by Alyssa Day
It didn’t make sense—none of it made sense.
How could someone she’d just met fit like a puzzle piece matched to her own jagged edges? She’d never believed in love at first sight, or destiny, or pretty much anything to do with romance.
She saw the results of so-called love every day at her job. Saw, and tried to pick up the pieces. It was enough to send Cupid to the gin bottle.
But there was something about this man . . .
“You’re right,” he said, walking farther into the room, pushing the door shut behind him. “We forget, sometimes, the modern speech we’ve learned over the years. Especially in times of duress, when we revert to formality as a matter of protocol.”
He bowed his head. “I offer my apologies, nonetheless. You deserve more from me than I have words to give.”
She could feel a torrent of emotion from him, as if a door opened and his feelings poured through. Remorse. Sorrow.
Aching, biting pain.
She lifted a hand to her head, expecting the barrage of emotions from the others to thunder through her head any minute, but, thankfully, the emotions of everyone else seemed to be muted, subdued. Her mind was packed with cotton wool, shut down. In self-defense?
Why couldn’t she remember what had happened? She’d seen Conlan through the window, and then . . . “Where am I? Why has my head gone all fuzzy? Why are you—oh, heck, will you turn around for just a moment?”
He raised one of those elegant, dark eyebrows, then nodded once and complied.
“You are in a safe place. Your head is no doubt recovering from the barrage of emotions thrust into it earlier,” Conlan answered. “I asked my warriors to shield their emotions from you. I should have realized it would be painful for you to be subjected to so many of us at once. I’m sorry for that.”
She fought her way out of the quilt and stood up. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Conlan. Just maybe tell me what the hell is going on.”
Much less embarrassing to face him eye to eye, rather than looking up all six and a half feet of him.
“Okay, Conlan, you can turn around now. And I’d really like some answers. First, are you—”
Midsentence, the gauze over her mind lifted and her memory returned in full. The battle. The sword. Conlan falling—lying so still.
Her eyes widened, and she started walking, then running, around the bed toward him. “Oh, holy crap! You—you were dead! Or almost dead! Why are you standing up? You should be in a hospital!”
She reached him and grabbed the edges of his shirt, yanking them back to look for the hideous sword wound that must be . . .
Had to be . . .
Wasn’t there.
“It’s not there,” she said slowly. “How is that possible?”
Almost dazed, she placed her palm over his heart, waiting. Then she felt it. The thump of his heartbeat. The muscles of his chest tightened under her hand, and she looked up at his clenched jaw, then jerked her hand back.
“You’re not a vampire, because you’ve got a heartbeat,” she said. “Are you a shape-shifter? What kind of furry are you going to get?”
Backing away, she looked for windows, another door, maybe a zookeeper.
Any kind of help.
He laughed again. “I’m not going to turn furry, brave one. I am nothing you know.”
“You can say that again,” she muttered.
Suddenly, shockingly, he knelt in front of her. Even kneeling, his head came to her chest, reminding her again of his size and strength.
Not exactly the kind of stranger you wanted to be alone in a room with.
Except—except she’d been inside of his mind. And there was nothing but integrity in what she’d felt of his emotions. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.
He looked up at her, his black eyes intent. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen—more handsome than she’d ever imagined a man could be. Maybe she was dreaming.
The tiny flame of blue-green she’d thought she’d imagined before flickered in the center of his pupils. “I am sworn to be a protector of all humankind, and—but for one brief lapse of time—have fulfilled this role for centuries. Yet tonight, in one moment, you showed more courage and bravery than I have ever known.”
She started to speak, but he stopped her by taking her hands in his own. “You have my gratitude, and you will be under my protection for now and until the waves no longer touch the shore.”
It had the feeling of a promise—the feeling of a vow.
Suddenly, Riley was having a hard time remembering any reason why she shouldn’t want to hear promises or vows from this man. Except . . . except . . . something he’d said—
“Humankind? Well, it was pretty clear out there that you weren’t human, what with the balls of vamp-incinerating energy. So just what the hell are you?” she said, breaking out of the trance his words had put her in and backing away.
Conlan smiled and rose gracefully to his feet. “I’m not of any of the nine hells,” he said. “I am Conlan of Atlantis.”
Riley burst out laughing. “Oh. Right. Of course you are. And I’m Alice of Wonderland.”
She shook her head. Old Alice had it right. Curiouser and curiouser.
Chapter 13
Conlan put his hands behind his back, clasping them together. He couldn’t let her know the self-control it was costing him to stand in this room with her.
Alone.
With a giant bed taking up most of the floor. Every part of his body tensed at the thought of wrapping her back up in that quilt.
Wrapping her up in his arms.
What in the nine hells was wrong with him? He was worse than a randy recruit coming out of training. He’d never reacted this way to a woman.
Any woman. Especially not a human. Even one who looked flushed and sleepy and exactly as she would look in the morning after a night of pleasure in his arms.
Focus.
His thoughts flickered to the Atlantean maiden who had been selected for him.
The woman he’d never met—who’d never met him.
More archaic Atlantean politics, cold and dead.
Unlike the woman who stood in front of him, warm and alive.
“Hot, even,” he murmured.
Riley only stopped moving away from him when she backed into the bed. His gaze was drawn down to her legs. Miles of legs. Endless legs wrapped in snug, faded denim.
He wanted her legs wrapped around his waist.
Breasts tempting even under that oversized shirt, generous enough that he could see them press against the fabric when she moved in certain ways. He’d felt them against his chest on the beach. Her waist curved in perfectly. Just the right size for his hands.
She was lush and luscious. Not a stick figure of a woman like the type popular this decade. He could hold her under him, drive into her without the worry of breaking her, fill his hands with her—
“Atlantis. Right,” she said again, jerking him out of his fantasies and maybe even stopping him from coming right there in his pants.
He cursed under his breath in ancient Atlantean.
“And you can stop that right now,” she continued, cheeks pink again. As pink as they’d been when she looked at his chest. The thought of it sent heat crashing back through him, and he took a step toward her.
“Stop what?” He took another step.
Her voice was breathless, husky. “Stop staring at my legs. Stop looking at me like I’m on the menu. Stop coming closer. Stop being so . . . so . . . so over the top.”
“Over the top?” Another step.
She held her hands up as if to ward him off, though he was easily another five steps away from her. “And stop repeating everything I say,” she said, stomping her foot.
It made him smile. So fierce! No wonder he couldn’t shake her from his thoughts.
He was in trouble.
He didn’t care.
“If I promise to stop repeating your words, may I take another
step?” he asked, drinking in the sight of her. In the golden glow of the bedside lamps, her hair was firelight on amber. Sunshine on the golden dome of Poseidon’s Temple. Eyes as blue as the ocean surface at twilight.
Damn, suddenly he was a poet. He was losing his mind.
Maybe another step closer wasn’t such a good idea. He stopped walking.
She shook her head, then nodded. “I don’t think—yes, no, aargh! Why is it so hard to think around you?”
Conlan folded his arms over his chest, reason suddenly returning. “That’s a good question,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Why do you have such an effect on me? What are you? How can you access the Atlantean mental paths and—more to the point—how can you feel our emotions? How can I feel yours? Are you a weapon sent to test my defenses?”
“Weapon, yeah, right, you idiot. I’m not a weapon, I’m a social worker.” Stepping sideways, Riley began to edge around the bed. “And I see we’re back to the Atlantis thing. You’re from the lost continent. The figment of Plato’s imagination that supposedly disappeared more than eleven thousand years ago. That Atlantis?”
He unfolded his arms and took another step toward her. He couldn’t help himself.
He didn’t want to help himself.
“Plato was disciplined for his talkativeness in the Critias and Timaeus. The poet Solon knew no better than to share with Plato the secrets he’d gained from that Egyptian priest. But our descendants know to keep the secrets of Atlantis.”
Another step. Her tantalizing scent reached him. Fresh. Slightly floral, with a touch of green. Ocean ferns, perhaps.
He inhaled deeply, knowing he could find her by scent alone from that moment. Loving her scent in his nostrils.
Wanting her taste in his mouth. His hands actually ached to feel her skin.
She was looking at him. Oh, right. Something about continents. “Not so much a lost continent. We always knew where we were,” he said. “We’ve simply developed shields to hide the Seven Isles from your technology.”
He smiled. “Your invention of submarines was almost a problem for a while.”
She backed clear around to the other side of the bed. “Okay, show me your gills.”
Completely caught off guard, Conlan stared at her for a moment, then threw his head back and roared with laughter.
Riley looked at him as if he were insane.
Of course, she wasn’t that far off. He probably was insane.
Catching his breath, he shook his head. “Thank you for that, aknasha. I needed to laugh, after the events of this evening.”
His smile disappeared. “After the past seven years, in fact.”
Making a decision, he backed away from her and dropped into the chair in the corner of the room. “If I sit here, far away from you, would you feel safe enough with me to listen to what I have to say?”
Trembling, seemingly poised for flight, Riley stood for the space of several heartbeats looking at him. Finally, she seemed to reach a decision of her own. She nodded and sat, cross-legged, on the bed. “Yes, I’ll listen. It’s the strangest thing, but I already feel safe with you. Or maybe it’s not strange, considering what happened on the beach earlier.”
Conlan wanted truth between them. “You’ve been inside my mind, Riley. Unwanted or not, you know me now on a deeper level than most people do. Maybe on a deeper level than anyone, barring our healer.”
She stared at him, hesitating, then nodded.
“You must realize by now that I’ve been inside your mind as well,” he said, almost afraid to admit it. “I’ve seen your goodness and your self-sacrifice. I know you.”
Unless her deception was hidden behind some mental trickery, his mind mocked him. Who knew what a true empath was capable of?
Jumping up off the bed, Riley began to pace back and forth in front of him. “You don’t know anything,” she said bitterly. “Goodness? Yeah, right. I’m just somebody who tries to do her job the best she can. And usually fails miserably at it.”
She stopped in front of him, so close he could reach out and touch her. He had to clench his hands on the arms of the chair to keep from doing so.
To keep from touching her. Damn, he wanted to touch her.
“Tell me,” he said, instead.
“Right. You’re from mythical Atlantis, and you want to hear about a day in the life of a social worker?”
“Tell me,” he repeated, opening his mind to her so she could feel the truth of it. Feel how he wanted to know all about her.
A look of wonder came over her face. “You really do want to know, don’t you?”
“I do.”
She paused for a moment, then sank down onto the carpet near him and—almost in a trance—recounted the events of her day. As she related the story of the girl with the gun, Conlan had to fight with every ounce of his self-control to keep her from seeing his rage. He wanted to kill. He wanted to rend, tear, and put his fist through the wall.
He did none of those things, but sat with a mask of calm on his face, reaching desperately for his training, for his objectivity. How could he be affected so much by this woman?
He looked at her, sitting on the floor in front of him, anguish on her face as she told of the children she tried so hard to rescue. Babies having babies. The hopeless struggle against poverty and a society that didn’t have time for the lost ones.
As she talked, as he felt the emotions underlying her words, the question in his mind changed.
How could he not be affected so much by this woman?
Her words trailed off. “So that’s when you showed up, and I guess you know the rest. Maybe now you can tell me exactly who and what you are, and why you followed me to my house.”
She looked around, blinking, at the room, then scrambled to her feet, wary again. “While you’re at it, you can let me know where the hell I am.”
He stood, slowly, so as not to startle her. “You humble me, Riley. I must match your honesty with my own. I am chief among the Warriors of Poseidon, sworn to safeguard humankind.”
Grasping the edge of his shirt, he pulled it aside to show the mark of Poseidon he bore. High on the right side of his chest, where the sea god himself had burned the symbol of the Warriors of Poseidon into Conlan’s flesh.
The circle representing all the peoples of the world, intersected by the pyramid of knowledge deeded to them by the ancients. The silhouette of Poseidon’s Trident bisecting them both.
“This mark I wear offers testimony to my vow. And yet, from what I hear between the words in your retelling, this night you deserve to wear it more than do I.”
She lifted her hand, almost as if to trace the symbol with her fingertips. Then she pulled her hand back and grinned. “You’re doing that formal talking thing again,” she said. “Somehow, it reminds me of my mother, yelling for me when I was in trouble. Riley Elisabeth Dawson meant I was in big trouble.”
“Riley Elisabeth,” he repeated, savoring the sound of it. “It fits you. Strong and feminine, both.”
Somehow, unknowing, he’d moved closer to her. The heat of her, the seduction in the curves of her body, in the line of her neck, drew him in. She looked up at him, flickers of alarm changing to awareness in her eyes.
He could still feel her inside him. Her thoughts, her emotions.
He wanted to feel himself inside her.
Conlan lifted his hands to her arms, pulling her forward. Slowly. Gently. Giving her time to deny him.
Praying she wouldn’t.
He stepped forward to meet her halfway. Drinking in her scent. Wanting to bury his face in the silky hair that tumbled past her shoulders.
Wanting to bury his body in her heat.
By Poseidon’s balls, he needed to touch her again. Needed to kiss her again. “Riley,” he groaned. “Please.”
She knew exactly what he meant. He could see it as the awareness in her eyes changed to expectation.
Anticipation.
She lifted her face and touched her lips gently to
his. And he was lost.
Lost in the sensation, in the colors sparkling in her mind—in his mind—in their minds together. Lost in the feel of her softness pressed against his hardness. The kiss deepened.
He deepened it. He swept his tongue inside of her warmth, her sweet, welcoming mouth, and his knees nearly buckled when she put her arms around his neck and pulled him even closer to her.
Heat, colors, and a torrent of need. Caught in a maelstrom, a cyclone, a full-on, balls-to-the-wall ocean gale of wanting, he tightened his arms around her and lifted her until her feet were off the floor. Her breasts rubbed against his bare chest. He groaned deep in his throat, in her throat, in the space trapped between their mouths.
She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips, wiggling to gain purchase on his body, and the heat between her legs was suddenly right up against his cock. Impossibly, he hardened even further, sure he was going to split his pants—rip her shirt open—tear her jeans off. Find out if the colors in his head would intensify into a starburst when he drove into her.
The passion swallowing his senses rocketed through him with a bang.
Or no, damnit. That was the door slamming open.
Conlan whirled around to face the threat, snarling, pushing Riley down and behind him as he did so.
Mine. Mine to protect. Mine!
Ven stood at the door, mouth hanging open for the second time that night. “Er, yeah. Well. Ah, sorry to interrupt, but Alaric figures you need your rest and you’re, well, you’re broadcasting a sex vibe that is so slamming loud you’re making every man in the house horn—ah, uncomfortable.”
From behind him, Riley made a choked sound. Conlan felt the waves of embarrassment pulsing from her. He fought for rationality, sucking in a deep breath.
Ven. My brother. Not a threat.
“I—yeah. Rest.” He took another deep, steadying breath. Alaric. The Trident. “Has he been able to scry the location of the Trident?”
Ven shook his head, amusement stamped on his face. “No, he needs to recuperate from the healing. But he used a few unflattering words to describe how you’re, ah, keeping him from his rest.”
Conlan could imagine how his brother was editing Alaric’s language. If Riley were broadcasting this furnace of sexual desire to every warrior in the house—and to the priest, who’d taken a vow of celibacy—well, damn.