Warrior Avenged

by Addison Fox

Kane ignored the sharp stabs in his gut as the poison twisted his intestines like rows of tangled-up Christmas lights and headed out of the weight room. If he could, he’d have just ported from the room to hightail it out of there as quickly as possible, but he had a meet later tonight in London and couldn’t risk using up that much strength. He needed food to stay strong and not a whole hell of a lot wanted to stay down right now.

  A rush of air greeted him as Quinn’s large body took shape in front of him in less than a second, the bull’s port from his own weight bench instantaneous. “You’ve got two weeks, Kane. And you’re pushing too hard. Give it a rest, stay strong and once you beat it back, you can go after her again.”

  Whether it was his own anger or the added aggression of the poison, Kane wasn’t quite sure. Nor did he care. He launched himself at Quinn, knocking the Taurus to the ground, where they fell into a heap of grunting, groaning testosterone.

  Where Quinn was broad, beefy muscle, Kane’s body was long and lean, his muscles more sinew than heft. He knew they must not look very well matched from a distance, but his leaner form allowed him fuller range of motion and an ability to squeeze out of Quinn’s hold.

  ’Course, it also meant he took a sizable hit from those meaty fists when Quinn finally laid one on him.

  A satisfying zing ran up Kane’s arm as he planted his own fist smack in the middle of Quinn’s baby-faced mug. The satisfaction was short-lived as he felt strong hands latch on to his shoulders and pull him from behind. The black-silk-shirt-covered forearm gave his captor away before Kane even saw his face.

  “Get off me, Grey. I don’t need your help.”

  The strength of the hold didn’t weaken, but Grey’s voice held sly amusement. “What you need is a serious ass-kicking from both of us, but you’re not worth the risk to my new Brioni slacks.”

  “Pussy.”

  The hold lessened, followed immediately by an open-palmed smack to the side of the head. “Right back at ya, Monte.”

  Before Kane could react, Grey was already leaning down to extend a hand to Quinn, whose mouth was on overdrive, as usual. “Ignore him, Grey. The scorp’s wardrobe is even flashier than yours.”

  “Understated and elegant are my hallmarks,” Kane added for good measure. This was an old argument and his protests were token at best. He’d figured out long ago clothes made the man. And when you iced bad guys for a living, it helped to look the part.

  “Hardly.” Grey dusted a hand over those black slacks he was so proud of. “Seeing as how I didn’t actually come here to break up a dogfight, you want to hear me out?”

  Kane felt the hot flare of annoyance rise off of Quinn. “Fine.”

  He still felt pissy, but curiosity quickly won out. “Fine. What’s going on?”

  “I think I got a line on that brunette you’ve been after.”

  A renewed flare of anger flooded his system, this time having nothing to do with the poison living underneath his skin. “How do you know it’s Ilsa?”

  “She’s a blonde at the moment, either via dye job or wig. My call’s a wig—I’m very rarely wrong about these things.”

  “Do you have a point somewhere in all this self-congratulating?” Kane rubbed his stomach, the center of his body the current attack point of the poison.

  Kane saw Grey’s eyes narrow to his torso, but his answer was matter-of-fact. “She’s been paying an awful lot of attention to my club lately. Couple that with several jaunts up and down the front of this place, captured on the cameras, and it’s a match with the photo Quinn turned up of her. I think we’ve got her.”

  Kane’s stomach tightened again, this time having nothing to do with the toxin that filled his veins. He didn’t want there to be any we in Ilsa’s capture. He wanted her. All by himself. Shaking his head, he pressed through the selfish desires he had no business having. “She’s clearly a highly trained agent. There’s no way she’d be so stupid to get caught like that.”

  Grey shrugged. “Maybe she’s not nearly as savvy as you think she is.”

  “She knocked me on my ass, Grey. She knew what she was doing.”

  Quinn rubbed at his jaw as he added his input to their little coffee klatch. “Grey’s got a point, Kane. Something’s always rung false for me. Top of the list is why she burned you in the first place. You’ve done nothing to make yourself a target. Hell, from the files I’ve hacked into, you’re seen as an incredible asset within MI6. What would be the incentive to get rid of you?”

  Kane had asked himself the very same question for the last six months. Banging his head against concrete would have produced better answers than what he’d managed to come up with in all that time. The only thing he kept coming back to was how they were introduced.

  The director of his übersecret branch was the ever-capable Edward St. Giles. He’d worked for St. Giles for years and trusted the man more than he trusted any other mortal on the planet. Edward had asked him to attend a state dinner with Ilsa, where they were tasked to ferret out a scientist who’d caught MI6’s attention for his excessive interest in uranium—and its potential sale to countries developing their weapons programs.

  Straightforward. Simple. Easy.

  Maybe he’d thought it was too simple. Hadn’t kept his guard up as he should have. And maybe that was how she’d managed to sneak in underneath it and fuck him.

  Literally and figuratively.

  Grey held out his cell phone, a surprisingly clear image covering its glass face. “Is this her?”

  Kane knew it before he’d even focused on the screen. Knew it as he took in the shape of her jaw and the aristocratic line of her neck. The blond wig couldn’t disguise the pure essence of her face.

  “It’s her.”

  Grey was already in motion. “Then let’s go. She’s been outside Equinox every night for the past three. If she follows suit tonight, we’ll intercept her outside the club.”

  Kane stopped Grey before the Aries hit the doorway. Before he reluctantly had to grip on to the calm-headed asshole for the port. A port Kane knew he wasn’t strong enough to make right now. “She’s mine, Grey.”

  “Don’t worry, Monte. None of us is dumb enough to get in your way.”

  There were serious benefits to being a Greek goddess. Immortality, permanent youth, and a blessed lack of self-doubt all rode quite high on the list.

  So when had she become so intent on second-guessing herself?

  Nemesis hotfooted it down the lightly crowded New York sidewalk, the street growing increasingly full of humans as she neared her destination. She ignored the light spring rain as it clung to the pale hair of her wig, trying desperately to figure out when she’d lost her mental ability to kick ass, take names and move on to her next victim.

  When had she become a sniveling bore like the rest of them? And why in the name of Hades was she even risking herself like this with these stupid jaunts past the Warriors’ club?

  Even the name she’d selected was stupid. Ilsa.

  As in Ilsa and Rick from Casablanca.

  It had seemed like such a great idea at the time—a cheeky wink at the Fates, if you will. Of course, somehow in her rush to make a joke of her original meet with Kane, she’d forgotten one small fact.

  She’d watched that movie over and over, weeping each and every time for the ill-fated lovers.

  And now she knew exactly how Ilsa had felt.

  Torn between bone-deep attraction for one and duty to another. Suddenly trapped inside a life she didn’t actually want. Full of a love that drove her nearly mad.

  It was true Rick’s Ilsa wasn’t actually a real human being, but rather an image on celluloid, Nemesis reflected. Of course, if you wanted to mess with technicalities, she wasn’t human in the truest sense of the word, either.

  So why, then, had that cold rock of a heart she’d ignored for millennia suddenly come alive with a vengeance?

  Kane, her conscience whispered.

  For six months, the answer had been the same. Six months that had
lasted longer than any single one of her sixteen thousand years of life.

  Kane. Always Kane.

  The blocks flew by, the cacophony of New York traffic doing nothing to drown out her thoughts. For six months she’d barely handled her duties to Hades, had skated around her agreement with Emmett and had ignored the loud voices in her head telling her this was a very bad idea.

  All so she could get a glimpse of him. A peek at his life and how he was doing. A sense of the man he was.

  Ilsa remembered the first time she’d laid eyes on Kane. Emmett had infiltrated MI6 just as he’d promised her he would, assuming the body of one of the organization’s top leaders, Edward St. Giles.

  Emmett could hardly wait to introduce her to Kane, he was so anxious to put their plans in motion to capture one of Themis’s Warriors. He’d found an opportunity quickly enough. The two of them would attend a state dinner, ferreting out as much information as they could from a well-connected scientist.

  Or at least that was what Kane thought they were doing. Her real job was to keep an eye on the Warrior, searching for weakness.

  Vulnerability.

  Something—anything—that might give her an advantage.

  In retrospect, Ilsa knew the dinner should have set off her instincts. Should have warned her, somehow. Her only defense, when she’d thought about it later, was that there was simply no way anyone could have prepared for the image of Kane Montague in a designer tuxedo. The suit jacket molded his broad shoulders, descending in a V toward the whipcord-slim hips that sat atop long legs. Legs that, she now knew from a later viewing, were all sinew and muscle.

  She could still remember the feel of the silken threads of his tuxedo jacket under her fingertips as he’d maneuvered her across the dance floor. The bold stare of his onyx eyes, their endless depths fathoms darker than the black cashmere of his tux. The almost-harsh planes of his body as he pressed her against him.

  No, there was nothing vulnerable about the man.

  Nothing.

  Ilsa snapped back to attention at the loud squeal of a silly girl dressed in a nearly nonexistent miniskirt as she barely sidestepped a puddle of rainwater. The rain had begun to come down in hard, lashing waves, but it made no difference to the legion of clubbers who wanted in. The line to get into Equinox tonight was a long one.

  What am I even doing here? Especially since she had a big job for Hades tonight and she really should already be on her way to it. Duty called, and all that flowery responsibility shit. Yet here she was, doe-eyed and obsessive, walking past this stupid club.

  Again.

  What had possibly possessed her to walk when she could have ported in and out to see if Kane was there tonight?

  Bad decisions. Bad choices.

  Continuing her streak, Ilsa kept right on going, walking past the club and toward the rear entrance of the building.

  He’s not worth it. Not worth what you’ll have to sacrifice.

  Ignoring the steady stream of internal dialogue, Ilsa had barely cleared the back side of the club when a harsh line of static burned a fiery path down her spinal cord. Although not fully immune to pain, her immortal body was vulnerable to very little.

  But this?

  The intensity of the heat was so jarring she fell to her knees in a puddle, rain running in rivulets down her back and neck, over the exposed line of her cleavage. Pushing the pain aside, ignoring the stinging heat by sheer force of will, she attempted to regain her footing. Surprise—and was that panic?—shot through her as a heavy weight bore down on her back, holding her in place as large arms wrapped around her in a bear hug.

  Vaguely, a shout registered through the adrenaline lighting up her system and the heavy rush of blood in her ears. “Do you have her yet?”

  A vile stench filled the air as a pair of wet lips rubbed against her ear, fetid breath coming heavy against her face. “Got her.”

  Forcing strength through her slight frame, she rammed her head back toward the heavy weight, trying to dislodge the asshole who thought he’d have his way with her. Just as she made contact—a deep, satisfying thud—another wave of heat assaulted her, wrapping her nerve endings in liquid fire. Her neck, already extended from the reverse head butt, swam with pain, as she choked in breath, desperate for air.

  What in Hades’s name is this?

  Real panic flared, the sort she hadn’t felt since Zeus’s irreparable anger had descended upon her those many thousand years ago. Panic that twisted the gut and forced air in and out of her lungs in harsh bursts.

  With it, another wave of resolute anger filled her. She’d vowed that day that she would never be weak again.

  Would never surrender to another being.

  Would never be beaten back.

  With grim determination, Ilsa forged renewed strength in the fire of the pain. Straightening inch by inch, she pressed against the immense weight at her back. She felt it—knew it—the moment she had him. As her captor’s resistance slipped, she used one final burst of strength to dislodge him.

  Fists bunched, she lifted her shoulders, extending her arms in a sweeping arc against her captor’s hold. Stumbling forward, she whirled around to finish the job and take the asshole down. No sooner did she have him in her sights—a large brute of a man with scars crisscrossing his face and a spiderweb tattoo covering his neck—when his head went spiraling off his body.

  Ilsa blinked through the pouring rain.

  What the—?

  Kane Montague stood over the rapidly disintegrating corpse, his wolfish smile broad and easily visible through the torrents of rain. He held an ancient-looking sword aloft in his firm grip. “Hello, Ilsa.”

  She nodded and bit back an actual gulp. “Kane.”

  “I guess there’s really only one thing to say.”

  Her gaze drank him in as he stood before her. Rain poured off the short length of his hair, down over the gray T-shirt that now molded itself to every delicious inch of his torso. As if at a distance from herself, Ilsa heard her voice come out on a breathy moan. “What’s that?”

  “Of all the gin joints . . .”

  Chapter Two

  Ilsa hadn’t actually ever had gin. The taste burned her tongue and sent a torrent of shivers down her spine as the overlarge sip struggled its way down her throat. Despite her reaction to it, she wouldn’t cough.

  Would. Not. Cough.

  The well-dressed Warrior they called Grey spoke first. “What were you doing dragging that scum to my club?”

  Ilsa recognized him from her earlier surveillance of Equinox. He was the owner and it was his office they’d brought her into. Sleek metal and chrome were the hallmarks of the room, matched to ocean-sized black leather couches. The overall effect was an effortless blend of power and male sanctuary.

  Despite her ability to see deeply into men’s souls, this one was closed up tighter than a drum. Just like the other Warriors. Just as Kane had been all those many months ago.

  And still was.

  Grey continued to stare at her in expectant silence, but she let him wait. Ilsa—or Nemesis, damn it, her name was Nemesis—bowed to no one.

  Letting the moment draw out, she diverted her thoughts to more important matters. She figured it was a small miracle they hadn’t elected to restrain her, but the sandwich she made between Kane and the other one called Quinn ensured she wasn’t going anywhere fast. Even if she tried to port, the fact their bodies touched meant they’d be locked in the port with her.

  Not that either of them knew she knew how to port.

  But the end result was the same. She was stuck there.

  With Kane’s long, slender leg burning a hole into the side of hers wherever their skin touched.

  She glanced down at her own very naked leg, stretched out from under that stupid skirt she’d put on earlier. Why hadn’t she thought of wearing pants? She hated the uncomfortable feeling of restraint the pants gave her but at least they offered a modicum of protection from the heat rising off that sexy male leg. />
  A strong, sexy limb that separated her from his very large, very long—

  Grey’s harsh voice interrupted one of her most favorite fantasies. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I’ve got you on surveillance. And then I find you behind my club working with Des—serious scum. If you think a trampy skirt, fuck-me heels and your MI6 contacts are going to save you from us, you really don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  And that was where he was wrong. She knew exactly whom she was dealing with. It was these boys who had no idea whom they were dealing with.

  A spark flared deep inside, the pilot light of her fury that refused to go out. An anger that had refused to be squelched in any of the endless years of her existence. Oh, she knew all about Themis’s Warriors. Her band of zodiac-inspired soldiers, made in a deal with Zeus during the fifth—and darkest—age of man.

  All those present-day whiners who complained the world was coming to an end didn’t know how good they had it. During the darkest ages, she’d been busier than she’d ever been before or since. And instead of living the life she’d been called to, she was stuck doing Hades’s bidding for a mere chance at some semblance of a life.

  No thanks to Zeus and that bitter bitch who had infected his mind.

  Themis.

  Themis was the real reason Zeus had turned on her. Ilsa was only happy the self-righteous pain in the ass had finally gotten her comeuppance when Zeus dumped her for Hera.

  Justice.

  A bitter taste swam on Ilsa’s tongue, having nothing to do with the gin. It hurt badly enough when justice was turned back on you. It hurt infinite times worse when you hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

  No one knew that lesson better than she did.

  With a mutinous glance up at Grey, Ilsa took another leisurely sip of the gin. And barely fought off the need to cough again. By Cerberus’s spiked collar, that was some strong stuff. The time to stall was up. Besides, if she waited any longer, she might be tempted to take another sip of that nasty liquid.

  Pushing bravado into her tone, and resolutely ignoring the heat of Kane’s body where he sat pressed against her, Ilsa talked around the gravel that had taken up residence in her vocal cords. From the gin.