Heart of the Dragon (7 page)

“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 some
thing 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.”

He buried one hand in her hair, luxuriating in the softness. His other hand traveled down her shoulder, down the slope of her breast, her ribs and over her thigh. She quivered, tightening her legs around his waist. He brought his hand back up and did it all over again. She purred low in her throat.

He wondered what she looked like just then, and wanted to see her eyes as he took his time with her, as he pleasured her in a way he’d never done with another woman. The concept of watching her,
seeing
her take her pleasure, was as foreign as his desire to taste her, but the need was there. He tore himself away from her mouth, breaking the kiss—surely the most difficult task he’d ever performed—and lifted slightly.

His exhalations came shallow and fast, and as he gazed down at her, his jaw clenched. Her eyes were closed, her swollen lips parted. The fiery red of her
tresses was an erotically tousled mass around her face. Her cheeks glowed a rosy-pink, and the freckles on her nose seemed darker, more exotic.

She wanted him as desperately as he wanted her. His shaft hardened dangerously with the knowledge. She probably felt the same hopeless fascination and undeniable tug that he did. A tug he didn’t understand. His soul was too black, hers too light. They should despise each other. They should have desired distance.

He should have desired her death.

He didn’t.

She slowly opened her eyes. The delicate tip of her tongue darted out and traced her lips, leaving a glistening trail of moisture. How soft and fragile she was. How utterly beautiful.

“I’m not ready for you to stop,” she said with a seductive smile.

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His vocal cords suddenly seized as something constricted in his chest, something arctic and scorching at the same time. Affection.
I should not have kissed her.
He jerked up and onto his knees, straddling her hips.

How could he have allowed something like this to happen, knowing he had to destroy her?

He
was the one who deserved death.

“Darius?” she said questioningly.

Guilt perched heavily on his shoulders, but he fought past it. He always fought past it. He could not allow even guilt in his life if he hoped to survive.

As he continued to watch her, her expression turned to confusion and she gingerly lifted to her
elbows. Those long, red curls cascaded down her shoulders in sensual disarray, touching her in all the places he yearned to touch. Her shirt gaped open over one creamy shoulder.

Silence thickened between them. Smiling bitterly, he wet the tips of two fingers and traced the lushness of her lips, letting the healing qualities of his saliva ease the puffiness and erase the evidence of his possession. She surprised him by sucking his fingers into her mouth just as he’d done to her earlier. Feeling the hot tip of her tongue caused his every muscle to bunch in expectation. He hissed in a breath and tugged his fingers away.

“Darius?” she said, her confusion growing.

He’d come here to question her, but the moment he’d seen her, touched her,
tasted
her, those questions had fled. Yes, he’d managed to ask her one or two, but the need to capture a glimmer of her innocent flavor had been so fierce he’d soon forgotten his purpose.

He’d forgotten Javar. He’d forgotten Atlantis.

He would not forget again.

If only he could prove her duplicitous, he could kill her now without a qualm, then rip her image from his mind. As it was, he wasn’t sure he could force himself to even chip one of her pink oval-shaped nails. The thought unnerved him, battered against him, and filled him with the urge to howl at the gods. Failure to act against her would mean breaking his vow and surrendering his honor. But
hurting her would mean obliterating the last shreds of his humanity.

Gods, what was he going to do?

He felt shredded as he lunged to his feet. A cold sweat popped on to his brow, and it required all of his strength to spin and stalk to the door. There, he paused. “Do not attempt to escape again,” he said, not glancing back at her. If he faced her, he might lose the strength required to leave her. “You will not like what happens if you do.”

“Where are you going? When will you be back?”