Heart Of The Dragon. Gena Showalter
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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