Heart of the Dragon (4 page)

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.

D
ARIUS 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, unmoving. 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.