with a slight growl, reminded of the previous antics, “not me.”

The corners of Brand’s lips suddenly stretched to full capacity. “Emotions from you already? I’ll take that to mean you want my head on a platter.”

“Your head will do…to start.” Forcing himself to appear relaxed, he clasped a chair and eased down backward. He rested his forearms against the velvet-trimmed back. “What caused you to transform this time?”

“Boredom and monotony,” came his friend’s dry tone. “We tried to begin the first round of a tournament, but couldn’t stop fighting long enough. We’re on the verge of complete madness.”

“You deserve to be driven mad after the chaos you caused earlier.”

Brand’s smile renewed. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Darius. You should be thanking me, not threatening me.”

He scowled.

Brows arched, Brand said, “Don’t tell me I’m about to win the wager. Not when there is no one here to witness my victory.”

His scowl intensified. “Other than the game, what can I do to help ease this boredom?”

“Will you reconsider bringing us women?”

“No,” he quickly answered. Grace’s lovely face glimmered in his mind, and his lower abdomen contracted tightly. There would be no more women in his palace. Not when such a tiny one as Grace caused this type of reaction in him.

Brand did not seem to notice his disconcertment. “Then let us play our game. Let us try to make you laugh.”

“Or rage?”

“Yes, even that. It is long past time someone broke through your barriers.”

He shook his head. Someone already had, and he hated it. “I’m sorry, but my answer remains the same.”

“Every year I watch you grow a little more distant. A little more cold. The game is more for your benefit than it is for ours.”

With the fluidity inherent to all dragons, Darius shifted to his feet, causing the chair to glide forward. He did not need this now, not when he struggled so fiercely for control. One grin and he might crumble. One tear and he might fall. One scream and his deepest agonies might be unleashed. Oh, yes. He knew if ever the day came that he lost total control, he would be destroyed in a maelstrom of emotion.

“I am this way for a reason, Brand. Were I to open a door to my emotions, I would not be able to do my duty. Is that something you truly desire?”

Brand tangled a hand roughly through his braids. “You are my friend. While I understand the importance of what you do, I also wish you to find contentment. And to do so, something needs to change in your life.”

“No,” he said firmly. When Grace had stepped through that portal, his life had changed irrevocably—and not for the better. No, he needed no more change. “I happen to embrace monotony.”

Realizing that argument held no sway, Brand changed his tactics. “The men are different from you, then. I am different. We need something to occupy our minds.”

“My answer is still no.”

“We need excitement and challenge,” Brand persisted. “We yearn to discover what the vampires are up to, and yet we are forced to stay here and train.”

“No.”

“No, no, no. How I weary of the word.”

“Yet you must make peace with it, for it is the only one I can offer you.”

Brand stepped to the table, casually running his finger over the surface. “I hate to threaten you, and you know I would not do so if I felt there were any other way,” he added quickly. “But if you do not allow us something, Darius, chaos will reign supreme in your home. We will continue to fight at the least provocation. We will continue to disrupt the meals. We will continue—”

“You have made your point.” Darius saw the truth to his friend’s words and sighed. If he did not relent in some way, he would know no peace. “Tell the men I will allow them to finish their wager, if they swear a blood oath to stay away from my chambers.” His eyes narrowed and locked on to Brand. “But mark my words. If one—just one man—approaches my private rooms without my express permission, he will spend the next month chained to the bastion.”

Brand’s chin tilted to the side, and his golden gaze became piercing. Silence thickened around them as curiosity tightened his features. Darius had never barred anyone from his chambers before. His men had always been welcome to come to him with their troubles. That he withdrew that welcome now must seem odd.

He offered no explanation.

Wisely Brand asked no questions. He nodded. “Agreed,” he said, giving Darius a friendly slap on the shoulder. “I believe you will see a remarkable change in everyone.”

Yes, but would the change be for the better? “Before you reenter the training arena,” Darius said, “send a messenger to Javar’s holding. I desire a meeting.”

“Consider it done.” With a happy swagger to his step, Brand strode from the room as quickly as he had entered.

Alone once more, Darius allowed his gaze to focus on the staircase and climb upward toward his rooms. An insidious need to touch Grace’s silky skin wove a tangled web through his body, just as potent as if she were sitting in his lap.

Brand had spoken of the men going mad, but it was Darius himself who was in danger of madness. He pushed a hand through his hair. Leaving Grace had not helped him in any way; the image of her atop his bed refused to leave his mind. He realized he was as calm as he would ever be where that woman was concerned. Which meant not calm at all. Best to deal with her now, before his craving for her increased.

Stroking the two medallions he wore, he followed the path his gaze had taken until he stood poised at the doorway. She would give him the answers he wanted, he thought determinedly, and he would act as a Guardian. Not a man, not a beast. But a Guardian.

Resolved, he released the medallions and the doors opened.

Chapter Five

NO HINGES SQUEAKED. In fact, not a single sound emerged. Yet one moment the bedroom doors were closed and the next, the two panels were sliding open.

Grace stood to the left, unseen and hidden by the shadows cast by the thick ivory. When Darius stepped past her, his feet tangled in the sheet—aka trip cord.

He propelled forward with a grunt.

The moment he hit the ground, Grace jumped onto his back, using it as a springboard, and raced into the hall. Her head whipped from side to side as she searched for the right direction. Neither appeared better than the other, so she ran. She didn’t get far before strong male hands latched on to her forearms and jerked her to a halt. Suddenly she was heaved onto Darius’s shoulder, too shocked to protest as she was carried back to his room. Once there, he slid her down his body. She stilled, feeling the buttery softness of his shirt and the heat of his skin past her clothes. Their bodies were so close she even felt the ripple of his muscles.

Without releasing her, he somehow caused the doors to slam together, blocking her only exit. She watched, her gaze widening. Breath froze in her lungs as failure loomed around her. No. No! In a mere two seconds, he’d snatched away her best chance for freedom.

“You will not be leaving this place,” he said without a hint of anger, only determination. And regret? “Why are you not in my bed, woman?”

Overwhelmed by her failure, she whispered, “What do you plan to do with me?”

Silence.

“What do you plan to do with me?” she cried.

“I know what I should do,” he said, his voice now a low growl that vibrated with anger, “but I do not yet know what I will do.”

“I have friends,” she said. “Family. They’ll never rest until they find me. Hurting me will only earn you their wrath.”

There was a concentrated hesitation, then, “And what if I do not hurt you?” he asked so softly she barely heard him. “What if I only offer you pleasure?”

Had the callused surface of his palms not brushed her forearms, she might have been frightened by his words. Now she was oddly enthralled. Every fantasy she’d ever created rushed through her mind. Naked, writhing bodies—on the floor, against a wall, inside an airplane. Her cheeks fused with heat. What if I only offer you pleasure? She didn’t answer him. Couldn’t.

He answered for her. “No matter what I offer you, there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it.” His voice hardened, losing its sensual edge. “You are in my home, in my personal chambers, and I will do whatever I want. No matter what you say.”

With such a dire warning ringing in her ears, she snapped from whatever spell he’d woven and called upon her terrorist training from flight school. SING, she inwardly chanted. Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin. Spinning, she elbowed him in the solar plexus, then slammed her foot into his instep. She swung back around and shoved her fist into his cold, unemotional face. Her knuckles collided with his cheek instead of his nose, and she cried out in pain.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even bother to grab her wrist to prevent her from doing it again.

So she did.

She drew back her other arm and let it fly. On impact, she experienced a repeat of the first punch. Throbbing pain for her, smug amusement for him. No, not amusement, she realized. The blue of his eyes was too cold and hollow to hold any type of emotion.

He arched a brow. “Fighting me will only cause you hurt.”

Her gaze slitted, incredulous, clashing with his. After everything she’d endured these past two days, Grace’s temper and frustration erupted full force. “What about you?” She jerked her knee up, hard and fast, gaining a direct hit between his legs. Groin: the last section of her training.

A slight breath whooshed from his lips as he hunched over and squeezed his eyes shut.

She raced to the door and began clawing at the seam. “Open, damn you,” she railed at the exit. “Please. Just open.”

“You do not look capable of such a deed,” Darius said, his voice strained. “But I will not underestimate you again.”

She never heard him move, but suddenly he was there, his arms braced next to her temples, his hot breath on her neck. She didn’t try to fight him this time. What good would that do? He’d already proved he did not react (much) to physical pain.

“Please,” she said. “Just let me go.” Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. From fear, she assured herself, not from the sensual strength of his body so close to her own.

“I cannot.”

“Yes, you can.” She twisted, facing him, and shoved him backward. The impact, though slight, caused him to trip once more on the sheet. He took her down with him and when he hit, he rolled them over and pinned her.

Automatically she reached up to push him away from her. But her fingers caught in his shirt, causing the neckline to gape. Both of the medallions he wore sprang free and one of them plopped against her nose. She gasped. Which one belonged to Alex? The one with the glowing eyes?

What did it matter? she thought then. She’d come here with a medallion, and she was leaving with one.

Determination thudded like a drum inside her chest. To distract him, she screamed with all the power her lungs allowed. She flailed her legs and wrapped her sore hands around his neck, as if she meant to choke him. She hurriedly worked one of the clasps, and when she felt it unlatch, she jerked her hands down and shoved the chain into her pocket. She gave another ear-piercing scream to cover her satisfaction.

“Calm down,” he said, his features pinched.

“Bite me.” She screamed again.

When she quieted, he said, “I would be most upset if you damaged my ears.”

Upset? He would be most upset. Not infuriated, not lost in a rage. Simply mildly upset. Somehow, with this man, that seemed all the more frightening than out-of-control fury. With a deep, shuddering breath, she relaxed into the floor. After all, she had what she wanted, and fighting him did nothing more than press their bodies together, as he was fond of reminding her.

His brows winged up, and he blinked, broadcasting his shock at her easy compliance.

“That easily?” he asked, suspicious.

“I know when I’m beaten.”

Darius used her stillness to his advantage and allowed more of his muscled weight to settle atop her. He braced her wrists above her head—something he obviously liked to do, since it was the third time he’d done it to her—causing her back to arch and her breasts to lift for his view.

“You wish for me to bite you?” he asked, dead serious.

Briefly she experienced confusion. Then she realized what he meant. Oh, my God. She had told him to bite her. Something dark and hot twisted in her stomach, something she had no business feeling for this man. An image of his straight white teeth sinking into her body and taking a little nibble filled her line of vision. Erotic and sexual; except…

If he were a vampire, she’d just given him an open invitation to make her his next meal.

“I didn’t mean it literally,” she managed to squeak out. “It’s just a figure of speech.” With barely a pause, she added, “Please. Get off me.” He smelled so good, so masculine, like the sun, the earth and the sea, and she was sucking in great gulps of that scent as if it were the key to her survival. He was beyond dangerous. “Please,” she said again.

“Too much do I like where I am.”

Those words echoed in her mind with such clarity her body offered a reply: I like where you are, too. She ran her teeth over her bottom lip. How did he do this? How did he make her feel strangely captivated and oddly entranced, yet fearful at the same time? He was quite possibly a bloodsucking vampire. He was also so sexy he made her mouth water. Made her ache in places she’d thought dead from disuse. Made her crave and fantasize and hunger.

Get a hold of yourself, Grace. Only an idiot would lust after a man of questionable origins and even more questionable motives.

What did he want from her? She studied his face, but found no hint of his intentions. His features were completely blank. Her gaze probed deeper, taking in the scar that slashed down his cheek, raised and puckered, interrupting the flow of his dark eyebrows. This close, she noticed the slant to his nose, as if it had been broken one too many times.

He was darkly seductive. Dangerous, her mind repeated.

That’s it, she realized reproachfully. That’s why I’m so attracted to him. I’m a danger junkie.

“What did you do to your hands, woman?” he suddenly demanded. His features were no longer blank, but projected a fierceness that was beyond intimidating.

“If I tell you,” she said, faltering in the face of that severity, “will you let me go?”

His eyes narrowed, and he brought one of her palms to his mouth. Heated lips seared her flesh before the tip of his tongue flicked out, licking and laving the wounds. Electric currents raced through her arm, and she almost experienced an orgasm right then and there.

“Why are you doing that?” she asked on a breathless moan. Whatever the reason, his actions were utterly suggestive, endearingly sweet, and she gasped at the deliciousness of it. “Stop.” But even as she spoke, she prayed he didn’t heed her command. Her skin was growing increasingly warm, her nerve-endings increasingly sensitive. A drugging languor floated through her, and God help her, she wanted that tongue to delve further, to explore deeper territory.

“My saliva will heal you,” he said, his voice still fierce. But it was a different kind of fierce. More strained, more heated, less angry. “What did you do to your hands?” he asked again.

“I climbed the walls.”

He paused. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“I was trying to escape.”

“Foolish,” he muttered. One of his knees wedged between the juncture of her thighs. The ache in her belly intensified as their legs intertwined.

He exchanged one hand for the other, swirling his tongue along the peaks and hollows, making her aware of all sorts of erotic things. The way his eyes flickered from ice-blue to golden-brown. The way his soft, silky hair fell over his shoulders and tickled her skin.

If he planned to hurt or kill her, surely he wouldn’t concern himself with her comfort like this. Surely he would not—

He sucked one of her fingers into his mouth. She moaned and gasped his name. He whorled his tongue around the base. This time, she moaned incoherently and arched up, meshing her nipples into his chest and creating a delicious friction.

“That is better,” he said roughly.

Her eyelids fluttered open. His expression taut, he held her hands up for her view. Not a single blemish appeared on the healthy, pink skin.

“But—but—” Confusion overshadowed her pleasure. How was that possible? How was any of this possible? “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing.”

He could have left her sore and bruised, a punishment for trying to escape, but he hadn’t. She didn’t understand this man. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He nodded, the action stiff. “You are welcome.”

“Will you let me up now?” she asked, dreading—anticipating?—his response.

“No.” He placed her left palm at her side, but held firm to the right. His fingers continued to caress and trace every line, as if he couldn’t stand to break contact. “What did your brother plan to do with the medallion?”

Briefly she considered lying, anything to stop the flood of conflicting desires running rampant. Then, just as briefly, she considered not answering him at all. She knew instinctively, however, that he would not tolerate either from her and that would merely prolong their contact. So she found herself saying, “We’ve been over this before, and I still don’t know. Maybe he wanted to sell it on eBay. Maybe he wanted to keep it for himself, for his private collection.”

Darius’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. Explain to me this eBay.”

As she expounded on the concept of the online auction, he glowered furiously.

“Why would he do such a thing?” Darius asked, genuinely perplexed. “Selling such an item to a stranger is the epitome of foolishness.”

“Where I’m from, people need money to survive. And one way to make money is to sell our possessions.”

“We need money here, too, yet we would never barter our most prized possessions. Is your brother too lazy to work for his dinner?”

“I’ll have you know he works very hard. And I didn’t say he was going to sell it. Only that he might. He’s an auction addict.”

Darius expelled a sigh and finally released her hand, bracing his palms on either side of her head. “If you mean to confuse me, you are doing a fine job. Why would your brother give you the medallion if he had any desire to sell it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Why do you care?”

In stalwart silence, he watched her, looked past her, then watched her again, his dark thoughts churning behind his eyes. Instead of answering her, he said, “You claim to know nothing, Grace, yet you found the mist. You traveled through. You must know something more, something you haven’t told me.”

“I know I didn’t mean to enter your domain.” The faintness of her voice drifted between them. “I know I don’t want to be hurt. And I know I want to go home. I just want to go home.”

When his features hardened dangerously, she replayed her words through her mind. What could she have possibly said to have such an ominous effect on him?

“Why?” he demanded, the single word lashing from him.

She crinkled her forehead and gazed up at him. “Now you are confusing me.”

“Is there a man waiting for you?”

“No.” What did that have to do with anything? Unless…surely he wasn’t jealous. The prospect amazed her. She was not the kind of woman to inspire any kind of strong emotion in a man. Not lightning-hot lust and certainly not jealousy. “I miss my mom and my aunt, Darius. I miss my brother and my apartment. My furniture. My dad made all of it before he died.”

Darius relaxed. “You asked me why I care about the medallion. I do so for my home,” he said. “I will do anything to protect it, just as you will do anything to return to yours.”

“How can my owning the medallion hurt your home?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Nor do you need to,” he replied. “Where is your brother now?”

Her eyes narrowed, and her chin raised in another show of defiance. “I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.”

“I respect your loyalty, and even admire it, but it is to your benefit to tell me whether he traveled through the mist or not.”

“I told you this before. I don’t know.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” he said. “What does he look like?”

Pure stubbornness melded the blue and green of her eyes together, creating a churning sea of turquoise. Her lips pursed. Darius could tell she had no plans to answer him.

“This way I can know if I have already killed him,” he prompted, though he wasn’t sure he would recognize any of his victims if he ever saw them again. Killing was second nature to him, and he barely glanced at them anymore.

“Already—Killed him?” She uttered a strangled gasp. “He’s a little over six foot. Red hair. Green eyes.”

Since Darius had not seen colors before Grace, the description she’d just given meant nothing. “Does he have any distinguishing marks?”

“I—I—” As she struggled to form her reply, a tremor raked her spine and vibrated into him. Her eyes filled with tears. A lone droplet trickled onto her cheek.

His arm muscles constricted as he fought the need to wipe the moisture away. He watched it glide slowly and fall onto her collarbone. Her skin was pale, he noticed, too pale.

The woman was deathly afraid.

The clamor of his conscience—something he’d thought long expired—filled his head. He’d threatened this woman, locked her inside a strange room, and fought her to the ground, yet she had retained her fierce spirit. The concept of her brother’s death was breaking her as nothing else had been able.

There was a good chance, a very good chance, he had killed her brother. How would she react then? Would those sea-eyes of hers regard him with hatred? Would she vow to spill his blood in vengeance?

“Does he have any distinguishing marks?” Darius asked her again, almost fearing her reply.

“He wears glasses.” Her lips and chin trembled. “They’re wire-rimmed because he thinks they make him look dig-dignified.”

“I know not what these glasses are. Explain.”

“Cl-clear, round o-orbs for the eyes.” Her trembling had increased so much she had trouble forming her words.

He pushed out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “A man wearing glasses has not entered the mist.” He knew this because he would have found the glasses after the head rolled to the ground—and he hadn’t. “Your brother is safe.” He didn’t mention there was a chance Alex could have entered the other portal. Javar’s portal.

Grace began to cry in great sobbing howls of relief. “I hadn’t wanted to think of the possibility…and when you said…I was so afraid.”

Perhaps he should have left her alone just then, but the relief radiating from her acted as an invisible shackle. He couldn’t move, didn’t want to move. He was jealous that she felt this strongly for another man, no matter that the man was her brother. More than the jealousy, however, he felt possessive. And more than the possessiveness, he felt the need to comfort. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and surround her with his strength, his scent. Wanted her branded by him.

How foolish, he thought darkly.

The love she possessed for her brother was the same he had felt for his sisters. He would have fought to the death to protect them. He would have…His lips curled in a snarl, and he banished that line of thought to a hidden corner of his mind.

Grace pressed her lips together but another sob burst free.

“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.”

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