Tempted (9 page)

Princess.

Isadora.

Home.

Warmth unfurled inside Demetrius’s chest as links, dots, connections clinked back into place and battled the chill and darkness from the brink of consumption. In a rush he remembered who he was, what he was, and just what was at stake here.

His heart picked up speed. Sweat broke out on his skin. Evil black power still teased the edge of his control, but he ground his teeth against the temptation, knowing if he turned himself over to it Isadora would be lost forever.

Stay
focused
on
her. Don’t take your eyes off her. Don’t forget why you’re here…

Atalanta’s long-fingered hand hovered over Isadora’s forehead, then dropped to her hair. “I’ve been waiting for you.” She looked up at Phrice. “Where did you find her?”

“In the field outside the half-breed colony.”

“How many witches accompanied her?”

“None. She was with two Argonauts. One we killed. The other…” He gestured to Demetrius. “His magick alerted us to his lineage. We thought he might be of value.”

“None,” she repeated, looking back at Isadora. “So Apophis betrayed us. And yet my
yios
brought her to us regardless.”

The daemon didn’t answer. Long seconds passed in eerie silence. Finally, Atalanta’s lips curled and she looked back at Demetrius. “Release him.” To the daemon holding Isadora she added, “Bring her.” She turned, waved her hand. The candles parted, opening the circle.

Panic rushed through Demetrius’s chest as he was pushed out of the illuminated circle into another cavern of black nothingness. Another candle flared ahead, this one set on a high pillar, raining layers of multicolored light down to form a spotlight on the concrete floor.

Atalanta stepped into the illumination and gestured to a long metal table at her right, also within the circle of light. The daemon dumped Isadora on the cold silvery surface and moved back into shadow. Isadora winced in pain as she eased herself to a sitting position. Her hand shook as she tried to shift on the unforgiving table, but she didn’t make a sound.

A morbid smile curled Atalanta’s mouth. “I sense your fear, Princess. Tell me, child. Do you know what it is like to lose something of great value?”

Demetrius’s gaze scanned the circle, his mind flipping through exit strategies as Atalanta spoke. But the blackness inside jerked when he spotted the drain set into the concrete floor beneath the metal table.

Atalanta leaned down so she was eye to eye with Isadora. “You and yours took something that belonged to me. Did you think there would be no repercussions?”

Atalanta reached behind her into the darkness and came back with a small twelve-inch dagger. Isadora’s eyes widened as the goddess grasped her arm in one swift move and held the shiny blade against her small wrist.

“No,” Isadora whispered.

Every muscle in Demetrius’s body tensed. Around him he sensed the daemons watching and waiting in the shadows, their excitement fueling the blackness inside him all over again.

“The hand is a marvelous thing. A gift, wouldn’t you say, Princess? Something of great value? One can exist without it, but the pain of loss is immense. They say those who lose a limb can still feel the blood pulsing in their missing veins long after the wound has healed.” She leaned closer and her voice dropped to a malicious whisper. “This is a good trade, don’t you think,
Princess
? Your hand for what you stole from me?”

What was stolen from her. Atalanta was talking about the boy. Max. Callia and Zander’s son, who’d been taken from them as a baby and raised by Atalanta herself. She needed Max because he was the son of a Hora, and with that link she could wield the Orb of Krónos, the magical medallion that would give her the power to control the human realm. Once she had that power…she could unleash her revenge on the world.

The Argonauts had rescued Max not more than a week ago, and Atalanta was obviously still pissed she’d been vanquished.

“No, please.” Isadora struggled, but Atalanta held her too tight.

The tip of the dagger pierced Isadora’s pale skin and she cried out. Atalanta’s hand tightened on the grip of the dagger, the tip of the blade digging in deeper.

Skata. Think…

“Please,” Isadora cried as blood ran down her inner arm.

“If you cut off her hand,” Demetrius said, fighting to keep his voice steady, “she’ll be of little use to us.”

They both jerked in his direction. The blade stilled against Isadora’s wrist.

“Perhaps you would prefer I took her foot?” Atalanta asked.

He didn’t answer. Isadora trembled as she peered into the darkness.

“Come into the light,
yios
.”

Demetrius hesitated, then took a slow step forward. The instant he passed into illumination, Isadora gasped.

He steeled himself against the look of utter betrayal that crossed her face, but it was the hardening of her eyes that cut through him, the confirmation he was the evil she’d always believed him to be.

“Her foot, then?” Atalanta asked again.

He pictured Isadora’s pale, petite feet. The trimmed toenails that she’d painted a fiery red. And tried not to imagine all that perfection mutilated and destroyed.

He shrugged. “I don’t care. But you go hacking her up and she’s bound to dislike you. And we all know a happy hostage is a useful hostage.”

Atalanta’s eyes held his. He knew she was debating just whose side he was on. She wasn’t stupid. And there was no love lost or loyalty between them. The blackness rumbled again but he worked like hell to tamp it down.

Slowly, she lowered the blade. Isadora let out a relieved breath. Atalanta set the dagger on the table at Isadora’s side, but she didn’t release the princess’s wrist. With her eyes still locked on Demetrius, she drew the index finger of her free hand across Isadora’s wrist, gathering a droplet of blood, and brought it to her mouth.

Isadora’s horrified gaze darted from Atalanta to Demetrius and back again.

A feral smile crossed the goddess’s face. “The witches succeeded in one part of our bargain.”

Bargain? The witches had been working with Atalanta? Demetrius’s mind spun with the ramifications of that, but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on figuring a way out of this hellhole.

Atalanta let go of Isadora’s arm and passed a hand over the princess’s face. “We’re done with you for now, Princess.”

Before Demetrius could react, Isadora’s eyes flickered and her body slumped to the table.

Demetrius tensed all over again, but instinct told him Atalanta wouldn’t seriously harm the princess. Not yet anyway. She needed her too much.

“Now,” Atalanta said, looking back at him. “The princess’s presence is not a surprise. But yours is. A pleasant one. I am very happy I won’t have to track you down as I’d planned.”

As she’d planned. Demetrius had no clue what the hell was happening, but the pinch in his chest said to be careful.

Atalanta stepped forward and ran her ice-cold finger down his cheek. “You see,
yios
, I’ve put up with your defiance long enough. And now it’s time to prove your worth. The Horae will never willingly cooperate, so I ordered Apophis’s witches to cast a fertility spell over our fair princess. And you, my son, will be the one to ensure I reap the rewards.”

Demetrius’s chest tightened. He thought back to the way those witches had Isadora strung up when he and Orpheus had charged the room. To the way the warlock had been eyeing her. To the see-through negligee she was still wearing.

Atalanta tipped her head and stepped closer, until the sickeningly sweet scent of her was all he could smell. “I thought I would have to persuade you, to draw you to my side first. But now I see that won’t be a problem. Hera has finally done something right.”

The blood drained from his face as her plan finally registered. She was going to use him to get the link to the Horae she needed.

“Oh, don’t look so upset,
yios
.” She patted his cheek. “You’re going to enjoy this.” Her humor faded and she looked down at Isadora, completely out on the table beside them. “The only question is where? Where to send you? I’d originally thought I’d simply keep both of you locked up here until the darkness consumed you, but now I think you’ll be better off alone. It will definitely be faster this way. We’ll have to bind your powers so you can’t open the portal, of course, but you both need time. And a place where you’ll have no choice but to keep her close…”

Sickness drifted up from Demetrius’s gut, sickness and a foreboding that rang in his chest and echoed in his head.

“Of course,” Atalanta said, her excited voice cutting through his thoughts as she whipped back to him. “Of course,
yios
. There’s only one place that will work. One place where you wouldn’t let this pretty thing out of your sight. I have no doubt you’ll keep her alive, though it may become a challenge. But at least all those ingrained heroics of yours will finally be of use to me.”

He tensed as she reached out and ran her cold, vile hand over his jaw again. “You, my son, are finally going to live up to your destiny. You are going to give me the ultimate gift. An heir. A legitimate heir, with links to both the Horae and the throne of Argolea. And thanks to Hera, you’ll do so whether you want to or not.”

Hera.
Atalanta was talking about the soul mate curse. Hera’s spiteful gift to Heracles and all the Argonauts—one soul mate. Only it wasn’t the blessing it should be. It was the cruelest curse imaginable. The one female in the world who was the worst possible match for that Argonaut.

He was Atalanta’s son. The spawn of true evil and the enemy to those of his world. He’d suspected Isadora was his curse, had spent two hundred years avoiding her so Atalanta could never use him for her own gain. And now, thanks to one wrong decision, everything he’d done up until this point to protect Isadora, to protect their world, was for shit.

“Sleep now,
yios
, you’ll need your rest.” Atalanta passed her hand in front of his face. His vision dimmed from the outside in, even though he fought it.

As the image of Isadora asleep on the table faded and the world drifted to black, he knew there was no escaping what was to come. His only hope was that somehow—in some way—he’d find the strength he needed to resist the only female he’d ever truly wanted.

Chapter 6

Demetrius shielded the glare of the sun with his hand and looked out across the barren beach. Water lapped gently at the golden sand and a light wind rustled the trees at his back. Sweat slid down his spine as he took in the miles of sand, the cliffs to his left and right that turned to sheltered forests beyond, and the water…so much damn water.

Atalanta had dumped them on an island. Of this he was sure. Where, he didn’t know. The trees, the temperature, the sand though…it was all vaguely familiar. Like a postcard straight out of the Mediterranean. A tingle low in his belly told him there was only one island in the area she would send them to where he’d be forced to keep Isadora close, but he refused to believe his suspicions. For all of Atalanta’s scheming, the bitch needed Isadora to live. She wouldn’t be so careless as to leave them alone in hell.

He looked down where Isadora was still out cold on the sand. He’d awakened next to her minutes before and, after checking to make sure she was still breathing, had spent the last five minutes taking stock of their surroundings. Knowing there was no imminent threat, he decided he needed to get Isadora out of the sun; to check her leg, which he feared had been broken in that daemon fight; and to figure out what the hell they were going to do next.

He crouched, lifted her into his arms. Her head lolled like a rag doll’s, but her breaths were steady and deep. He ignored the silky smooth feel of her skin against his, focused on the way his boots sank into the deep sand, making it hard to move. After carefully laying Isadora in the shade of a palm tree, he dropped down and unlaced his boots, then tossed them behind him.

Sweat beaded his forehead. His toes sank into warm sand as he found a downed branch, checked its strength. Bringing it back to where Isadora lay, he snapped the ends until it was roughly the length of her shin. Then he sank onto his knees next to her and took a deep breath.

Years of disuse left his powers rusty. He didn’t even know if he could conjure a healing spell, let alone if it would work, but he had to do something. Wiping his sweaty hands on his thighs, he glanced once at Isadora’s face and hoped like hell she didn’t wake up in the middle of this.

His eyes slid closed. He held his hands out in front of him, chanting words he’d shunned long ago. As power gathered in his fingers, heat and light radiated outward. Slowly, he lowered his hands to her broken leg.

She jumped but didn’t wake. He ran through the chant over and over, smoothing his hand over the broken bone, knitting it back together with a magick he’d long denied. Minutes later, tired and spent from the effort, he sank back onto his heels and wiped the sweat from his brow.

She lay in the same position she’d been in before—her head tipped to the side, her blond hair wild around her face. One hand lay in the sand; the other rested on her stomach as her chest rose and fell with her breaths. He had no idea if the spell had worked. He’d know only when she woke and tried to stand. Brushing his hand across her brow, he leaned down to her. “Wake up,
kardia
. Open those eyes for me.”

She didn’t move.

Worry pushed in, but he focused on her breathing, on the fact she didn’t have a fever, and tried again. “Wake up
, kardia
. Open your eyes so I know you’re there. Please open your eyes.”

Still nothing.

Disappointment filled his chest, but he refused to let it affect him. She was alive. For now that was all that mattered. Maybe it was a good thing she was out for the time being. At least she wasn’t in pain, and sleep would hopefully give her body the chance it needed to heal.

He decided to splint her leg just in case. He tugged off his shirt, dropped it on the ground. Casting another look over the barely-there nightgown those witches had dressed her in, he told himself to stop being a pansy and get on with it already.

He grasped the hem of the gown near her knees and gently pulled it up, careful not to look at what was being revealed. Shifting one arm underneath her back, he lifted her so he could drag the gown over her head. Then he reached for his shirt and slid her arms in one sleeve, then the other, and laid her back down as he tugged the two halves of the shirt closed at her front and started in on the buttons.

Damn these buttons. Why in Hades did there have to be so many? His hands grew slick as he fumbled to cover her as quickly as possible. Catching one button, he moved to the next, this one between her breasts. A flash of skin caught his attention. He tried to look away but couldn’t. Her skin was shades lighter than his, smooth where his was scarred, soft where his was rough. The button slipped from his large fingers. He grappled with it again, his knuckles grazing the swell of her breast as he moved.

Heat ignited through his torso, spread to his belly and into his groin. His gaze slid lower, to the strip of skin visible on her belly, lower to the juncture of her thighs…

He jumped to his feet, swiped his forearm across his brow, and turned away.
Sonofabitch.
This was exactly what Atalanta wanted. This was why she’d sent them here to this remote island. Well, she wasn’t going to get her way. He was getting away from Isadora before he did something he knew he’d regret later.

After tearing her gown into strips of cloth, he braced the wood against her shin and tied it in place, careful not to touch her more than was necessary. Then he set off into the trees in search of supplies to build a shelter and hopefully to cool himself the hell down.

Isadora was still asleep when he came back nearly an hour later and set to work. The sun beat against his bare skin as he lashed boards together with vines and covered the structure in foliage. When he was satisfied with the result, he carefully picked Isadora up and placed her inside, made sure she was covered again, then turned to look out over the water and the glowing sunset.

Okay, so, injuries looked after, shelter built…Now they needed food. He was good so long as he had a goal. It was the downtime alone with her that he was seriously dreading. He reached for one of the limbs he’d brought back with him, stripped off the foliage, and looked around for a rock to use to sharpen the end into a point so he could go fishing. That’s when he heard the howl.

He froze, lifted his head, turned to look back into the trees growing darker by the second as dusk crept in.

No, not a howl, he realized, dread racing down his spine. That was a scream. But not the kind that came from man or animal. This scream was made by a beast, and the roars that erupted around it were the sort that lived in nightmares.

His fingers tightened around the limb in his hand. He looked to Isadora, still asleep in the shelter. And knew—damn it—he’d been right. They really were in hell, and the first part of Atalanta’s plan was coming true. He couldn’t leave Isadora now, not even for a second. And that meant if he wasn’t careful, Atalanta just might get exactly what she wanted.

***

Isadora was floating again. The gentle push and pull echoed in her mind, tugged at her consciousness, dragged her from the depths of something murky and dark.

Images drifted through the haze, ones that made no sense and couldn’t be real. A seven-foot glowing blue man with floor-length hair. Yellow acid hitting her in the face. A field of daemons and a woman with soulless black eyes wearing a long bloodred robe. And then there was
him
.

Her blood warmed and a tingle ran along her skin as the image morphed and shifted. This male most definitely wasn’t blue. He was tall, muscular, powerful. With short jet-black hair and hands that seemed to span the width of her rib cage. She couldn’t make out his face, but his voice was familiar when it whispered in her ear. And when his arms came around her, his body was hotter than anything she’d ever felt.

She shifted, tried to reach for him because his touch felt so wickedly good she wanted it all over again. Anywhere. Everywhere. Only as she held out her hand, the image swirled and dissolved, leaving behind only the swish and sway of the wind.

No, not wind. Water.

Isadora listened closer. A strange sense of foreboding washed through her, pushing out all that heat from before.

She rolled to her stomach, groaned because every muscle in her body ached, then drew in a mouthful of sand. Pushing up on her hands, she coughed as she dragged her eyes open.

Blinding light burned her retinas. She dropped back onto her butt and winced as pain shot up her spine and down her legs. Holding up her hand to block the glare, she forced her eyes open again.

Her surroundings slowly came into view. She was sitting on a beach. The sound she’d heard was indeed water, but nothing seemed familiar.

Her mind spun and tendrils of panic wedged their way into her chest. Where was she? And how in Hades had she gotten here?

A figure moved to her right, and she looked that way only to be blinded all over again by the setting sun. She winced and squinted at the shadow coming toward her.

The mystery face was shrouded in shadow, dark hair wreathed in a halo of light from the sun behind. But even from this distance she could tell he was male. Male and massive and very impressive, especially wearing next to nothing as he was.

Tingles rushed over her as he drew closer. A smattering of dark hair covered his olive skin and impressive chest, catching the light as he moved. Her eyes drifted lower to chiseled six—no, eight—pack abs, to black pants that rode low on lean hips and were rolled up at the calves, to strong, perfect bare feet throwing sand as he moved with the grace of an Olympian.

For a fleeting moment she had the feeling she was in the presence of a god. She held her breath as he stopped feet from her, and though she tipped her head back and squinted to see more clearly, his face was still cast in shadows.

He dropped a rope on the sand at her side, one she now realized had been hooked over his shoulder as he’d dragged something behind him. Sunlight glinted off his muscular arms and chest, accented the droplets of sweat gathering on his tanned skin, which she could now see was marred with thin white scars.

“You’re finally awake,” he said in a clipped and familiar voice as he rested his hands on his hips. “About damn time.”

Wait. Gods didn’t have scars, did they? They were immortal. They couldn’t be hurt, not like humans and Argoleans. She tipped her head the other way, tried to get a good look at him. Still couldn’t.

“It’ll be nightfall before long. Unless you want to get caught out here in the dark, Princess, I suggest you get your ass up and try putting some weight on that leg.”

He began pulling seven- and eight-foot sections of wood from the rope he’d looped around the bundle. Tree trunks, she realized, none more than five inches wide, stripped of their limbs so they formed long poles. Her mind tumbled again. What on earth were the trees for? And who the hell
was
he?

The setting sun flashed over muscles in his arms and back that flexed and rippled beneath his skin as he worked. Three long red gashes, equally spaced, cut across the middle of his back. Another ran down the outside of his left bicep, this one redder and deeper, the puckered ridge indicating the injury had happened more recently than the others.

She tried to make sense of what was happening and who he was. As if he felt her eyes on him, he turned and glared at her.

And in the split second his face shifted from shadow to sunlight, Isadora gasped.

The voice finally registered. She scrambled back on her hands and feet, stopping only when her back hit something solid.

Demetrius’s glower darkened but he didn’t say anything, just clenched his jaw and went back to loosening the rope around the bundle of logs. But Isadora’s heart rate shot into the triple digits. The last thing she remembered was sitting in her suite at the castle, staring into her mirror as she prepared herself for the binding ceremony with Zander, and seeing a vision of her and Demetrius locked in an erotic scene.

Her hand shot to her mouth and her eyes clamped shut. She couldn’t even think the words, let alone remember the image—the first glimpse of the future she’d had in over a month. She forced her eyes open and looked across the sand to where Demetrius was now laying out the logs two feet apart.

Holy Hera, what was going on?

He turned before she could collect herself and marched in her direction. She tensed as he drew close and tried to scoot back more, but the wall—no, it wasn’t a wall, it was some kind of lean-to shelter built out of more logs and twigs and foliage—stopped her.

His mouth was set in a hard line, his jaw covered in a thin layer of stubble, his dark eyes flat and resigned as he leaned close. For a second she thought he was going to touch her and her body stiffened, the heady scent of sweet male sweat and something else she couldn’t quite place drifting in the air to make her light-headed. But instead of grabbing her, he reached past and picked up something at her back, then turned and walked away without a word.