Just what power did he possess? If she could learn his clan, she would have a better idea. Each had particular abilities, passed down through dwindling generations. The Tigony had not inspired myths of Zeus’s lightning bolt by accident. They harnessed and concentrated kinetic energy—which wound up looking very much like an electrical storm.
But . . . her tormentor could be crossbred.
Though Audrey had been raised among the Tigony, few had let her forget her origins. Her unknown father was from Clan Pendray, the vicious berserkers that had inspired Norse and Celtic myths. Only Mal had ever forgiven her mother. Audrey’s place among his inner circle had been granted at his discretion alone.
Crossbred children could possess extraordinary—and dangerous—gifts in unique combinations. Or they could possess nothing at all. Like Audrey. She’d never been immune to the whispers, the rumors.
Standing, he glared down at her. “If you move from this spot, I’ll leave you for the night. Cold. Wet. No soap, clothes, or food.”
Clothes and food. Her stomach contracted. “Any other threats?”
He smirked. “You’ll be confined to your cage instead of being allowed free rein of the training room.”
“This is a training room?”
“One of them. Now stay here.”
His voice alone was almost powerful enough to force obedience. It was low and throaty, as if wounds could speak. The collar may as well have fused with his larynx. She shivered for reasons that had nothing to do with the chilly water.
Not waiting for Audrey to comply, he strode back down the corridor. His swagger was as maddening as it was fascinating. Ridged, well-built thighs powered his body with surprising grace. His bare back was a lacework of scars. Straps crisscrossed below his shoulder blades to hold his chest plate in place.
Sinew. Brawn.
Another shiver.
Audrey scrubbed the paper hospital gown from her skin. Once naked, she turned away from the dungeon room. Dragon be, the brute was right. She was filthy. Dirt and dead skin sloughed off beneath her palms and fingernails. Although she was frozen through to her bones, she relished the feeling of starting over.
If he intended to train her, he could be useful—not for fighting in the Cages, but for escaping. She would stay strong and learn what she could. No one would keep her from Jack.
She only prayed to the Dragon that something of her little boy remained when she reached him.
The man returned. A little chunk of soap landed by her hip. She snatched it up. A scant lather was enough to finish washing her body. Only once did she glance behind her, when she was about to wash between her legs. He squatted on the balls of his feet, with his back against the opposite wall. Watching her. A folded pile of fresh clothes waited by his boots.
Goose bumps shivered up the wet skin of her back. He had grabbed her between the legs. The lonayíp bastard.
The human laboratory guards had used her that way. But she’d been drugged and bound, unable to resist. Some deeper instinct told her this man would want her to fight back.
Turning away, she lathered her grimy hair. A year ago, she’d lived in a sunny Manhattan condo overlooking a small park. The bathroom she’d shared with Caleb had been filled with sexy indulgences. Loofahs. Bath salts. Specialty hair products and expensive makeup. Moisturizers of all scents and purposes—for dry lips, barely-there crow’s-feet, cracked heels, and bikini burn. It seemed so ridiculous now. Those were the concerns of an entirely different woman.
The woman she’d become appreciated the little chunk of soap. At least it wasn’t some astringent hazmat-level disinfectant. Her skin had toughened just to survive, like the rest of her. This soap was something almost . . . pleasant. It rinsed very clean and left her feeling oddly invigorated. Such a small change in the scheme of things. A change she’d desperately needed.
“Come get your clothes.”
Of course. What man would turn down the opportunity to ogle a naked woman? His demand was almost expected. She’d only waited for him to give it that rasping, broken timbre.
Clothes. Then food. Each step was laid out before her like Dorothy on her way to the Emerald City. She nearly smiled at that fractured thought. Jack had been four the first time they’d watched that movie. The flying monkeys terrified him so badly that Caleb had traded out The Wizard of Oz DVD for Cars. Audrey had made popcorn. They’d let him stay up late to finish his favorite movie, but he’d fallen asleep on the couch, sprawled across Caleb’s lap. Her husband, so blond, had stroked their little boy’s wheat-pale hair.
Whatever this barbarian planned to do to her had nothing on that memory. It twisted and burned until she couldn’t breathe. Bodily pain could be disconnected. Like flipping a switch. But messages from her heart sliced through her thoughts and attacked at unexpected moments.
Even when she stood wet and naked in front of a stranger.
Without grace, still shivering, she walked toward where he knelt against the wall. Never had she been so conscious of the surgical marks left behind by Dr. Aster’s experiments. Some scars never healed, not even for a Dragon King.
“Are you going to give me my clothes?”
“They’re not yours,” he said. “You have no possessions.”
She gritted her molars. “May I borrow them?”
The amusement in his eyes made her want to pluck them out. He flicked his wrist, and the garments landed on her wet toes. A tank top, plain women’s briefs, and an industrial-looking set of clothes. “Get dressed.”
“Here?”
He nodded.
Let him look. Dignity had long been replaced by one instinct: survival.
“My little boy is named Jack,” she said softly, just to herself.
She focused on her words rather than the vulnerability that punched her heart against her ribs.
The pants were tough, tanned leather lined with denim and what felt like . . . silk? The shirt was made of the same odd combination. Both fit snugly but with enough room to move freely. Had they taken her measurements while she was unconscious? Dragon be, there existed so many ways to violate a human being.
She wasn’t human. Never had been, no matter how many Pixar films and bags of popcorn and bottles of lotion. That didn’t mean she could hold back the pressure filling her chest like hot sand. Her grief needed to be spoken aloud. Audrey MacLaren had been a high school art teacher, married to a marketing exec. They’d been happy. So content that they’d taken it for granted.
Now, that contentment was nothing but pain.
“Jack Robert MacLaren.” Her voice was stronger now. Echoes touched the back wall of the training room. “He’s almost six now. My husband’s name was Caleb Andrew MacLaren. He was thirty-four when he was murdered trying to defend our son. I would’ve liked the closure of attending his funeral, but I was strapped to a table in Dr. Aster’s lab.”
“I didn’t say you could speak.”
“So stop me.”
The beastly man stood slowly. So damn tall. Audrey was a respectable five foot eight, but he dwarfed her. “Is that a dare?”
“Not unless you want it to be,” she said. “I’m doing what I was told—getting dressed. Why should you care what I talk about? It was just a distraction while you slavered over me.” The clothes were armor, like wearing a fortress. Assurance lined her bones with steel. “Did that turn you on? To watch a defenseless woman shiver in a bit of cave water? If I were to grab between your legs, you servile, brainwashed dog, would you be hard? I hope not. I hope you fondle your limp little prick tonight and cuss a blue streak because you still can’t get it up.”
Massive fists bunched along his thighs. That scarred lip twitched. Eyes narrowed to slits that glittered deep brown. A heavy pulse ticked at his temple, just where his cropped hair and his serpent tattoo stopped short. Branded by the Asters.
He was disgusting.
This was the moment when she learned how far she could push her own personal bully. The moment when he might knock her head clean off.
Audrey smoothed wet hair back from her forehead and met his gaze. “You need me. If the Old Man wanted me here, he won’t appreciate seeing me harmed. I bet you can’t risk that, warrior.” She sneered the word. A warrior fights to be free, not to grovel in the dark. “So hit me, throw me back in that cage, or get me some Dragon-damned food.”
• • •
During combat, Leto would’ve laid waste to the insulting bitch. Circled behind her. Crushed her ribs before she uttered another infuriating syllable. With the collars temporarily disengaged inside the matrix framework of the Cages, his astonishing speed and reflexes—the hallmark of Clan Garnis—would’ve made that possible.
He lived for those moments of near-freedom when his body was allowed to do what the Dragon had intended.
Far from relishing the challenge as he had only an hour before, he thought back. He couldn’t remember the last time a neophyte had figured out how their relationship worked. Symbiosis. If this woman failed to entertain, Leto would share in the blame. To lose face, no matter the circumstances, left him silently seething.
He checked his thoughts. There was always something to be done when a neophyte got lippy—no matter how clever. No matter how fucking sexy.
Leto shut down that thought even faster. Just as he tried to forget the healed surgical incisions so obvious on her lustrous golden skin. A violation.
“Get in your cage.”
“Go to hell.”
“You can stay out here, but there will be no food tonight. We’ll wait days if we need to.”
Defiance dazzled from her bright eyes.
This time Leto was able to hide his renewed surprise that she knew how to pick her battles. The Tigony made no secret of their disgust for the Cages. They were known as the Tricksters of the Five Clans, more eager to talk and wheedle than fight. Their powers could be formidable—fires that stormed from the heavens. Yet few tapped into that potential. They simply talked too much.
Why did the Old Man believe she was valuable?
“Get in your cage, Nynn of Clan Tigony. Or I’ll throw you in.”
“What happened to letting me have free rein of this . . . cave?”
“That was before you insulted me.”
She shot a disdainful glance toward his crotch. “Hit a little too close to home?”
He pulled until her ear nestled against his mouth. She smelled delicious now. Clean. Fresh. Scrubbed clear of that particular stink lab refugees always carried. A sweet, unnatural decay. He never let his mind journey to Dr. Aster’s lab. Imagination was best left to fighting techniques, but he couldn’t deny what his senses told him.
Whatever happened there was simply wrong.
Leto used his grip to shove her into the four-foot-square iron cage. Because he was angry. And because he hated being unprepared against any opponent. No one of her rank wound up in the Cages. The Tigony were practically royalty and had been since their days as patron gods to the Greeks and Romans.
Combat was saved for the poorest, most desperate Dragon Kings. Or for those like Leto who’d fought since early manhood for the opportunity to perpetuate their bloodlines. Combat could also be used as a means for the three human cartels to execute their human enemies. They made for a good show. Quick. Bloody.
But to train the Honorable Giva’s cousin? The magnitude of Leto’s responsibility was growing by the minute.
He threw the lock and knelt, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Your identity won’t make a difference when we train. What will make a difference is your gift from the Dragon. And I sure as hell know what that is.”
“My gift never manifested!”
“Save your breath.”
He said it flatly, because he’d seen proof of what destruction her powers could render. Dr. Aster’s lab, with its roof obliterated. Her lie was obvious.
He frowned.
Unless . . . Unless she had been subjected to the same procedure as poor young Pell. Leto had survived the disorientation and fear of his first manifestation, but his sister had not. Vigorous powers required the intervention of a telepath. Sometimes the process of installing unconscious restraints went badly. Very badly.
Leto stood and shook off his foreboding. Time to get food. She would respond to food.
He walked away without explanation, unsurprised when her shouts followed him down the corridor. Shrieks, curses, and the rattling of iron bars. He’d been confident in what to expect when first entering her training cell.
Now, he knew what she looked like naked.
He exited at the guards’ discretion and walked placidly between them toward the mess hall. He knew the turns and sloping underground tunnels well enough to walk them with his eyes shut. May as well. Images of Nynn overlaid his vision—images he tried to suppress. Waist and hips designed for a man’s hands. Supple legs to curl around a man’s lower back. Tight nipples waiting for a man’s eager mouth.
She’d got it all wrong. He had tamped down his arousal out of sheer mental discipline. He would not be limp when he bedded down that evening. In his private quarters, he would indulge those erotic images and release the grinding tension she’d ratcheted into his joints.
The mess hall was no more elaborate than Nynn’s training room, only bigger, having been carved out of granite deep within the earth. Dozens of human workers, all male, had gathered for the evening meal. Long wooden tables were flanked on each side by plain benches. Dozens of durable pewter plates held beans, rice, chunks of beef, kernels of corn, and buttered bread. Leto’s stomach rumbled.
The guards accepted their meals from a stumpy man named Kilgore, then sat to eat. Kilgore paid them no attention. “Here for your ration, Leto?”
“Yes, and one for my neophyte.”
“The girl? Caught a glimpse of her when they brought her in from the lab. Is she a looker? Couldn’t tell.”
“Food first. You know that.”
“You can be such a bore.”
Leto stood over him. “Earning the roar of a satisfied crowd is never a bore. Can you say the same for ladling beans?”
“Don’t rub it in,” Kilgore said sourly. His puckered little face didn’t need much incentive to curl in on itself. “Not all of us can be stars in the Asters’ empire.”
The man served up dinner and assembled a second plate with a lid.
While Leto sat in the mess, watching Kilgore distribute food to the remaining workers, he ate with silent relish. Quality fare.
He’d heard rumors of Dragon Kings who fought for the other human cartels, the Townsends and Kaneshiros. Some were fed no better than scraps. Their holding cells were disgusting, riddled with vermin and disease. They fought for prizes that were far from guaranteed. Only Dr. Aster had perfected the process of reproduction among Dragon Kings. No one knew how he’d managed to solve the problem—or why conception was a problem in the first place.
The two other cartels had achieved limited successes. Their warriors bore as many insane, malformed children as ones delivered healthy and vital. But it was a chance. A chance more were willing to take by the day.
Leto faced no such uncertainty. He was a god to the Asters. The best. Praised above all the other men and women who shared this warrior’s life. That Yeta had given birth to a healthy child meant he was respected, not just feared. Anyone who could earn the privilege to conceive was looked upon as immortal. A bloodline passed down.
That feat was becoming increasingly rare. In Yeta’s daughter existed the future of Clan Garnis. Few remained to take up that mantle.
He returned his empty plate to the wide washing sink and turned to Kilgore. “You ready for it?”
>
The small man stopped in the midst of lifting a scoop of corn. He ignored the thin, sallow-faced worker who waited for his food. Nearly every human in the compound started to look that way—pale, sunken, wasted. Life underground turned them into two-legged moles. Leto hid his disgust.
For millennia, the Dragon Kings had ruled over these people. For good reason. Mere herd animals, humans.
“Go on, then.” Kilgore’s dark, beady eyes were eager. “Her tits. Tell me.”
“Small but shapely.”
“And?”
“Tight buds. Dusky. Best I’ve seen in years.”
Kilgore exhaled slowly. A shudder of pleasure jerked the loose skin along his jowls. “You really are without peer, my friend.”
Leto hid a scowl. He was servant to the humans who rewarded him extremely well. He was the equivalent of a god to the rest. Yet he counted no humans among his friends—as if such a word existed for him. Sharing physical details about incoming neophytes spoke to Kilgore in the language of small minds. The human workers agreed to three-month contracts, with no chance of interaction with women. Their lust for news about female warriors and victims bound for the Cages was insatiable.
Kilgore would embellish those curt descriptions, earn clout for himself, and spread proof of Leto’s superiority. Such men eagerly bet on their favorite champion.
And Leto earned favors. Lots of favors.
Distasteful. But necessary.
He took up the second plate of food Kilgore had prepared. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a woman to break.”
CHAPTER THREE
The bastard.
The lonayíp bastard.
He left the tray of food next to her cage, just out of reach, and resumed his place against the wall.
Audrey’s stomach was a raging beast threatening to gnaw through her skin. It wanted free to scramble through those iron bars. To gorge. Dizzy on the scent of fresh meat and vegetables, she closed her eyes. There was nothing else to do unless she begged.
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