Forbidden Craving: The Nymph King / The Beautiful Ashes. Gena Showalter
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for anything more than a nap.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. Though Joachim was hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, his head was tilted to the side as he gazed up at Valerian with undeniable sparks of fury.
What was his cousin angry about now?
“Line up,” Valerian commanded the entire group. “Now.” The sharpness of his voice finally snagged everyone’s attention.
The men stumbled into a clumsy zigzag formation. What he saw? Skin stretched tight with strain, shaky grips and unsteady legs. At this rate, Valerian would be the only one to offer any sort of resistance if the dragons attacked. And the dragons would attack. Darius the Heartless, their exalted king, wasn’t known for his forgiving nature.
“I need you ready for action.” His hands fisted at his sides. Defeat wasn’t something he allowed. Ever.
A warrior won. Always. Without exception.
Broderick sighed and scrubbed a hand down his grim features. “We need sex, Valerian, and we need it now.”
“I know.” He considered his options. There were few.
Possibility number one: he could send a handful of soldiers into the Outer City a few miles away. Sirens—women who seduced with their voices—lived there, and they could be convinced to move into the fortress.
First problem: sirens sided with dragons, and they could strike the nymphs while they were weak.
Second problem: sirens usually killed those they bedded, an impulse as fierce as a nymph’s need for sex.
Third problem: since the march to the fortress, the females of Atlantis had avoided nymphs as if they came with a side of plague.
Word had spread. Give yourself to a nymph, and you lose yourself to his dark, sexual hunger.
Possibility number two: rethink possibility number one.
“You’ve been with humans,” Dorian said. “I can smell them on you, and it’s destroying my ability to concentrate.” With his obsidian hair, godlike features and mischievous sense of humor, women of every race usually flocked to him. There was nothing mischievous about him right now; he radiated jealousy and resentment. “I almost—almost—want to have my wicked way with you.”
Guilt consumed Valerian. He’d taken care of his needs while neglecting those of his men. He had to make this right.
There was a third possibility: entering uncharted territory. Why the previous owner of the palace hadn’t thought of it, Valerian wasn’t sure and didn’t care.
No risk, no reward.
He studied his men. They were a range of heights and colors, from the palest ivory to the darkest onyx. Some were cut with muscle while others were stacked.
“I found the portal into the human world,” he said, bracing his hands behind his back. “A small group of us can venture there and convince whatever females we find to return to Atlantis with us.”
A chorus of “Yes” immediately erupted. Smiles abounded.
“Thank you, great king.” A beaming Shivawn patted the shoulder of the man beside him.
“We can’t stay long.” Not with dragons foaming-at-the-mouth eager to reclaim the fortress.
“Perhaps I’ll find my mate,” someone called.
Everyone cheered.
Valerian nodded in agreement. When a nymph mated, he mated for life, no matter his age or circumstances. His body would never crave another; his heart would beat only for one. The one.
The very idea should have been terrifying to him. But just like the other warriors, Valerian wanted his mate more than he wanted...anything.
His twin brother had died years ago, leaving a hollow ache in his chest. An ache he prayed his mate would fill. He’d searched for her. For centuries. No stone in Atlantis had been left unturned. Eventually he’d begun to despair. What if I don’t have a mate?
I do. I must.
He wouldn’t give up hope.
His father had told him a nymph would know his “one” the moment he scented her, and she would, in turn, recognize him, choosing him above all others.
“I’ll lead five of you to the surface.” Valerian wondered what kind of world waited on the other side of the portal. Dangerous, no doubt. “We’ll go in, find as many women as possible as fast as possible and return with those who wish to follow us.”
Joachim’s dark brows knit. “Why don’t we simply take the women we want? Why must we give them a choice?”
“We aren’t dragons.” In other words, they weren’t barbarians.
“Well. My ravishment of you can be postponed, it seems.” The dryness of Dorian’s tone failed to mask his excitement.
Broderick frowned. “What if human females want nothing to do with us?”
Laughter erupted.
Grinning, Valerian patted him on the shoulder. “Good one.”
Broderick’s frown melted, revealing a smile. He snickered. “I thought so.”
“How will we decide who beds whom?” Shivawn asked.
“My elite will go first, from the highest ranked to the lowest.” The elite had fought in more wars, were stronger, faster and needed sex more than an average solider. “I have no need to choose, of course.”
Broderick rubbed his hands together. “How soon can we leave?”
There was no reason to wait and every reason to hurry. “We leave now.”
A BAREFOOT BAY destination wedding. Complete with a wide expanse of glistening beach, crashing cerulean waves, a magical pink-gold sunset and a warm, sultry breeze. White rose petals formed a line along the fine-grained sand; as the wind blew, a few of those petals danced and twirled away. The couple even now pledging their undying love stared deeply into each other’s eyes, their hands clutched tightly, their lips parted in expectation of the coming kiss.
They presented a beautiful sight—but Shaye Holling only wanted to gag.
However, she maintained her smile, brittle though it was, and fought the urge to adjust her ill-fitting seashell bikini top. The grass skirt itched her calves.
The more horrid-looking the bridesmaids, the more exquisite the bride, eh?
Thanks, Mom.
Yep. Her mother was the bride.
Shaye shifted uncomfortably, her shoulders burning. She’d been standing in the sunlight for only half an hour, but her ultrapale skin had already turned a lovely shade of lobster red.
In fact, the richly dressed crowd of onlookers no longer eyed the bride and groom. Instead, they stared at Shaye.
And why not? Red skin. White hair. Brown eyes. Blue seashells. Green skirt. I’m a freaking rainbow.
She shifted again and dang it, her seashells dipped, forcing her to adjust.
Silver lining: a new idea for her business, Anti-Cards, popped into her mind.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Because of you, I found religion. I finally believe in hell.
She sighed. Her mother’s long silvery-white hair—so like Shaye’s own—waved down her back, a perfect mimic of the creamy satin slip dress billowing at her ankles. Nowhere was there a woman more gorgeous than Tamara soon-to-be Waddell. No one more surgically enhanced. No one else who went through men like sexual Kleenex.
Okay.