it done.” With a happy swagger to his step, Brand strode from the room as quickly as he had entered.
Alone once more, Darius allowed his gaze to focus on the staircase and climb upward toward his rooms. An insidious need to touch Grace’s silky skin wove a tangled web through his body, just as potent as if she were sitting in his lap.
Brand had spoken of the men going mad, but it was Darius himself who was in danger of madness. He pushed a hand through his hair. Leaving Grace had not helped him in any way; the image of her atop his bed refused to leave his mind. He realized he was as calm as he would ever be where that woman was concerned. Which meant not calm at all. Best to deal with her now, before his craving for her increased.
Stroking the two medallions he wore, he followed the path his gaze had taken until he stood poised at the doorway. She would give him the answers he wanted, he thought determinedly, and he would act as a Guardian. Not a man, not a beast. But a Guardian.
Resolved, he released the medallions and the doors opened.
Chapter Five
NO HINGES SQUEAKED. In fact, not a single sound emerged. Yet one moment the bedroom doors were closed and the next, the two panels were sliding open.
Grace stood to the left, unseen and hidden by the shadows cast by the thick ivory. When Darius stepped past her, his feet tangled in the sheet—aka trip cord.
He propelled forward with a grunt.
The moment he hit the ground, Grace jumped onto his back, using it as a springboard, and raced into the hall. Her head whipped from side to side as she searched for the right direction. Neither appeared better than the other, so she ran. She didn’t get far before strong male hands latched on to her forearms and jerked her to a halt. Suddenly she was heaved onto Darius’s shoulder, too shocked to protest as she was carried back to his room. Once there, he slid her down his body. She stilled, feeling the buttery softness of his shirt and the heat of his skin past her clothes. Their bodies were so close she even felt the ripple of his muscles.
Without releasing her, he somehow caused the doors to slam together, blocking her only exit. She watched, her gaze widening. Breath froze in her lungs as failure loomed around her. No. No! In a mere two seconds, he’d snatched away her best chance for freedom.
“You will not be leaving this place,” he said without a hint of anger, only determination. And regret? “Why are you not in my bed, woman?”
Overwhelmed by her failure, she whispered, “What do you plan to do with me?”
Silence.
“What do you plan to do with me?” she cried.
“I know what I should do,” he said, his voice now a low growl that vibrated with anger, “but I do not yet know what I will do.”
“I have friends,” she said. “Family. They’ll never rest until they find me. Hurting me will only earn you their wrath.”
There was a concentrated hesitation, then, “And what if I do not hurt you?” he asked so softly she barely heard him. “What if I only offer you pleasure?”
Had the callused surface of his palms not brushed her forearms, she might have been frightened by his words. Now she was oddly enthralled. Every fantasy she’d ever created rushed through her mind. Naked, writhing bodies—on the floor, against a wall, inside an airplane. Her cheeks fused with heat. What if I only offer you pleasure? She didn’t answer him. Couldn’t.
He answered for her. “No matter what I offer you, there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it.” His voice hardened, losing its sensual edge. “You are in my home, in my personal chambers, and I will do whatever I want. No matter what you say.”
With such a dire warning ringing in her ears, she snapped from whatever spell he’d woven and called upon her terrorist training from flight school. SING, she inwardly chanted. Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin. Spinning, she elbowed him in the solar plexus, then slammed her foot into his instep. She swung back around and shoved her fist into his cold, unemotional face. Her knuckles collided with his cheek instead of his nose, and she cried out in pain.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even bother to grab her wrist to prevent her from doing it again.
So she did.
She drew back her other arm and let it fly. On impact, she experienced a repeat of the first punch. Throbbing pain for her, smug amusement for him. No, not amusement, she realized. The blue of his eyes was too cold and hollow to hold any type of emotion.
He arched a brow. “Fighting me will only cause you hurt.”
Her gaze slitted, incredulous, clashing with his. After everything she’d endured these past two days, Grace’s temper and frustration erupted full force. “What about you?” She jerked her knee up, hard and fast, gaining a direct hit between his legs. Groin: the last section of her training.
A slight breath whooshed from his lips as he hunched over and squeezed his eyes shut.
She raced to the door and began clawing at the seam. “Open, damn you,” she railed at the exit. “Please. Just open.”
“You do not look capable of such a deed,” Darius said, his voice strained. “But I will not underestimate you again.”
She never heard him move, but suddenly he was there, his arms braced next to her temples, his hot breath on her neck. She didn’t try to fight him this time. What good would that do? He’d already proved he did not react (much) to physical pain.
“Please,” she said. “Just let me go.” Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. From fear, she assured herself, not from the sensual strength of his body so close to her own.
“I cannot.”
“Yes, you can.” She twisted, facing him, and shoved him backward. The impact, though slight, caused him to trip once more on the sheet. He took her down with him and when he hit, he rolled them over and pinned her.
Automatically she reached up to push him away from her. But her fingers caught in his shirt, causing the neckline to gape. Both of the medallions he wore sprang free and one of them plopped against her nose. She gasped. Which one belonged to Alex? The one with the glowing eyes?
What did it matter? she thought then. She’d come here with a medallion, and she was leaving with one.
Determination thudded like a drum inside her chest. To distract him, she screamed with all the power her lungs allowed. She flailed her legs and wrapped her sore hands around his neck, as if she meant to choke him. She hurriedly worked one of the clasps, and when she felt it unlatch, she jerked her hands down and shoved the chain into her pocket. She gave another ear-piercing scream to cover her satisfaction.
“Calm down,” he said, his features pinched.
“Bite me.” She screamed again.
When she quieted, he said, “I would be most upset if you damaged my ears.”
Upset? He would be most upset. Not infuriated, not lost in a rage. Simply mildly upset. Somehow, with this man, that seemed all the more frightening than out-of-control
