Heart Of The Dragon. Gena Showalter
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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