favored during her days on Mount Olympus. The goddesses had never liked her because they assumed she was a replica of her “whore of a mother” and would jump their husbands. Likewise, the gods had never respected her, again because of her mother. The guys had wanted her, though. Well, until she’d killed their precious Captain of the Guard and they’d deemed her too feral.
Idiots. The captain had deserved what she’d done to him. Hell, he’d deserved worse. The little shit had tried to rape her. If he had left her alone, she would have left him alone. But noooo. She didn’t regret cutting the black heart out of his chest, didn’t regret placing said heart on a pike in front of Aphrodite’s temple. Not even a tiny bit. Freedom of choice was precious, and anyone who tried to take hers away would feel the sting of her daggers.
Choice. The word rang inside her mind, bringing her back to the present. What the hell would it take to convince Lucien to choose her?
“Notice me, Lucien. Please.”
Once again, he ignored her.
She stomped her foot. For weeks she’d cloaked herself in invisibility, following Lucien, watching, studying. And yes, lusting. He’d had no idea she lurked nearby, even as she willed him to do all sorts of naughty things: strip, pleasure himself… smile. Okay, so the last wasn’t naughty. But she’d wanted to see his beautifully flawed face light in humor just as much as she’d wanted to see his naked body glisten with arousal.
Had he granted even that benign request, though? No!
A part of her wished she’d never seen him, that she hadn’t allowed Cronus, the new king of the gods, to intrigue her with stories about the Lords a few months ago. Maybe I’m the idiot.
Cronus had just escaped Tartarus, a prison for immortals and a place she knew intimately. He’d imprisoned Zeus and his cohorts there, as well as Anya’s parents. When Anya returned for them, Cronus had been waiting for her. He had demanded Anya’s greatest treasure. She’d declined—duh—so he’d tried to scare her.
Give me what I want or I’ll send the Lords of the Underworld after you. They are demon-possessed, as blood-hungry as starving animals, and they will not hesitate to peel the lovely flesh from your bones. Blah, blah, blah. Whatever.
Far from frightening her, his words had caused excitement to bloom. She’d ended up seeking out the warriors on her own. She’d thought to defeat them and laugh in Cronus’s face, a sort of look-what-I-did-to-your-big-scary-demons kind of thing.
One glance at Lucien, though, and she’d become instantly obsessed. She’d forgotten her reasons for being there and had even aided the supposedly malevolent warriors.
It was just that contradictions tantalized her, and Lucien had so very many. Hewas scarred but not broken, kind but unbending. He was a calm, by-the-book immortal, not blood-hungry as Cronus had claimed. Hewas possessed by an evil spirit, yet he never deviated from his own personal code of honor. He dealt with death every day, every night, yet he fought to live.
Fascinating.
As if that wasn’t enough to prick her interest, his flowery fragrance filled her with decadent, wicked thoughts every time she neared him. Why? Any other man who smelled like roses would have made her laugh. With Lucien, her mouth watered for a taste of him and her skin prickled with white-hot awareness, desperate for his touch.
Even now, simply looking at him and imagining that scent wafting to her nose, she had to rub her arms to rid herself of goose bumps. But then she thought about him rubbing her, and the delicious shivers refused to go away.
Gods, he was sexy. He had the freakiest eyes she’d ever seen. One was blue, the other brown, and both swirled with the essence of man and demon. And his scars… All she could think of, dream about, crave, was licking them. They were beautiful, a testament to all the pain and suffering he’d survived.
“Hey, gorgeous. Dance with me,” one of the warriors suddenly said at her side.
Paris, she realized, recognizing the promise of sensuality in his voice. He must have finished screwing that human against the wall and was now looking for another bimbo to sate himself on. He’d just have to keep looking. “Go away.”
Unaffected by her lack of interest, he grabbed her waist. “You’ll like it, I swear.”
She brushed him aside with a flick of her wrist. Possessed by Promiscuity, Paris was blessed with pale, almost glittery skin, electric-blue eyes, and a face the angels probably sang hallelujahs over, but he wasn’t Lucien and he did nothing for her.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” she muttered, “before I cut them off.”
He laughed as if she were joking, unaware she’d do that and more. She might deal in petty disorder, but she never uttered a threat she didn’t plan to see through. To do so smacked of weakness, and Anya had vowed long ago never to show a single hint of weakness.
Her enemies would love nothing more than to exploit it.
Thankfully, Paris didn’t reach for her again. “For a kiss,” he said huskily, “I’ll let you do anything you want to my hands.”
“In that case, I’ll cut off your cock, too.” She didn’t like having her ogling interrupted, especially since she rarely had time to indulge. Nowadays, she spent most of her waking hours dodging Cronus. “How’s that?”
Paris’s laughter intensified and managed to snag Lucien’s attention. Lucien’s gaze lifted, first landing on Paris, then locking on Anya. Her knees almost buckled. Oh, sweet heaven. Paris was forgotten as she fought to breathe. Did she imagine the fire that suddenly sparked in Lucien’s mismatched eyes? Did she imagine the way his nostrils flared in awareness?
Now or never. Licking her lips, never removing her gaze from him, she eased into a sensual bump and grind and made her way toward his table. Halfway, she stopped and motioned for him to join her with a crook of her finger. He stood in front of her a moment later, as if he’d been pulled by an invisible chain, unable to resist.
Up close, he was six-feet-six of muscle and danger. Pure temptation.
Her lips edged into a slow smile. “Wemeet at last, Flowers.”
Anya didn’t give him time to respond. She ground her left hipbone against the hard juncture between his legs, turning erotically and presenting him with a view of her back. Her ice-blue corset was held together by nothing more than thin ribbons and a wish, and she knew her skirt hung so low on her waist that it failed to cover the bands of her thong. Oopsie.
Men, mortal or otherwise, usually melted when they caught a glimpse of something they shouldn’t.
Lucien hissed in a breath.
Her smile widened. Ah, sweet progress.
Her unhurried movements were completely at odds with the fast-pounding rock, but she never ceased the slow gyrations of her body as she raised her hands over her head then leisurely ran them through the thick mass of her snow-white hair, down her arms, stroking her own skin but imagining his hands instead. Her nipples hardened.
“Why did you summon me, woman?” His voice was low, yet as disciplined as the warrior himself.
Listening to
