The Knife's Edge

Stephanie Draven

Copyright © 2011 Stephanie Draven

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Discover other titles by Stephanie Draven at www.stephaniedraven.com

THE KNIFE'S EDGE

A yearning for submission…

She's a queen on an uncertain throne; she cannot afford to indulge her sexual longings. She’s a woman in control who yearns to give herself over to the hands of another, even if it means reveling in illicit shame at the point of a blade.

A dark need for control…

He is a royal bastard intends to seize the throne, but two things stand in his way: the queen and her magical medallion. To kill his rival, he'll have to seduce her, but will he lose his heart in the bargain?

A passion that consumes them both…

Two lovers find that everything they thought they believed can change on the edge of a knife's blade. Betrayal can become trust. Hatred can become love. Submission transforms into a humbling gift that cannot be denied.

Chapter One

"Why is she still alive?" Junik asked, pushing his way into my chambers quite uninvited, yet with every expectation of being welcome.

Nobles were all the same that way. Bandying about their status and eager to sign death warrants, but rarely appreciating the skill, patience and fortitude it took to actually end someone's life.

"It is no simple thing to kill a queen," I said. Especially not a desirable one. "Even without guards and poison tasters, she still wears the medallion. It protects her better than any army."

The lord slithered into a chair, his mouth a nasty circle of contempt. "She must take the damned thing off sometime."

You must understand that the medallion was a sacred relic of our nation. The lord's way of speaking about it was sacrilege, and made me peevish. I might be a killer, but I was a patriot, after all. "She wears it to sleep and even to bathe."

A momentary image of my sovereign disrobing and stepping into a pool of warm water assaulted my senses. Her legs slick and glistening, her delicate hands working the soap between her thighs. Oh, to see such a thing with my own eyes...

It occurred to me that I had forgotten my manners. "Would you care for refreshments?"

The lord narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "No."

His mistrust was typical. I'd endured it my whole life, as all bastards must, but it still insulted me. Nonetheless, I took out two goblets and opened my best vintage. "Not even some wine?"

"I said no." Junik stacked coins on the table in precisely even little piles. "I've only come to get her papers. Do you have them?"

I felt the sharpness of the moment keenly—the dance on the knife's edge that preceded all life and death decisions. I loved that feeling, and the certain rush of power that came with it. I tossed him a carefully wrapped pouch of papers. "Here. Copies of the queen's recent correspondence. I'll kill her when she removes the medallion and no sooner."

"She must remove it when she takes a lover," Lord Junik suggested, tearing open the pouch. I watched his piggy fingers thumb through the sheaf of letters. "If it's true that the medallion knows and remembers everything it touches—even a slattern like Nestra wouldn't allow it to witness her fornications."

"The queen doesn't take lovers," I said, for I believed it to be true, no matter how much I wished otherwise.

Junik snorted. "She's notorious for it! It's the reason her husband left her."

"So her enemies say." I poured my wine and left Lord Junik's goblet empty as requested.

"You have some reputation with women, Dardanus," Junik snorted. "Seduce her yourself. Women are weak—easily wooed with flowers, poetry and song."

The drink in my cup seemed very dark indeed. "I doubt Queen Nestra would lower herself to lay with her bastard advisor."

Junik laughed. "Are you so base-born that you can't rise to the occasion? We can always find someone else up to the task."

"I didn't say I couldn't seduce her." The lord's mockery caused my temper to rise, any regrets extinguished. But Junik didn't seem to be paying attention. He was sweating and his eyes were glassy. "Are you feeling unwell, my lord?" I asked with great satisfaction.

He put his hand on his stomach. "Indigestion."

I coolly appraised the man's state. "It's poison, actually."

The lord's eyes flew wide. He reached for his empty goblet. "But I didn't drink—"

"It was the first scroll in the pouch I handed you," I said. "Contact poison."

Junik tried to get up, and couldn't. "You lie!"

"Often," I confessed. "Especially to those who have no faith in me anyway. But not today. The poison is fast acting; I'm not entirely without mercy. The pain will be over shortly."

Junik's cheeks puffed with the strain of his labored breathing. "You want the medallion for yourself, you want to rule, is that it, you vile Pretender?"

Ah, so he'd said it.

"Pretender, am I?" I asked, bringing my face close to his. "My blood is better than yours. Were it not for the accident of my birth, you'd have called me your king."

Lord Junik's eyes were closing, his breath rasping away. "I should have never trusted you."

I eyed the man's empty wine goblet and murmured, "My lord, you never did."

Chapter Two

"You're late," the queen said. She was sitting at her desk, reading a scroll, and she didn't even bother to look at me when she spoke. I resented the imperious attitude she always took with me. But for now it must be borne gracefully. While she wore the medallion around that lovely, fragile neck, she was inviolate.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," I said, as the sway of my cloak came to rest behind my hurried steps. Having complained I was late, she now made me wait. She used this technique to put me in my place when she felt under assault—as she must feel now, threatened by enemies on every side.

"Lord Junik was found dead in a brothel this morning," she finally said.

I didn't bother to feign surprise or dissemble; the truth occasionally served as well as a lie in games of betrayal. "I know. On his person we found copies of your personal correspondence. He was disloyal, as I warned you."

She was genuinely wounded. I tasted the sweetness of her struggle, so unsure of what to believe. The burden of rule, I imagined, was heavy without a husband or a son to protect her. I might have pitied her, were I the kind of man to feel pity. But the medallion around her neck flickered in the light of the oil lamp, winking at me like a flirtatious maid.

She sighed. "I trusted Lord Junik with my life."

But nothing else, I was sure. He hadn't set eyes on the breasts that rose and fell beneath her bodice. He hadn't captured those lush lips. But I would. I decided it then and there. Whether she be willing or not, I told myself, I would have one kiss...

"Trust is usually a mistake, Your Majesty," I said.

She traced the medallion, as if drawing upon its wisdom. "Because I am a woman, they say that I'm unfit to rule."

I nodded. "That is what they say."

"And what do you say, Dardanus?"

I showcased my practiced servility. "You have royal blood. Your right to rule is divinely ordained." Of course, I had royal blood too, and I hated her for forgetting it. "I think that if you don't draw up a list of the disloyal and execute them, we'll never know peace in this realm."

"No," she said, her breath catching. "Proscription lead to insurrection, and when we put down one rebellion, their sons will start another, determined to avenge their fathers."

She was quite right. "Then, Your Majesty, you kill the sons too."

She recoiled. "If I do, the gods will condemn my soul."

"Preserving the soul is a luxury few rulers can afford," I said, more to myself than to her. "Small people must be loved but rulers must be respected. Killing is a necessity of rule."

Besides, killing came naturally to me; it was an art form. I had a methodical approach that made me well-suited to such tasks, not to mention a lifetime of resentment to draw upon.

Nestra clutched her medallion and the sparks of its magic flickered over her fingers. I noted the ice-blue gown she wore, pinned at each shoulder with an unassuming silver brooch and the way she held herself stiffly, her hair confined with sapphire hairpins. I doubted she ever let her hair loose—ever let herself loose. To kill her, I would have to change that. I would have to arouse her. I would have to bring her to the point that she was willing, nay, eager, to remove that medallion from her neck and fall into my arms. "Your Majesty, if you worry about the sin in killing, give the sin to the medallion and let it hold it for you."

She eyed me suspiciously. "What do you know of my medallion?"

I wasn't surprised at her reaction. As a bastard, people usually expected the worst of me and I rarely bothered to disappoint. "My father never acknowledged me, but remember that he too was of this royal house. He told me of the medallion's powers. The rest I've learned from what I observe of you."

She had the slightly offended look of a woman who was secretly flattered. "You observe me?"

"Often. Carefully. Eagerly," I admitted. "Which is why I know that when you feel uneasy you hold the medallion to give you strength, as you're doing now."

Nestra dropped her hand self-consciously. No words passed between us for several moments and I knew not to push. Given enough curiosity and time, a woman could usually be made to come to me. Of course, Nestra was no ordinary woman, no whore or commoner. She was the queen.

"Draw up your list of rebels, Sir Dardanus, and offer proof of their treasons."

With a list of inconvenient obstacles already in mind, I bowed at the waist, glancing up just in time to catch her frank appraisal of me. She liked my looks and I watched her flush.

So then she could flush, like any tavern wench, like any gutter slut. I should have averted my gaze, but I met her eyes and let the heat settle between us.

Chapter Three

I didn't have to wait long. The next day, I escorted her back from religious services. She was sullen. As soon as she found her chair, she dismissed me without a glance but as I made my way to the door, she stopped me. "What else have you observed of me?"

I feigned confusion. "Your Majesty?"

"You said yesterday you observe me. What have you observed?"

I held my breath. One. Two. Three. I reached a count of ten before shaking my head. "It would be impertinent of me to answer the question."

"I give you leave."

"Why give me leave to speak impertinently?" I asked.

"Because you might have something useful to say."

"What I've observed is mostly of a personal nature—I doubt very useful to you."

Nestra sighed wearily. "Don't make me command it."

I bowed my head, in mock surrender. "You're brittle."

"Brittle?" It wasn't what she wanted to hear, I knew, but it had the advantage of being true.

"Yes, brittle. You hold yourself apart from the world. It's the burden of the medallion, and the evidence of it is in everything you do. You maintain a leader's hard exterior, but with a fragile edge, as if too much pressure could shatter you."

Her eyes hardened. "You're saying I'm weak."

"No," I said hurriedly, fearing I'd miscalculated. "I'm saying that bronze is stronger than glass because it bends."

"You speak in riddles, Sir Dardanus."

"Only because I'm afraid for my life. Telling a queen such things is hazardous."

"I gave you leave," she insisted. "It'd be dishonorable to punish you now."

"Very well." I'd lured her far enough out onto this plank. It was time to push. "I observe that you're always, always alone. Even in a room of people, you are alone. Why haven't you remarried? Have you never found a man to arouse your passions?"

Her knees stiffened as if she couldn't decide to stand or stay seated. "That's impertinent."

"I told you it would be. Every day, someone wants a decision from you. Every day you hold the fate of the realm in your hands. You're being crushed under the weight."

"I'm sure I'll bear up somehow." Her mouth tightened with disapproval. "I've heard enough. Thank you." She pretended to work, fumbling for the wax and spilling it.

I'd knocked her off balance, and knew I must now keep her that way. "Is there still a woman beneath your medallion? Or only a queen?"

She gave me a warning look. "Sir Dardanus—"

I bowled over her words. "Maybe you hate touch. Maybe you hate companionship, or maybe you simply hate men. Who could blame you, after your husband? But when you think no one is watching, you stare into the fire, as if you thought it the only source of heat—as if the medallion were turning you into metal as cold and hard as it is."

"You have a flair for the dramatic," she hissed. "Truly you presume too much. That's enough."

I bowed my head. Yes, that would be enough, because she couldn't now let that be the end of it. "Just so you know, Dardanus, I'm not made of metal, though I wish I were. I don't loathe touch—but the medallion won't allow it."

The carved rune stones seemed to sparkle then, like the eyes of a jealous lover. "Well, Your Majesty, do you rule the medallion, or does it rule you?"

"What difference does it make?"

These words startled me into silence.

Now I was the one on the plank, and she pointed a quill pen at me. "And while you ponder whether I hate men, my enemies claim I love them too much. Are those are the only extremes a woman has to choose from? Frigid or slattern?"

"Of course not, Your Majesty."

"Don't humor me."

She was still angry.

"I'd do more than humor you if you'd allow," I said. I'd seduce her now and make an end to her, or resign myself to my fate as her baseborn errand boy for life. It was now, or never. "While you wear that medallion I am subordinate to you, but I'm not in the habit of being passive with a woman I desire."

I liked the way she tried to fight the reddening of her cheeks. I'd crossed a line now. What I'd said was unforgivable. She'd have to arrest me, banish me, or bed me. That was the knife's edge and my blood ran hot.

"How dare you speak that way to me?" she asked.

"From what I know of you, I imagine you want me to speak to you that way."

This time she did stand, her fists clenched as she took three paces towards me, then three paces away. "You don't know anything about me. You see only a few stones from a mosaic."

I made no reply. I guessed she'd been bottling up a tirade for months, perhaps years, and my silence forced her to go on. "My husband married me for my throne and I might have given it to him if he had any notion of how to rule. But I couldn't rely on him for the simplest task. All he wanted was to drink, gamble and hunt. He complained about every privation. He whined about every slight. Even when he found some girl to mother him, he hadn't the strength to simply leave me, but instead, spread lies about my fidelity!"

"He was a dishonorable man," I said quietly.

"He was weak," she said, her lips curling with contempt. "I don't hate men, I hate weakness. I'm a queen. Lions mate with lions, not with mice."

I allowed the torrent of her emotions to spill out and settle. Taking it in, I wondered how I could have ever thought poetry or flowers would woo her. She thought too much of herself for that. I thought too much of her for that. I loved the fierceness in her eyes, the color of her cheeks, and the way her hands clenched.

"Sir Dardanus, what do you hope to gain by bringing out all this miserable self-reflection?"

"You," I said.

To my surprise, I was telling the truth.

To my fury, she laughed. "You're goading me. And I'm so pathetically eager to feel something, anything, that I'm indulging you. So what do you really want? Marriage? Gold?"

I kept my temper in spite of her derision. "As a bastard, I have no title; we could never be wed. Besides, I have easier ways of getting gold."

"Then, what do you want?"

I looked her directly in the eye. "I told you."

"Lions mate with lions," she repeated imperiously, taking a challenging step towards me.

Her manner stirred something inside me, the presence of which I'd not been aware of before. I should have gone to one knee at this display from my sovereign. I should have begged her forgiveness, but I couldn't. I met her eyes and said, "Lions do mate with lions. Try me if you doubt it."

Then she slapped me.

She slapped me so hard it sent my face to the side. This was all taking a dangerous and unexpected turn. She'd dared to strike me, and it tapped a well of anger I couldn't control. But before I could return the blow, her mouth was on mine. Her lips pressed with blistering heat and bruising intensity.

I hadn't expected it to be this easy, nor had I expected the kiss to contain the emotion that swirled bittersweet over my tongue—desperation. I'd required her to make this first move, but now that she had, I tipped her backwards onto her desk. She cried in surprise, flailing one arm back and knocking over an inkwell, but I was relentless, shoving her down. The heat of her beneath me was like some kind of primal fire that ignited my desire. I felt my cock swell. Need drew tight between my legs. I would ravish her right here, right now, heedless of all.

Then I felt the chill of the medallion upon my skin. Its mystic tendrils clawed into me for every memory of my first kill. It wrenched from me my resentment at having been born on the wrong side of the sheets, my youthful anger at the mockery of my peers, and the desolation of the day I decided to be the black soul everyone thought I was. The medallion searched my intentions and left me raw. Its violating power was astonishing.

I felt scraped, raped and hollow.

I was holding her down, but the medallion had me in its teeth. Panicking, I released her, breaking the kiss. We stared at one another as if over the abyss. My chest rose and fell in rhythm with hers, the medallion's ancient protective magic twisting between us.

How could I have forgotten the medallion?

Even now, I wondered if the wide-eyed look on her face revealed comprehension of her peril and my treason. "I'm sorry," I said absurdly, daring to breathe.

She lay disheveled and in shock. "The error was mine."

"I should leave," I said.

She didn't answer, so I strode towards the door, expecting her order for my arrest or dismissal. Neither came, and I did not wait for them.

Chapter Four

I assumed she'd have me followed. I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of betraying my supporters, so I claimed illness to excuse my absence from court. I contemplated escape, but in the end, if the medallion knew the truth about me, there would be nowhere to run or hide.

Perhaps the medallion hadn't seen my intentions clearly—I hadn't even seen my own intentions clearly in that kiss. There had been some manner of personal validation in her quick surrender. Some echo of my hunger. Still, how could I have been so careless? How could I have become so entranced, forgetting years of careful planning?

The knock I'd been dreading came late one evening. "Open up by order of the queen!"

I answered the door with grim resignation and was surprised to find her there, in the flesh.

"Sir Dardanus, I'd like to speak to you for a moment," she said, stepping into my chambers and leaving her guards outside. "You've absented yourself from court when I most need your advice...it's no wonder after the way I behaved."

"Your Majesty, it was my behavior that was abominable." I was again telling the truth. It was becoming a nasty habit. But I had just realized that she hadn't come to arrest me, and I needed to press my advantage. "However, you compound my disgrace by having me entertain you in my private quarters; it's improper."

That I place the blame on her was now vital. That the assassination be successful, twice as urgent.

"You encourage impropriety," she accused. "Don't deprive the realm of your services because I had a single unguarded moment."

I realized, to my complete delight, that I was being given a second opportunity to seduce her. "If a single unguarded moment is all you allow yourself it's no wonder it happened. Have you taken no lovers?"

She glared at me, incredulous.

I had to shame her now. From lifelong experience, I knew shame to be a powerful tool. "You've entered my private chambers against my wishes. Surely I deserve an answer."

She hissed her reply. "You know the lies my enemies tell. How could I risk making those lies truth by taking lovers?"

"So you'll live your life untouched?"

"I have my medallion," she said, clutching it like a ward.

I took strides towards her. She took a step back and I was glad because I didn't want to get any closer to the medallion than I had to. "Does your medallion satisfy your night longings? I've always wondered. Does it tease the pulsing ache from between your legs? Does it lick the fevered sweat from the back of your neck after you've come?"

The redness spread from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. I saw the edges of her resolve begin to fracture. She should turn and walk out. But she wouldn't. It shouldn't have been this easy to seduce a queen, but I understood now that the trap she had fallen into was not of my making.

It was a web of isolation she'd woven herself. I was just conveniently on hand to devour her.

"What are you suggesting?" she asked.

"One night with me, understanding my life is forfeit should I speak of it to anyone."

She wet her lips then shook her head. "That's no way for a subject to speak to his sovereign."

I towered over her. "Take the medallion off, and we'll see who is sovereign and who kneels."

Her eyes narrowed to slits and I regretted my implication. Perhaps I'd been too bold. But it was too late to back down now, so I gazed openly at her in challenge.

Then her eyes dropped.

It was a simple, soft gesture, but in my ears it sounded like the shattering of a windowpane. The completeness of my victory made my mouth dry. It took me a moment to remember what drove this seduction beyond genuine desire. "There's the abandoned servant's room behind the kitchen. It has two entrances. Come through the dining hall without your guards, and leave your medallion behind. I'll be waiting."

"Don't bother," the queen said.

"I'll expect you after midnight."

She started for the door. "I won't come."

I was quite sure of myself now and grinned, a rakish tilt to my lips. "Oh, but you will."

Chapter Five

I drew the blade across the palm of my hand, toying with the dagger I'd use to end her life. Then I secreted it beneath my pillow. When the time came, I'd use it to make a quick end to the queen. She didn't deserve to suffer.

But I wondered if she really would come to me. She was right; to take a lover would make true everything her detractors said about her. It'd make her promiscuous. She'd be foolish to come without the medallion that protected her. She'd be foolish to come to me at all. If she came to me, trusting a bastard, then she deserved to lose her life. Foolishness could never be rewarded, or so I'd always believed.

She arrived in the dark hours of the morning, her eyes dreamlike as she opened the door and slipped inside. I stood to greet her. "Your Majesty."

"Call me Nestra." She stood trembling in the dim candlelight. The medallion wasn't with her; she was mantled in anticipation, perhaps arousal. Even now, I missed the taste of her vulnerable kisses and the predatory impulses of a lifetime built up in my blood.

Then I realized she was crying.

I reached out to cup her cheek. "Why tears?"

"I'm ashamed."

"I asked you to come here. There's no shame in doing what you're asked," I told her.

"To the contrary, a man generally abandons a woman in the morning for doing exactly what he asked her to do the night before." When I frowned, she pressed her cheek against my hand. "Dardanus, if a woman withholds her favor she's bitter. If she gives it freely she's a wanton. And shamefully, in spite of knowing all that, I'm still here with you."

The truth of it irritated me. "No one will find out you took a bastard to your bed, if that's what worries you."

"I'm not ashamed of you. I'm ashamed of myself. Not because I need to touch and be touched, but because I need to be matched, to be ruled even, if only for a night. I need to let you do anything you want with me. I need to trust you."

Something tightened in me then snapped.

I didn't have to pretend desire. That a woman of her power should wish to cede some of it to me, entrust me with it, even for one stolen night, was dizzying and dangerous. It changed things, somehow. "My lady, you should not be here. You should leave."

She winced at my rebuke. "And now you have contempt for me."

I felt her ache. "No. I've only just realized how little contempt for you I have. I fear for you to stay in this room. You've little idea what you're doing here or what I'm about."

"I don't want to go," she said. "The hardest part is over. I've come to you. I don't know if I can do it again."

I realized I was angry, though whether it was at her or at myself I couldn't tell. "Leave."

"I don't want to go. Let me stay. Let me be with you," she whispered. "Please?"

It was that last single word that ruined me. I was no longer self-possessed. She was a queen yet she was pleading with me. I was so damned angry. I wanted to break things. Shake things. Break her too. I grabbed her and pushed her back against the door, trapping her between its rigid surface and my body. There was no question of who was kissing whom this time. I didn't insult her with the fumbling of adolescence—my hand went directly between her legs, pressing the fabric there with rough, possessive fingers. The unexpected violation caused her to struggle, but I would not be stopped now.

When I heard her moan, I dragged her to the bed, knocked her down and climbed atop her. When she tried to wind her fingers through my hair, I grabbed her arms and held them over her head. It was only when I worked her legs apart that she gave more than token resistance. She whimpered and strained. "You're not glass," I told her. "You're not even metal. Bend for me. Bend."

Her thighs parted, trembling white skin revealed. I could have her. Right there. Right now. I could plunder and violate. But somehow, it wasn't in me.

"Say it," I growled.

Her breath caught. "Say what?"

She'd slapped me before. Now I returned the favor. I struck her with a flat palm and she cried out. "Say it!" I yelled, willing her to read my mind. She wouldn't. She couldn't. Even I didn't know what I wanted to hear. And that made my rage justified. Her eyes sought mine frantically.

Then, somehow, she knew. She lowered her lashes and serenity passed over her features. She actually smiled as she whispered a single, blessed word. "Yes."

I had her consent. For all of it. For anything.

Years of hatred boiled up to the surface of my skin and evaporated into thin air. Our fingers twined high on the bed, knocking the pillow to the side. Then we both felt the cold metal of the knife's edge.

Moments before our breathing had filled the room like the rush of water over rock, but now everything was silent. We lay entangled, again on the brink of that abyss, both of us staring at my dagger. I reached for the blade. Her strength was no match for mine, and I could make the end come swiftly. I wrapped my fingers around the hilt, but she didn't struggle or cry out. Instead, she looked at me with the kind of trust that I thought only existed in myth.

"Write your name on my skin with your blade," she whispered, then closed her eyes.

Only a stupid woman wouldn't have apprehended the danger, and the queen wasn't stupid. Some part of her surely knew, but she chose—she chose—to trust in me even if it were her very last living act.

This was a defiant, insistent, faith that humbled me to my core. It broke me. It made of me a different man in an instant, and I felt an emotion welling up in me that I had never felt before.

I realized then that she'd given herself to me completely—holding nothing in reserve. I was a bastard without title, a schemer and ne'er-do-well, a murderer and a seducer of women—and yet trusted so profoundly that my hand shook to behold it.

I'd thought her unworthy of her throne, an obstacle in my way. But in abject surrender, Nestra held the only quality that meant a damn for a leader to possess: she inspired a man to rather die than betray her.

My decision was not difficult. I drew the dagger down and cut the bindings of her gown, opening it. Then I traced each letter of my name over her bare stomach in tiny, harmless, white lines. With that done, I threw the dagger across the room into a forgotten corner and entered her savagely.

I should have met some resistance as I buried myself inside her, but she was a scabbard that sheathed me whole. She received me, stroke for stroke. Her insides were a molten core that tempered me, reforged me like a blade thrown into the fire.

I kissed her hard, bruising my own lips as well as hers, but she did not pull away. "I'm yours," she whispered as her sweat-soaked belly slid beneath mine and she cradled me between her knees.

Mine.

I felt her tongue at my throat, tracing a path to my ear, and felt the softest of kisses there. The scent of her was raw arousal, and when she climaxed, the sounds she made were untamed. I could not get enough of her.

I could not get enough.

Epilogue

We weren't finished until the dawn had nearly come; it was only exhaustion that stopped us. I held her tightly within the protective confines of my arms and felt oddly at peace for a man who was about to die.

In touching her skin, I felt the faint traces of the medallion's echoes reaching for me. I'd never known myself at all, but the medallion had known me true. I hadn't deserved the throne or even the woman upon it. Yet, by some lucky accident, I'd come close enough to taste them both.

I loved her, and the irony was not lost on me. The medallion had known everything, but allowed her to trust me anyway. And why not? The medallion had known it'd be my undoing. Its magic had protected her after all, better than any army.

I watched her face as she slept, a small smile upon her lips. I'd never seen her smile before. Perhaps she loved me too. Or perhaps she'd known what she was doing, conquering me with an act of surrender. But there was no bitterness left in me. She deserved the victory.

I'd set out to seduce and take a life, and succeeded, even if the life would be my own. In the morning I'd give her a new list of traitors.

My name would be at the top.

###

Letter from the Author

I've always wanted to write an anti-hero! I like to imagine that Nestra will forgive Dardanus, because he's now a changed man. Trust can do that to a person. Even if she doesn't forgive him, I know that he has found his happy ending.

Because this short story is an otherworld fantasy with romantic elements—it's a little different than the more modern urban fantasy/paranormal romance books I write for Harlequin's Silhouette Nocturne line. Even so, I hope you enjoyed it, and that you will forgive any errors as this was originally released as a free read. Whether you enjoyed it or not, I also hope you'll leave a review.

Keep reading, because I've included excerpts from my award-nominated Mythica Series...

THE FEVER AND THE FURY

by

Stephanie Draven

Phaedra, a fury, is bound to make Lieutenant Luke Lazaros atone for his supposed crime, but her usual method of inflicting pain doesn't work very well on a phoenix with the power to be reborn every time he dies. However, each rebirth leaves him with an overwhelming need for sex. Phaedra's new plan: to drive Luke mad with desire.

But Phaedra has never touched anyone—even herself—except to cause pain. She's an innocent when it comes to pleasure...but Luke isn't. His touch is a revelation, arousing a passion in Phaedra that is as delicious as it is terrifying. For no matter how much she wants Luke, giving herself to a man risks awakening her goddess's wrath...

Chapter One

She'd already killed him twice this week.

Monday, the harpy bitch grabbed the wheel just as he was making a tight turn on a cliff-side highway. The car jumped the barrier and exploded in a fiery crash of glass and twisted metal at the bottom of Moraca Canyon.

On Wednesday morning, he'd chanced taking a shower and she dropped a hair dryer in with him, sending a deadly shock through his wet body.

It wasn't even the weekend and she was already trying to kill him a third time.

Luke had awakened to the sinuous slide of her body atop his and, for one groggy moment, he'd enjoyed the carnal sensation of a woman in bed with him.

Then her knee came crushing down on his windpipe.

Now Luke thrashed upon the mattress, grabbing at her supple thighs, trying to throw her off.  The curve of her breast brushed his arm, her moist lips parted and she clutched at his face as if she were going to draw him into an intimate embrace…just before fingernails like talons cut his flesh to bloody ribbons.

Or at least that's what it felt like.

With the lightest touch, she could put an ordinary mortal man in complete agony. But he wasn't an ordinary mortal man and she should have known better than to touch him.

"Atone," the fury demanded, her voice driving needles of agony into his spine. “Atone!”

Luke was desperate enough to consider it. Anything to get rid of her. Anything to make the pain stop. Anything that might relieve him of the memories that haunted him. The blood in the sand and all the lies…

Take the money, Luke. There'll be more where that came from.

His traitorous lips parted in surrender, ready to tell the fury whatever she wanted to hear, but then he felt his square jaw clench tight in stubborn refusal.

No. Screw atonement and regret. Luke would rather die again.

Her lithe legs wrapped around his waist like a vise. They were locked together as tightly as lovers and in blind suffering he banged the back of his skull on the headboard. It started like a fever, a sexual rush of heat that seared its way through his veins, pulsing through his hammering heart, racing to his groin.

Damn it. He liked this villa, but he'd burn the place down to get free of her if he had to. Sparks leaped from his fingertips to the bedsheets and the scent of scorched linen rose to his nostrils. The fire would obey him—it was the one goddamned thing in his life he still had any control over—so Luke made the fire rise higher, engulfing them both in a flash of flames and searing pain.

His bones went white-hot, molten beneath his skin, and he screamed. He was turning to ash. He was burning her too, burning her alive. He could have held onto her. He could have forced her to share his torment to the bitter end, but he flung her away. And her tumbling body was the last thing he saw before he died….

Phaedra was accustomed to inflicting pain, not suffering it. But now every cell in her body screamed in protest as her burned skin rose up in blisters. She was immortal. She could never die. That didn't mean she couldn't feel pain, and making this man miserable had somehow become her own personal torment.

She lay dazed in agony on the floor, smoke filling her lungs while Lieutenant Luke Lazaros burned alive before her very eyes. Gods of Olympus, he was stubborn. He should have broken by now, but he was only getting more unmanageable. None of the men she'd been sent to torture had ever been so obstinate. Then again, she'd never been unleashed upon a phoenix before.

In the light of the crackling blaze, Phaedra's blistered body healed, new pink flesh knitting over the old with miraculous speed, and it occurred to her that the fire alarm wasn't shrieking. A quick glance up at the scorched ceiling told her that he'd disabled it. That he'd planned for this exact circumstance. He was handy that way. Good with modern gadgets. And a born strategist. He'd started anticipating her. Adapting…

All at once, the conflagration on the bed extinguished itself and a burst of air dusted her with Luke's charred human remains. A bit of stagecraft on his part.

Of course, she'd seen him do this before—rise from the ashes as a new man, his dark curly hair cut in sharp military style, his name and blood type displayed upon frayed patches on his desert fatigues. A backpack full of cash in his right hand.

This was how he looked the moment he was war-forged. The instant he stopped being an ordinary mortal man and became a monster. But as many times as she watched him die, she couldn't enjoy it. Watching him now, she took no satisfaction in his shudder of revulsion at the feel of a new body that wasn't his own. Nor did it encourage her to see the half hostile, half haunted look in his eyes as he tried to remember himself. Shaking his head as if to fasten upon his old memories, he caught her look of dismay and gave a dark smile-that-was-not-a-smile.

"What's the matter?” Luke asked. “Didn't expect me to be so hot in bed?"

Given that she was clutching the burned and blackened remains of her clothing against her body, Phaedra didn't appreciate the sexual innuendo. It didn't surprise her though. Every time the lieutenant was reborn, he battled overwhelming hunger. He'd be ravenous now, for food, drink…sex.

Still, he grabbed one of his white dress shirts from a drawer and tossed it to her. "Here. You can wear this."

The gallant gesture was starkly out of place considering their situation. Phaedra eyed her nemesis as she fastened the buttons, disconcerted by his scent on the shirt and how it mingled with the perfume of her newly healed skin. "Does this mean you're ready to be redeemed, Luke Lazaros?"

"Just means I was brought up right," Luke said through his teeth. "And that an officer falls back on his training in a crisis. Or maybe I've just always fantasized about a leggy woman wearing nothing but my shirt. Until I get rid of you, I might as well improve the scenery."

"How many times must we go through this?" Phaedra asked, ignoring the predatory glare in his eyes. She rose to her feet. She was tall, but he was taller. She was hard-bodied and imposing; even before they felt the torture of her touch, most men had the sense to cower. But not this man. "There is no getting rid of me, Lieutenant. Once a fury is unleashed upon a criminal, she's unbreakably bound to him until he atones or is driven to insanity."

"I'm not a criminal," Luke snapped. "And I will find a way to be rid of you."

I hope you do find a way, Phaedra thought. Because she was every bit as stuck with him as he was with her.

Read More of the Fever and the Fury…

POISONED KISSES

by

Stephanie Draven

He can wear the face of anyone who has ever hurt him...

This former soldier-turned-gun-runner thinks his true identity is safe, but a mysterious woman is about to force him to face the tragic past he thought he left behind.

She can disguise herself as the only woman he's ever loved...

It's not easy to be a Daddy's Girl when your father is Ares, Greek God of War. To thwart her father and all those who serve him, Kyra intends to assassinate a modern day hydra. To kill him, she needs to seduce him, but Marco Kaisaris isn't the monster she thinks he is-and even if he doesn't break her heart, he may still be the death of her.

Can they see past each other's masks to find a love that's more than skin deep?

Prologue

Ares climbed over the rubble of his burned-out armory, his mood black as the soot-covered remains. So much waste, he thought, kicking aside scorched artillery crates. All harmless shrapnel now. So many mortars and shells reduced to ash…so many bullets warped from the heat, deprived of their savage destiny on the battlefield. Magnificent guns destroyed without ever finding their way into the hands of even one ferocious warrior. It was a travesty. And the broad-shouldered god decided that someone should have to pay.

“Who did this?” he roared, discovering one of his vultures hovered over a dead body. At his approach, she left off tearing at the corpse’s gory innards and flapped her wings. With a rush of wind that spiraled the dust and autumn leaves around her, she rose into the form of a willowy redhead and licked the blood from her scarlet lips.

“The guards say it was a woman who blew up the armory,” his vulture explained, shoving the gutted corpse onto its back. His belt was unfastened, his pants unzipped, as if he’d died while taking a piss. “This one caught her and decided to have a little fun…”

“It doesn’t look as if he had a chance to enjoy himself.” Ares noted the dead man’s face, stiffened in shock, as if he couldn’t fathom what had happened to him. But Ares knew what had happened. Kyra had happened.

His daughter was lethal with a blade and knew how to defend herself. She was also a rebellious child with a knack for finding new and unique ways to annoy him. “What about the file on the hydra?”

His redheaded minion twitched. “It’s gone. Kyra must have taken it.”

Ares liked the look of fear in his vulture’s expression and was hungry to take out his frustrations on her. There could be pleasure in it—for him, at least. He reached for that fiery hair, yanking his vulture’s head to the side so that her throat was exposed. “And where is my daughter now?”

“I—I don’t know,” the vulture stammered. “They shot her, but she escaped.”

Bullets wouldn’t stop Kyra. As a nymph of the underworld, she crossed the thresholds of life and death at will. What’s more, she was immortal. He’d seen to that. There wasn’t a wound she could suffer that wouldn’t heal. She could appear to mortals in her own guise, or fade into the mists like an apparition. The fact that she’d let his guards see her meant that she’d wanted him to know she was responsible for this.

The unmitigated gall of the thing! For Kyra to destroy his weapons was almost too much to bear. And to add to that insult, she’d taken the file on the newest hydra—a man that Ares intended to add to his monstrous menagerie. Admittedly, the war god admired Kyra’s audacity. After all these years, most of the forgotten ancient immortals slunk away like beaten dogs to live mundane modern lives, but his daughter was still certain she was fated to do something glorious. And he couldn’t fault her for it, even if it drove her to test him like this.

Ares was an indulgent patriarch, after all. Unlike his own wine-soaked lecher of a father—Ares encouraged the fierce nature of his descendants. He’d even made war with them at his side. Oh, how mortals had trembled when Ares rode into battle with his twin sons, Phobos and Deimos, at the reigns of his chariot! How the mortals had screamed in terror when he unleashed his monsters. Fire-breathing horses, hydras, chimeras and minotaurs…Oh, how he missed those days.

He intended to relive them with Kyra at his side. If only she’d accept her true destiny. Instead, she was in open rebellion against him. Did she think he could be stopped by blowing up his munitions? If so, she was wrong. Lesser gods might fade away, but the forces of war remained eternal. No one sacrificed at Zeus’ temples anymore. The science of spindly weathermen had reduced the once fearsome sky god into an old man who spent his days in a taverna complaining about the loss of Greek culture to the European Union. Exhaustion, science and some of the newer gods of peace and goodwill had crowded the old gods off the world’s stage. Even crafty Hecate had been relegated to a fortune-telling gypsy!

But Ares was different. It had been a long time since anyone had seen him as the Greek god of bloodlust, glowering from beneath his plumed helmet, but men still worshipped him, whether they knew it or not, because war was different, too.

The new gods didn’t glorify it, and science only made it more deadly; it bankrupted the victors as well as the vanquished. War was a senselessness mankind could not explain. Warriors no longer called for Ares by name, but they still made bloody sacrifices. And whereas Zeus once ruled the gods of Olympus, Ares meant to rule now.

So how was he to deal with Kyra’s rebellion? Perhaps it was a phase that would pass. After all, his daughter was born to viciousness. Kyra claimed to abhor war, but the wreck she’d made of his armory only proved that she was bred for destruction.

The sooner he forced her to accept it, the better.

Chapter 1

Kyra was dressed to kill. Literally.

Just beneath her short red skirt and only inches above her high-heeled boots, a small but deadly hunting knife was strapped to her thigh. A gun might have been more useful, but Kyra preferred the weapons of an older, less complicated time.

A knock came at the nightclub’s bathroom door—probably another gaggle of drunken Italian socialites—but Kyra wouldn’t be rushed. She stared at her reflection in the mirror to steel her courage. She might not be able to do much to thwart Daddy and his bloodthirsty minions, but she could do this one heroic thing for humanity. This was her destiny. She’d been born for this.

But the mirror reflected a distorted image. It was cracked, as if the thumping club music burst through the wall from the other side. Still, she could see that her plunging pearlescent halter top complemented neither her black tresses nor her ghostly pallor. No matter. Kyra never let mortals see her true form, anyway. Tonight, her prey would see her as she wished him to see her: with blue eyes and cropped platinum hair; after all, she’d studied Marco Kaisaris long enough to know his type. And she was ready. Hydras like Marco were dangerous, but surely not to someone like her. She just had to kill him. Like Theseus and Perseus of old, she had a monster to slay.

With that thought, Kyra gave the bathroom door a shove and it swung open like a gate to the underworld. She stepped into the nightclub’s press of bodies and people made way for her, as if they sensed her power. As the dance beat drummed at her pulse points, she brushed against the crowd, and it excited her because she had a nymph’s nature; she found the vitality of humans to be infectious and distracting. This was, of course, one of the many dangers of getting too close to mortals.…

The club was dark but for the strobe lights that shined spots on the walls, purple as evening shade, purple as wine. The grape kaleidoscope illuminated the writhing bodies on the dance floor, flashes alternating with pitch-black. But the darkness posed no obstacle for Kyra. Like all nymphs of the underworld, she carried an internal torch. Her eyes could penetrate the darkness. She could see through a crowd, through clothes, through flesh. Her eyes could even breach the barriers around men’s souls.

And from the bar, her quarry’s soul lit up like a flare.

She knew Marco Kaisaris even though the face he wore was not his own. He was dark, brooding and slightly unkempt. He wore an expensive dress shirt open at the collar, the glimmer of a gold chain at his throat. He didn’t look like an arms dealer, but then he was almost as good at disguises as she was. He wasn’t just a mortal man, after all. He was also a hydra.

Kyra slipped into the standing-room-only space next to him at the bar, pretending to dig for money in her purse. She felt his eyes on her—an intense, wary stare. Fortuitously, a group of revelers pushed her a little closer to him. She pretended it was his fault.

“Do you mind?” she asked in Italian, grateful that the club was quieter here.

Marco shrugged, taking a swallow from his glass, which was filled with amber liquid and ice. “I was just sitting here.”

Oh. His voice. It was baritone and beguiling, with a hint of a New World accent. American or Canadian—she couldn’t be sure. Either way, it was the kind of voice that’d make a normal woman swoon and it weakened even Kyra’s immortal knees. Gods above and below, Kyra thought. What justice was there in the world that such a voice could belong to a monster?

Recovering herself, she brushed his leg, but his expression betrayed nothing. Everything about his posture was guarded. Sexy, but guarded. That’s when Kyra noticed he held a picture of an older man and was tracing the edge of it with his thumb. Naples was known for its criminal element, so the photo was probably of some contact Marco was meeting tonight. A supplier of munitions or a thug looking to buy an arsenal. Someone in Marco’s violent business. “Friend of yours?” she asked in English, motioning with her chin toward the picture.

“My father.” A look of melancholy passed over his face as he slipped the photo into his shirt pocket, but that’s all he said. He didn’t want to talk. And that was a problem because she’d planned to lure him somewhere private with the promise of a steamy encounter; she couldn’t kill him in the middle of the club with everyone watching. To make matters worse, her cell phone was vibrating. It was probably her father calling to rage at her for destroying his arsenal. Daddy thought it was Kyra’s destiny to join him, but she had no intention of being a part of her family’s legacy of war. If anything, she wanted to make up for it.

Renewing her resolve, Kyra turned the phone off and flashed Marco Kaisaris her most charming smile. “Mind if I sit here?”

Marco motioned toward the distinct lack of empty bar stools. “Sit where?”

Okay, she’d have to be a little more aggressive. “How about if I sit right here?” Before he could do a thing to stop it, Kyra slid into his lap. It was a crucial moment. There was a good chance he’d thrust her away, alarmed at her forwardness. But as the backs of her bare thighs pressed against the weave of his linen slacks, his breath caught, and it wasn’t just with surprise. He liked it.

This shouldn’t be too difficult, she thought. Her nymph’s charm made it easy to seduce mortals—even special ones like him—and she felt him respond, his breath warming her neck. Encouraged, she shifted wantonly with her hips, precisely timed with the music, careful not to let him feel the sheathed knife on her leg. He liked that, too.

She could tell because he wrapped one arm around her waist and inhaled the cheap perfume she wore. It smelled like overripe passion fruit and candy and he reacted as if she were just a confection—one little taste wouldn’t hurt. His teeth grazed her neck beneath her choker where a glowing peridot stone hung like a tiny lantern in the dead of night. She tilted her head for him and felt him go hot all over “You’re shameless,” he finally whispered, the scent of expensive alcohol on his breath.

But I’m not shameless, she thought. There were so many shameful things in this modern world and her sexuality wasn’t one of them. How was it her fault that men were so easy to arouse? “I’m shameless? What about you? You look guilty of something.”

He let the cool glass in his hand slide wetly over her shoulder. “And what do you think I’m guilty of, Angel? Give it a shot.”

Angel? Oh, she was going to enjoy killing him. “Are you telling me to guess?”

“No,” he said, his mouth finding the soft spot behind her ear. Then his voice lowered. “Unless you want me to tell you what to do.”

Her stomach fell away with arousal. Yes. Absurdly, she did want that. Just for a few minutes.  It wasn’t sex with mortals that was dangerous for nymphs, after all. Just all the emotions that came afterwards. Still, best not to let him get the upper hand. “If you tried to tell me what to do, we’d only end up engaged in a fierce battle of wills.”

She felt him smirk against her neck. “Mine is hard as iron.”

His will. He meant his will was hard as iron. Trying to steady herself, Kyra fanned her fingers over the bar. They came to rest on an unopened pack of cigarettes. Marlboro Reds. Old school. “Yours?” she asked, and when he nodded, her lips curled in mock disapproval. “Bad addiction to have.”

“I’m not addicted,” he countered, one hand stroking her arm. She loved the callused feel of his fingertips on her smooth skin. “I only smoke when I’m trying to come to terms with something. Kyra almost asked him what he was struggling with. But she didn’t dare. She shouldn’t care. Couldn’t care. It’d only make it harder for her to kill him. . “I can quit anytime,” he said.

“How about now?”

He paused, then crushed the whole pack in his fist, tossing it behind the bar like so much trash. He looked smug at her openmouthed stare of astonishment. “Like I said. Iron will.”

He might think so, but he couldn’t resist her. She was sure of it.

“A drink for the lady,” Marco said to the bartender.

“And what if I’m not a lady?” Kyra asked, with a provocative smile.

“That’s okay,” Marco murmured, his hand grasping the nape of her neck. “I don’t plan to be a gentleman tonight.”

She let him bring her back to his penthouse; even from the marbled foyer she glimpsed just how well the monster was living off his ill-gotten fortune. If he’d chosen any of the artwork here, he had exquisite taste. But this probably wasn’t his penthouse, just as the face he wore wasn’t his own. He was a hydra of a thousand faces—an impostor—which made it all the more remarkable that he didn’t seem suspicious of her; he apparently brought women home with him all the time.

No, Kyra thought. Killing him wasn’t going to be difficult at all.

The only problem was that he was an astonishingly good kisser. His mouth was on hers, dizzyingly warm. It surprised her how much she actually liked the way his stubble scratched her cheeks and the animal way he bit her lower lip every time she pulled away for breath. He wasn’t shy about touching her, and he wasn’t taking his time.

He pushed her back against the door, a rapid strike, all strength and speed. Caged in by his strong arms, she saw that his eyes were stormy with challenge. She felt her insides quicken in response. Oh, he so didn’t know who he was dealing with.

Kyra gripped a thick handful of his dark hair and when his hands snaked up under her top, thumbs brushing over her nipples, she thought he was rather daring for a creature that could be killed; he’d been wary in the bar, but now that he’d committed himself to having her, there was no hesitation in him at all.

The heat of him delighted her. The roughness of his touch. The bestial sounds he made, as if he meant to devour her. Kyra’s heartbeat crashed in her ears, as if the thumping roar of the club music had followed them here. She told herself it was just the allure of his mortal energy, the dangerous deception of a man’s desire. But had it felt this good the last time she’d taken a mortal lover?

Maybe Marco was different. The clues in the file she’d stolen led her to believe that in addition to being an arms trafficker, Marco Kaisaris was a war-forged hydra, a mortal man, a monster that could be killed. Now she wondered if he was actually some shape-shifting trickster god, which would excuse her attraction to him and relieve her of guilt for what she was about to do. Stabbing an immortal, after all, wouldn’t cause any lasting harm.

His scent—somewhere between man and musk—drove her crazy. Meanwhile, his kisses had become frenzied as if pleasure was such a fleeting thing in his world he had to consume it before anyone took it away from him. As Marco nipped at her neck, his mouth moving over the luminous gemstone she wore, her own gasps cut through the stillness of the penthouse apartment. Whoever he was, whatever he was, he was rocking her world.

But Kyra prided herself on not being one of those silly nymphs who dallied with mortal men and fell helplessly under their spell. She’d taken plenty of lovers and cast them aside when she was done. After all, she was built for carnal passions, for stolen pleasures in the dark. So, it wasn’t Marco’s all-consuming sexual prowess that was giving her second thoughts about killing him. It was what she saw inside him, beyond the surface. A looming shape of almost unfathomable grief. Beyond the veils of darkness in which he wrapped himself, she glimpsed a forlorn desperation to know and be known, to understand and be understood.

This, she hadn’t expected. Sincerity, pain, need. His vulnerability was subtle but potent sex magic. It made her curious about him; there was a longing in her to let her eyes open wide and illuminate everything inside him she could see. Unfortunately, that would drive him mad, and that was one thing Kyra would never do to a mortal again. Besides, there’d been a reason she’d tracked him down for months, a reason she’d slipped into his lap tonight, and it wasn’t to satisfy her curiosity or to enjoy herself with a sexy stranger.

Like her father, Marco Kaisaris made a profit selling weapons. He was a merchant of death. The underworld was filled with victims of the bullets Marco sold. No matter what her lust-soaked mind wanted to see inside him, he was an evil man and if she wanted to make up for all the pain and chaos her father had caused in the world, Kyra had no choice but to kill him.

The hydra had to be the reason Kyra still had her powers while so many of the old immortals had lost theirs. This was her destiny. Still, it was with true regret that she realized Marco’s groping fingers would soon discover her hidden knife. With a long-suffering sigh, Kyra stopped him. Marco pulled back, a slow and frustrated tilt to his lips. “Am I going too fast?”

Gods above and below, his voice just wrecked her. The heat of it seared a path from her belly down to the quivering place between her legs. Oh, how she wanted him to touch her. But when he tried to put his hand under her skirt again, she didn’t let him. “Wait. I’ve got something for you.”

She turned slightly and, with one hand, secretly unsheathed the knife beneath her skirt. The motion between her legs must have looked particularly obscene, because Marco’s eyes narrowed with desire. “Don’t be a tease, Angel.”

“Oh, I’m no angel and I never tease.” With that, Kyra thrust the sharpened blade at his chest, aiming directly for the heart. But something went horribly wrong. She’d prepared herself for the blood, the resistance of blade against bone and the death grimace. What she hadn’t counted on was Marco being nearly as fast as she was. Kyra knew that Marco had military training. Still, she could hardly believe how deftly he blocked the blow with his hand. The knife slashed open his palm from fingers to wrist and red blood sprayed the carpeted floor.

His expression twisted in surprise at her betrayal, and he used his uninjured hand to grab her wrist. He slammed it against the wall so hard she thought the bones in her hand might have shattered. “Drop the knife,” Marco growled, all sincerity and need now replaced with the hard features of a furious and injured man.

There was nothing for Kyra to do but struggle. He couldn’t kill her with that knife, but he could hurt her. Even for an immortal, pain was pain. Suffering was suffering. And Kyra was afraid of it even though she didn’t have to fear for her life. So she brought her knee up hard into his stomach.

He grunted with the impact, but didn’t let go of her wrist. Instead, he used his leverage to flip her to the ground. She thudded to the carpet, her body splaying awkwardly. And before she could scramble to her feet, he threw himself on her, forcing the air from her lungs. He had her wrist in his grasp, twisting it to the breaking point.

“Drop your weapon!” Marco shouted like the soldier he’d once been. But Kyra bucked under him, clenching her free hand into a fist and punching him in the jaw.

Marco rocked back from the blow. “Bitch!”

Then he backhanded her in retaliation. Kyra tasted blood in her mouth—her own, she hoped. The sting of his slap had made the entire right side of her cheek red-hot. In thousands of years, few mortals had ever dared to strike her, and those who had tried paid for it with their lives. All the forces of the underworld bubbled up inside her. She was the daughter of Ares and rage was overtaking her, boiling out of control. She remembered the armory she’d blown up, where her father’s guard had confused her with a human and tried to rape her; she’d shown him with fatal accuracy how mistaken he was. Now she’d show Marco Kaisaris!

As she pulled herself up like a specter from a grave, Marco recoiled. “What—what the hell are you?” he stammered, staring, his tone more loathing than fear. In their struggle, she’d become so enraged that she’d stopped projecting the shape she wanted him to see. He saw her real face now, the depthless blackness of her nymph’s eyes, and he seemed as horrified as if he’d glimpsed three-headed Cerberus.

Taking advantage of his surprise, Kyra rolled to her feet with the grace of a cat and crouched on tiptoe behind a desk for cover, realizing that her high-heeled boots may not have been the ideal choice for an assassination. “The real question, Marco Kaisaris, is, what are you?”

At hearing his real name, Marco’s expression turned murderous. Later, she’d have to admit that he frightened her. He was stronger and faster than she’d anticipated and now this entire mission had gone awry. She could try to fade—try to disappear before his very eyes—but her concentration was broken. Perhaps she ought to escape and try again another day. As these thoughts raced through Kyra’s mind, Marco rushed toward her. She lifted the knife—this time in self-defense—and he flipped the elegant desk behind which she’d sought refuge as easily as if it were dollhouse furniture. Papers and knickknacks exploded through the air and the desktop slammed her, knocking her back where she smashed her head on the wall and slumped to the floor.

Kyra lay there for a moment, stunned. Had she blacked out? Scrambling out of the wreckage of the desk, she realized that the penthouse was quiet.

Damn it to Hades! The door was open and Marco Kaisaris was gone.

She wondered why he hadn’t tried to kill her when he’d had the chance, but then she felt the sickening burn. She was smeared with Marco’s blood and it stung like fire. Every moment was ever-deepening agony. Rushing to the bathroom, she hurriedly scrubbed her arms clean. Too little, too late. The hydra’s blood wasn’t just burning her, it was also seeping into her skin and making her sick. Waves of nausea flowed over her; she sank to her knees and tried not to retch.

If she’d been a mortal, the poison of is blood might have been enough to kill her. As it was, the world started to spin before her eyes. So, she hadn’t been wrong about him, then. Marco Kaisaris was no trickster god. His blood wasn’t divine ichor. His wounds hadn’t closed up on their own. And even from the bathroom she could see that where his blood had pooled on the penthouse floor was now a sizzling mess, as if someone had poured acid on the carpet. His blood was poison. Deadly poison. There could be no doubt now that he was a hydra and needed to be stopped.

If only she could get up from the floor.

She’d cut him deep. Crouched in an alleyway, Marco tore his shirt off and wrapped it around the wound like a makeshift bandage.With his uninjured hand, he fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone to call an ambulance. The woman in his penthouse would need one. Yeah, she’d tried to kill him, but she had no idea who she was dealing with. By now, his blood would be soaking into her skin and eating her alive. He wasn’t sure what the hospital could do for her, but he wasn’t eager for another dead body on his conscience.

“Si prega di identificare se stessi,” the dispatcher squawked into the phone.

Identify himself? Under other circumstances, the question might have made Marco laugh. Who exactly was he? He wasn’t the guy who rented the penthouse. He wasn’t the guy he looked like now. He wasn’t a soldier anymore and he wasn’t even the do-gooder son of a Greek immigrant—not according to his father or his sister. “I’m nobody,” Marco said, then hung up.

The blood coursing from the cut on his hand had soaked through his wrapped shirt and dripped down his battle-hardened stomach in a deadly scarlet rivulet. Every time a drop of it spattered on the ground, it hissed and sizzled where it fell. Marco hated to leave his blood anywhere, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. His breathing was still erratic—partly from the pain of his wound and partly from the shock of what he’d just seen. What the hell had he just seen? An angel, a demon or some creature with powers like his own?

One thing was clear: his enemies had obviously tracked him here and sent the woman to assassinate him. This identity—this borrowed face he wore—was thoroughly compromised now. He’d have to change his appearance and there was no time to wait for a more private moment. Pulling himself deeper into the shadows, Marco braced against the brick wall and steeled himself for the transformation. He closed his eyes and remembered the face a blond-haired, blue-eyed Russian smuggler who’d once tried to steal a shipment of shoulder-mounted rockets from him. Marco had long since dispatched the Russian to hell, but he’d wounded Marco in the struggle—which meant that now Marco had a useful but grisly souvenir; he could assume the face and identity of his old enemy. It was his curse; he could take on the form of anyone who wounded him. A power he could neither explain nor fully comprehend. Perhaps it was a madness—inherited from his mother. Whatever it was, he couldn’t stop himself from quivering with disgust at the slow creep of flesh as his face began to transform. Marco didn’t have to look in the mirror to know that his eyes were now blue, and his hair like yellow straw. Except for the wound on his hand, his enemies wouldn’t know him.

No one would.

Read More of Poisoned Kisses…

Connect with Stephanie Draven Online:

Twitter: http://twitter.com/stephaniedraven

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2892333.Stephanie_Draven

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Stephanie-Draven/77551569837?ref=s

Website: STEPHANIEDRAVEN.COM