Atlantis - Heart Of The Dragon Part 7

For that one moment in his arms, she'd finally felt whole and she hadn't wanted the feeling to end.

This hunger he awakened inside her... it was too intense to be real, but too real to be denied.

Beneath his cold, untouchable mask, she'd thought she had seen a fire blazing inside him, a tender fire that licked sweetly rather than devoured needlessly. When he'd gazed down at her so carnally and said, "I want to kiss you," she'd been so sure the fire was there, simmering under the surface of his skin.

Her long repressed hormones cried out whenever he was near, a.s.suring her that any intimate contact with him would be wild and wicked. The kind she'd fantasized about for years now. The kind she read about in romance novels, then lay in bed, wishing a man was beside her.

Enough! You need to find a way out of here. Forget about Darius and his kisses.

Though her body protested something so sacrilegious, forgetting such an earth-shattering experience, Grace pushed the kiss to the back of her mind then dug the medallion from her pocket and anch.o.r.ed it around her neck, where it belonged. Ha! Take that Darius.She vaulted to her feet and spun in a circle, hoping that by searching the chamber this second time, she'd find a way out. A hidden latch, a sensor, something. When she saw only the same jagged walls, with no break in the pattern, she cursed under her breath. How did Darius enter and exit without so much as a word or touch?

Magic, most likely.

She blinked in surprise at the ease with which she entertained such a concept. Magic. Yesterday she would have committed anyone who claimed magic spells were real to a psych ward. Now, she knew better. She could speak a language she'd never learned.

Not possessing any magic of her own, she decided to ram into the door with her shoulder. She prayed she didn't break a bone as she girded herself for impact.

One breath, two. She rushed forward.

She never hit.

The door slid right open.

She nearly tripped over her own feet but managed to slow her momentum. When she stopped, she glared over at the door. If she didn't know better, she'd swear it was alive and purposefully tormenting her. There had been no reason for it to open this time. No reason except the medallion... Her eyes widened and she fingered the warm, ridged alloy at her neck. Of course. It had to be some sort of pa.s.skey, like a motion detector. That explained why Darius hadn't wanted her to have it.

I can escape, she thought excitedly. She surveyed her new surroundings. She wasn't in the hallway she'd expected. She was in some type of bathing room. There was a lavender chaise longue piled high with beaded, satin pillows; a large glistening pool rested inside a stone ledge. Towering, twisted columns. Multiple layers of sheer fabric hung from the ceiling. A decorator's dream.

In each of the three corners was an archway leading off somewhere. Grace debated which direction to take. Sucking in a deep breath, she raced through the center route. Her legs ate up the distance as she pumped her arms. The walls consisted of one jewel stacked upon another. From ruby to sapphire, topaz to emerald, the gems were interspersed with weblike gold filigree.

There were enough riches in this one little hallway to feed an entire country. Even the least avaricious of people would have trouble resisting such allure. That was exactly what Darius guarded against, she realized, the greed of modern day society.

Exactly why he killed.

With all of this obvious wealth, she expected servants or guards, but she remained alone as she ran and ran and ran. A light at the end of the hallway caught her eye-and no, she didn't miss the irony of that. Huffing from exertion, she headed straight into the light. She may not have an exciting life to get back to, but at least she had a life. She had her mother, her aunt Sophie and Alex. Here she had only fear.

And Darius's kisses.

She scowled, not liking the heady thrill she received from the remembrance of his lips against hers, of his tongue invading her mouth oh, so sweetly. Of his body pressing into hers.

Lost yet again in the memory of such a soul-searing kiss, she didn't hear the frenzied male voices until it was too late. A table of weapons whizzed past before Grace spurted to a halt. Sand flicked around her ankles. Her mouth dropped open, as did the pit of her stomach.

Oh, my G.o.d.

She'd escaped Darius only to throw herself at six other warriors just like him.

CHAPTER SIX

Grace stood at the edge of a huge arena of white stone and marble that resembled a restored Roman coliseum. Only the ceiling marred the illusion, boasting the same sea-covered crystal dome that comprised the rest of the... building? Castle?

Wide and long, the arena spanned the length of a football field. The air was scented with sweat and dirt, courtesy of the six men brandishing swords and basically trying to annihilate each other. Their grunts and groans blended with the cringe-worthy clang of metal. They had yet to notice her.

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she whipped around, intent on running back down the corridor. When she spied yet another warrior, this one just entering the far end, she scooted to the side, out of sight. Had he seen her? She didn't know; she only knew the nearest exit was blocked. The nearest exit was blocked!

"Calm down," she whispered. She'd wait two minutes. Surely the hallway would be clear by then; surely for such a short amount of time she could stay right here and remain unnoticed. Then she'd escape. Simple. Easy.

Please let it be simple and easy.

"Who taught you to fight, Kendrick?" one man snarled. He was the tallest man present, with broad shoulders and ropelike muscles. His pale hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and the long length of it slapped his cheek as he shoved his opponent to the ground. "Your sister?"

The one called Kendrick jumped to his feet, sword raised in front of him. He wore the same black leather pants and black shirt as the others. He was obviously the youngest. "Perhaps it was your sister," he growled. "After I tumbled her, of course."

Grace's jaw dropped as green scales momentarily appeared on the first man's face. When she blinked, they were gone.

The tall blonde sheathed his sword and held out his hands. He motioned for Kendrick to approach him. "If I actually had a sister, I would kill you where you stand. Since I do not, I'm merely going to beat you senseless."

A man stepped between the two combatants. He had brown hair and surprisingly sad features. He was unarmed. "That's enough," he said. "We are friends here. Not enemies."

"Shut up, Renard." A boy only slightly older than Kendrick jumped into the argument. He pointed the tip of his sword at the sad one's chest. Wet strands of brown hair clung to his temples and framed the dragon tattoo that stretched up from his jawline. "It's time you and all the other lucifaeres learned you're not infallible."

Renard's golden eyes narrowed. "Remove the weapon, little hatchling, or I will gut you where you stand."

The "little hatchling's" face paled, and he did as commanded.

Grace inched backward a step. Breathe, she commanded herself. Just keep breathing. They were going to kill each other.

"Smart move," another male said. This one had strawberry-blond hair and a breathtakingly beautiful face, which thoroughly contrasted with the fact that he was polishing a two-p.r.o.nged hatchet. Dry amus.e.m.e.nt gleamed in his golden eyes. "Renard has killed men for less. I guess it helps that he knows exactly where to cut them, where to make them bleed and suffer for days at a time before finally, mercifully dying."

At his words, cold sweat beaded on Grace's forehead. She managed another inch backward.

"He's only trying to scare you," one of the younger boys gritted out. "Don't listen to him."

"I hope you kill each other." The heated phrase came from a black-haired warrior who slammed his weapon into the ground.

"G.o.ds know I'm tired of listening to all of your whining."

"Whining?" someone said. "That's rich coming from you, Tagart."

Kendrick chose that moment to launch himself at the large blonde. With a howl, the two men fell to the ground, fists flying.

Every other man present paused only a moment before throwing himself into the fray. Oddly enough, every one of them seemed to be smiling.

Grace cast a quick glance to the hall. Empty. Relief threatened to topple her. She kept her eyes on the combatants and moved another inch backward... then another... then another.

And backed herself right into the table of weapons.

In a sudden symphony of disharmony, the different metals clanged together and tottered to the floor.

Then... silence.

All six men stopped, whirled and faced her. In the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds, their b.l.o.o.d.y and bruised expressions registered shock, men happiness, then wicked hunger. Her breath snagged in her throat. She scrambled behind the table, specks of dirt flying about her shoes. A thin piece of wood would not stop these men, she knew, but she garnered a little courage with a barrier between them. She tried to lift a blade but it was too heavy.

A solid wall suddenly crowded her from behind. A very much alive, solid wall.

"Like to play with a man's sword, do you?"

Strong male arms wound around her waist-and they weren't Darius's. This man's skin was darker, his hands not quite as thick.

But more than that, he didn't cause the same wave of arousal that Darius stirred in her. This man's embrace caused only fear.

"Remove your hands this instant," she said calmly, mentally applauding herself. "Otherwise you'll regret it."

"Regret it, or keep loving it?"

"Who do you have there, Brand?" one of the warriors asked.

"Give me a moment to find out," her captor answered. His rough voice drew closer to her ear, becoming a suggestive rumble.

"What are you doing here, hmm?" he asked. "Women are not allowed in this palace, much less the training arena."

She gulped. "I-I-Darius is-"

He tensed against her. "Darius sent you?"

"Yes," she answered, praying such an admission would scare the man into freeing her. "Yes, he did."

A chuckle rumbled from him. "So he heeded my advice, after all. To keep us from teasing him, our leader sent us a wh.o.r.e. I never expected that. What's more, I never expected him to act so quickly."

Her mind only registered one portion of his speech. A wh.o.r.e? Wh.o.r.e! If they thought she was paid to have s.e.x with them, they'd most likely see any resistance on her part as a game. She shuddered."Excited already, little wh.o.r.e?" He chuckled again. "Me, too."

Applying the same technique she'd used on Darius, she jabbed her foot atop her captor's instep, then rammed her elbow into his stomach. He umphed and loosened his hold. She twisted, jerked back her fist and let it fly. Her knuckles collided with his jaw.

On impact, his chin snapped to the side, whipping his sandy-colored braids across his cheek. He howled and released her.

Free now, she attempted to run. The other warriors had already encircled her, however, halting any progress. Her heart stopped beating. Their bloodl.u.s.t seemed to have deserted them entirely-leaving only l.u.s.t.

One of them pointed at Brand. "I guess she doesn't like you, Brand." He laughed.

"I'm willing to bet she'll like me."

"None of us like you, Madox. Why would she?"

"Why don't you send her over here to me? I know how to treat a woman."

"Yes, but do you know how to eat one?"

They erupted in laughter.

Eat her? Good G.o.d. They were cannibals. They wanted her to wh.o.r.e for them and then become their evening snack. Worse and worse. A tremor shook her, trekking down her spine, then spreading over the rest of her body. Death by human banquet.

No, thank you.

Brand, the one who had grabbed her, rubbed his jaw and smiled at her with genuine amus.e.m.e.nt. "Did you bring any friends, little wh.o.r.e? I do not think I want to share you with the others."

As he spoke, "the others" began tightening the circle around her. She felt like a slab of beef at a barbecue for the starving.

Literally. All they needed to make the meal complete was a knife, a fork and an extra large bottle of easy-squeeze ketchup.

"I want her first," the warrior with the thickest shoulders said.

"You can't have her first. You owe me a favor, and I'm collecting. She's mine. You can have her when I'm done."

"Both of you can shut up," the most beautiful of the group said-the one who'd polished his hatchet. "I have a feeling the little wh.o.r.e will want me first. Women like this face of mine."

"No, I don't and no, you can't have me first," Grace announced. "No one can have me. I am not a wh.o.r.e!"

The man with the tattoo on his jaw grinned at her suggestively. "If you don't want to be our bedmate, you can be our meal."

She gasped, moving in circles to avoid their outstretched hands. Threaten them, scare them. "I taste sour," she rushed out.

"I've been known to cause major heartburn."

Their grins widened.

"Acid reflux is serious. It can cause cancer of the esophagus. It can erode your stomach lining!"

Closer, closer they came.

"I belong to Darius!" she rushed out next, grasping at any frenzied thought her mind produced.

Each of them ground to a halt."What did you say?" Brand asked, giving her a blistering frown.

She gulped. Perhaps claiming Darius as her lover hadn't been such a good idea. He could have a wife-why did she suddenly want to destroy something?-and these men could be said wife's brothers. "I, uh, said I belong to Darius?" The words flowed out as more of a question than a statement.

"That's impossible." Brand's frown became a vehement scowl, and his gaze bore into her, inspecting, taking her measure for a different scale than he'd previously used. "Our king would not claim a woman such as you for his own."

King? A woman such as her? Did they think she was good enough to eat for dinner, good enough to wh.o.r.e for them, but not good enough to belong to their precious leader, Darius? Well, that offended her on every level.

She couldn't be any more irrational, she knew, and blamed her overwrought emotions. They'd run the gamut today and were no longer hers to command. She'd always been emotional, but usually controlled her impulses.

"Is he married?" she demanded.

"No."