Anya, goddess of Anarchy, daughter of Lawlessness, and dealer of disorder, stood on the edge of a crowded dance floor.  All of the dancers were human females, beautiful and nearly naked, chosen specifically by the Lords of the Underworld to provide the night’s entertainment.  Both vertical and horizontal. 

            Wisps of smoke cast a dream-fog around them, and pinpricks of starlight rained from the swirling strobe, illuminating everything inside the darkened nightclub in slow, sweeping circles.  From the corner of her eye, she caught a scintillating glimpse of a taut immortal ass pounding forward, back, forward, into an ecstatic female.      

            My kind of party, she thought with a wicked grin.  Not that she’d been invited.

            Like anything could have stopped me from coming.    

            The Lords of the Underworld were delectable immortal warriors who were possessed by the demon spirits that had once resided inside Pandora’s box.  And now, with a few rounds of hard liquor and even harder sex, they were saying goodbye to Budapest, the city they’d called home for hundreds of years.    

            Anya wanted in on the action.  With one warrior in particular. 

            “Part,” she whispered, fighting her intrinsic compulsion to shout “Fire” instead and watch as the humans raced away in a panic, screaming hysterically.  Let the good times roll.

            An erratic pulse of rock music that matched the erratic beat of her heart blasted from the speakers, making it impossible for anyone to hear her.  They obeyed, anyway, compelled on a level they probably didn’t understand. 

            A path cleared, slowly. . . so slowly. . .

            Finally the object of her fascination came into view.  Heated breath caught in her lungs, and she shivered.  Lucien.  Deliciously scarred, irresistibly stoic and possessed by the spirit of Death.  Right now he sat at a table in back, expression blank as he stared up at Reyes, his friend and fellow immortal.

            What were they saying?  If Lucien wanted the keeper of Pain to procure one of those mortal women for him, a false declaration of fire would be the least of their worries.  Teeth grinding together, Anya tilted her head to the side, zoned in on them while discarding all other surrounding noise, and listened. 

            “ – she was right.  I checked the satellite photos on Torin’s computer.  Those temples are rising from the sea.”  Reyes knocked back the contents of the silver flask he held.  “One is in Greece and one is in Rome, and if they continue to rise at such a swift rate, they’ll be high enough to explore sometime tomorrow.” 

            “Why do humans not know about them?”  Lucien scrubbed his jaw with two strong fingers, a habit of his.  “Paris has watched the news stations and there has been nothing.  Not even speculation.”

            Silly boy, she thought, relieved sex was not the night’s topic.  You know about them only because I wanted you to know.  No one else would -- or could -- see them.  She had made sure of that with a sweet little thing called chaos, her strongest source of power, hiding the temples with storms to keep humans away, while at the same time feeding the Lords enough information to draw them the hell out of Buda. 

            She wanted Lucien out of Buda and off his game.  Just for a little while.  A disconcerted man was easier to control.        

            Reyes sighed.  “Perhaps the new gods are responsible.  Most days I am sure they hate us and long to destroy us, simply for being half demon.”

            Lucien’s expression remained blank.  “Does not matter who is responsible.  We will travel in the morning as planned.  My hands itch to search one of those temples.”

            Reyes tossed the now-empty flask onto the table.  His fingers curled around the top of one of the chairs, his knuckles slowly bleaching of color.  “If we’re lucky, we’ll find that damned box while we’re there.”

            Anya ran her tongue over her teeth.  Damned box, AKA dimOuniak, AKA Pandora’s box.  Constructed from the bones of the goddess of Oppression, the box was powerful enough to contain demons so vile even hell had been unable to hold them.  It was also powerful enough to suck those same demons out of the Lords, their once unwilling hosts.  Now the wonderfully aggressive warriors were dependant on the beasts for their survival and needless to say, they wanted the box for themselves.     

            Again, Lucien nodded.  “Do not think about that now; there’ll be time enough for that tomorrow.  Go and enjoy the rest of your evening.  Do not waste another moment in my boring presence.” 

            Boring?  Ha!  Anya had never met anyone who excited her more.

            Reyes hesitated before ambling off, leaving Lucien alone.  None of the human women approached him.  Looked at him, yes.  Cringed when they saw his scars, sure.  But none of them wanted anything to do with him -- and that saved their lives. 

            He’s taken, be’atches.

            “Notice me,” Anya commanded softly.

            A moment passed.  He didn’t obey.

            Several humans glanced in her direction, heeding her demand, but Lucien’s gaze latched onto the empty flask in front of him and remained, becoming a wee bit wistful.  Much to her consternation, immortals were immune to her commands.  A courtesy of the gods.  

            “Bastards,” she muttered.  Any restrictions they could place on her, they did.  “Anything to screw with lowly Anarchy.” 

            She had not been 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 to save 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 the warriors out 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.  He was scarred but not broken, kind but unbending.  He was a calm, by-the-book immortal, not blood hungry as Cronus had claimed.  He was 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 goosebumps.  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.  “We meet 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 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 him speak was more arousing than being touched by another man, and her stomach clenched.  “I wanted to dance with you,” she said over her shoulder.  Bump, bump, slllooow grind.  “Is that a crime?”

            He didn’t hesitate with his answer.  “Yes.”

            “Good.  I’ve always enjoyed breaking the law.” 

            A confused pause.  Then, “How much did Paris pay you to do this?”    
            “I get paid?  Oh, goodie!”  Stepping back, grinning, she brushed her ass against him, arching and swinging as sensually as she was able.  Hello, erection.  The heat of him nearly liquefied her bones.  “What’s the currency?  Orgasms?” 

            In her dreams, he always grabbed her and meshed the hard length of his cock into her at this point.  In reality, he jumped backward as if she were a bomb about to detonate, creating more hated distance between them.

            A sense of loss immediately blanketed her.

            “No touching,” he said.  He’d probably done his best to sound calm, but he had sounded on edge.  Strained.  More tense than arousing. 

            Her eyes narrowed.  All around, people watched their interaction and his rejection of her.  This isn’t primetime, she projected at them with a scowl.  Turn the fuck around.  

            One by one, the humans obeyed.  However, the rest of the Lords closed in on her, staring intently, no doubt curious as to who she was and what she was doing here.  

            They had to be careful, and she understood that.  They were still pursued by Hunters, humans who foolishly believed they could create a Utopia of peace and harmony by ridding the world of the Lords and the demons they carried inside them.

            Ignore them.  You’re running out of time, chica.  She returned her attention to Lucien by twisting her head to face him without actually turning all the way around.  “Where were we?” she asked huskily.  She ran a fingertip over the top band of her thong, not stopping until she drew the hot focus of his gaze to the glittery angel wings in the center.   

            “I was just about to walk away,” he choked out. 

            At his words, her nails elongated into little claws.  He still thought to deny her?  Seriously?

            She’d shown herself to him, even knowing the gods would be able to pinpoint her exact location -- something it was best to avoid since they planned to snuff her out like a mangy animal.  She would not leave this club without a reward.

            Determination intensifying, she swung around with another roll of her hips, the length of her pale hair caressing his chest.  As she nibbled on her bottom lip, she plumped her breasts.  “But I don’t want you to leave,” she said with a practiced pout. 

            He backed up another step.

            “What’s wrong, sweetness?”  Merciless, she moved forward.  “Afraid of a little girl?”

            His lips thinned, but he didn’t reply.  Thankfully, he didn’t move farther away, either. 

            “Are you?”

            “You have no idea at what game you play, woman.”

            “Oh, but I think I do.”  Her gaze swept over him, and she stilled in renewed amazement.  He was utterly magnificent.  Rainbow-colored strobe lights rained down his face and body, a body so finely sculpted it could have been chiseled from stone.  He wore a black tee and stone-washed jeans, and both hugged rope after rope of hand-over-your-panties muscle.  Mine.

            “I said no touching,” he barked.

            Her gaze snapped back to his and she held up her hands, palms out.  “I’m not touching you, sweet cakes.”  But I want to. . . I plan to. . .I will.

            “Your gaze suggests otherwise,” he said tightly. 

            “That’s because – ”

            “I’ll dance with you,” another warrior said, cutting her off.  Paris again.

            “No.”  Anya didn’t switch her attention.  She wanted Lucien and only Lucien.  No one else would do. 

            “Could be Bait,” a different Lord piped in, probably eyeing her with suspicion.  She recognized the deep timbre of his voice.  Sabin, keeper of Doubt.

            Please.  Bait?  As if she would try and lure anyone anywhere for reasons that weren’t completely selfish.  Bait, stupid girls that they were, were all about self-sacrifice; their job was to seduce a Lord to distraction so Hunters could sneak in and slay him.  And really, what kind of moron wanted to kill the Lords rather than make out with them a little?       

            “I doubt Hunters were able to assemble so quickly after the plague,” Reyes said.

            Oh, yes.  The plague.  One of the Lords was possessed by the demon of Disease.  If he touched any mortal skin to skin, he infected that person with a terrible sickness that spread and killed with amazing swiftness.

            Knowing this, Torin always wore gloves and rarely left the fortress, willingly keeping to himself to protect humans from his curse.  Not his fault a group of Hunters had sneaked inside the fortress a few weeks ago and cut his throat.    

            Torin had survived, the Hunters had not.  

            Unfortunately, there were many, many more Hunters out there.  Seriously, they were like flies.  Swat one away, and two more soon took its place.  Even now they were out there somewhere, waiting for a chance to strike.  The Lords had to remain cautious. 

            “Besides, there’s no way they could have figured out a way to bypass our security,” Reyes added, his harsh voice drawing Anya from her thoughts.    

            “Just like there’s no way they could get into our fortress and nearly behead Torin?” Sabin replied.

            “Damn this!  Paris, stay here and watch her while I check the perimeter.  Sabin, come with me.”  Footsteps, muttered curses. 

            Well, shit.  If the warriors found any trace of Hunters out there, there’d be no convincing them of her innocence.  Of that crime, at least.  Lucien would never trust her, never relax around her.  Never touch her except in anger. 

            She didn’t allow her trepidation to play over her face.  “Maybe I saw the crowd and snuck in,” she told Paris and an approaching Lord, adding tightly, “And maybe the big guy and I can go the next few minutes without an interruption.  In private.” 

            They might have gotten the hint, but they didn’t leave. 

            Fine.  She’d work around them.           

            As she began to once again rock softly to the beat, she kept her gaze on Lucien and caressed her fingers down the planes of her stomach.  Replace my hands with yours, she projected.

            Of course, he didn’t.  But his nostrils did that delicious flare as his eyes followed every movement of her palms.  He swallowed. 

            “Dance with me.”  This time, she said the words aloud, hoping he would not so easily ignore her.  She licked her lips, moistening them. 

            “No.”  Hoarse, barely audible.

            “Pretty please with a cherry on top of me.”

            His eyes flickered with fiery provocation.  Not her imagination, she realized.  Hope flooded her.  But when several seconds ticked by and he failed to reach out for her, that hope turned to frustration.  Time really was her enemy.  The longer she stayed here, the greater her chance of being caught. 

            “Do you not find me desirable, Flowers?”

            A muscle ticked below his eye.  “That is not my name.”

            “Fine, then.  Do you not find me desirable, Muffin?”

            The ticking spread to his jaw.  “What I find you matters little.”

            “That doesn’t really answer my question,” she said, close to pouting again.

            “Nor was it meant to.”   

            Grrr!  What an infuriating man.  Try something else.  Something blatant. 

            As if I haven’t been blatant already.

            Alrightie, then.  She turned and bent down to the floor.  Her skirt rode up her thighs and gave him another, better, glimpse of her blue thong and the wings stretching from the center.  As she pushed to a stand, mimicking the motions of sex as she did so, she slowly circled, offering a lingering full-body shot. 

            He sucked in a breath, every muscle in his powerful body tense.  “You smell like strawberries and cream.”  As he spoke, he looked like a predator about to pounce. 

            Please, please, please, she thought.  “Bet I taste like it, too,” she said, batting her lashes despite the fact that he’d made the fragrance seem like a horrendous affront.

            He growled low in his throat and took a menacing step toward her.  He raised his hand to – grab her?  hit her?  whoa, what was that about? – before stopping himself and fisting his fingers.  Before remarking on her scent, he’d been distant but maybe-kinda-sorta interested.  Now he only seemed interested in throttling her.

            “You’re lucky I do not strike you down here and now,” he said, proving her thoughts.  Still, his hand lowered to his side.

            Anya ceased moving, staring up at him in open-mouthed astonishment.  Because she smelled like fruit, he wanted to hurt her?  That was -- that was supremely . . . disappointing.  Her mind had tried to supply the word devastating, but she’d cut it off.  She barely knew the man; he couldn’t devastate her.   

            Wasn’t like she’d expected him to fall at her feet, but she had expected him to respond favorably.  At least a little. 

            Men liked women who threw themselves at them.  Right?  She’d observed mortals for too many years to count, and that had always seemed to be the case.  Key word, chica: mortals.  Lucien wasn’t, and had never been, mortal.

            Why doesn’t he want me?

            In all the days she’d watched him, he hadn’t favored a single woman.  Ashlyn, his friend’s lover, he treated with kindness and respect.  Cameo, the only female warrior in residence here, he treated with gentleness and almost parental concern.  Not desire. 

            He didn’t prefer men.  His gaze didn’t linger on males with hunger or any hint of softer emotion.  Was he in love with a specific woman, then, and no other would do?  If so, the bitch was going down!           

            Anya ran her tongue over her teeth, and her hands clenched at her sides.  Smoke continued to billow through the building, hazy, dream-like.  The human females began to crowd the dance floor again, trying to lure the Lords back to their sides.  But the warriors continued to observe Anya, waiting for the final verdict of just who and what she was.

            Lucien hadn’t moved an inch; it was as if his entire body were rooted in place.  She should give up, walk away and cut her losses before Cronus found her.  Only the weak give up.  True.  Determined, she raised her chin.  With only a thought, she changed the song blasting through the speakers.  The beat instantly slowed, softened. 

            Forcing her expression to follow suit, she sauntered the rest of the way to him, closing the hated distance between them.  She trekked her fingers up his strong, hard chest and shivered.   No touching – ha!  He would learn.  Anarchy was hardly an obedient lap dog.    

            He didn’t pull away, at least.

            “You’re going to dance with me,” she purred.  “That’s the only way to get rid of me.”  Just to taunt him further, she stood on her tiptoes and gently bit his earlobe.

            There was a rumble in his throat as his arms finally wrapped around her.  At first she thought he meant to push her away.  Then he jerked her deeper into the curve of his body, flattening her breasts against his torso and forcing her legs to straddle his left thigh.  That quickly, she was wet.

            “You want to dance, then we will dance.”  Slowly, decadently, he swayed her side to side, their bodies staying meshed together, her core rubbing just above his knee.  Spears of pleasure ignited, traveling through her bloodstream and leaving no part of her unaffected.    

            Gods in heaven, this was better than she’d imagined.  Her eyes closed in surrender.  He was big.  Everywhere.  His shoulders were so wide they dwarfed her, his upper body so muscled it enveloped her.  And all the while his warm exhalations caressed her cheek like an attentive lover.  Trembling, she moved her hands up his back and tangled them in his dark, silky hair.   Yes.  More.

            Slow down, girlie.  Even if he wanted her the way she wanted him, she couldn’t have him.  Not fully.  In that respect, she was as cursed as he was.  But she could still enjoy the moment.  Oh, could she enjoy it.  Finally, he was responding to her!

            His nose nuzzled her jawline.  “Every man in this building wants you,” he said softly, yet the words were so sharp they could have cut like a knife.  “Why me?”  

            “Just because,” she said, inhaling his heady rose perfume.    

            “That answers nothing.”

            “Nor was it meant to,” she said, parroting his earlier words.  Her nipples were still hard, so hard, rubbing against her corset, enhancing her desire.  Her skin was wonderfully sensitive, her mind hyperaware of Lucien’s ever move.  Had anything ever felt so erotic?  So. . . right?

            Lucien gripped her hair tightly, almost pulling some of the strands from her scalp.  “Do you find it amusing to tease the ugliest man here?”

            “Ugliest?”  When he appealed to her as no one else ever had?  “But I’m nowhere near Paris, sugarpop.” 

            That gave him pause.  He frowned and released her.  Then he shook his head, as if trying to clear it.  “I know what I am,” he growled with the faintest trace of bitterness.  “Ugly is being kind.”

            She stilled, peering into his seductive bi-colored eyes.  Did he truly have no idea of his attractiveness?  He radiated strength and vitality.  He exuded savage masculinity.  Everything about him enthralled her. 

            “If you know what you are, sweetness, then you know you’re sexy and deliciously menacing.”  And she needed more of him.  Another of those shivers raked her spine, vibrating into her limbs.  Touch me again.

            He glared down at her.  “Menacing?  Does that mean you want me to hurt you?”

            Slowly she grinned.  “Only if it involves spanking.”

            His nostrils flared again.  “I suppose my scars do not bother you,” he said, completely devoid of emotion now.  

            “Bother me?”  Those scars didn’t ruin him.  They made him irresistible. 

Closer. . .closer. . . Yes, contact.  Oh, great gods!  She glided her hands over his chest, luxuriating in the feel of his nipples as they reached for her, savoring the ropes of strength that greeted her.  “They turn me on.” 

            “Liar,” he said.

            “Sometimes,” she admitted, “but not about this.”  She studied his face.  However he’d gotten the scars had not been pleasant.  He’d suffered.  A lot.  The knowledge suddenly angered her as much as it entranced her.  Who had hurt him and why?  A jealous lover? 

            Looked like someone had taken a blade and carved Lucien up like a melon, then tried to put him back together with the pieces out of order.  Even still, most immortals healed quickly, leaving no evidence of their injuries.  So even if he had been carved up, Lucien should have healed. 

            Did he have similar scars on the rest of his body?  Her knees weakened as a new tide of arousal flooded her.  She’d watched him for weeks, but she hadn’t gotten a single peek at his delectable form.  Somehow, he’d always managed to bathe and change after she left.    

            Had he sensed her and kept himself hidden? 

            “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were Bait as my men do,” he said tightly. 

            “And what makes you know better?”   

            He arched a brow.  “Are you?”

            Had to travel this road, did you?  If she assured him she wasn’t Bait, she would seem to be admitting that she knew what Bait was.  She thought she knew him well enough to know that in his eyes, the acknowledgment would negate the claim that she wasn’t.  He would then feel obligated to kill her.  If she claimed that she was Bait, well, he would still feel obligated to kill her. 

            Total lose/lose. 

            “Do you want me to be?” she said in her most seductive tone.  “‘Cause I’ll be anything you want, lover.”

            “Stop,” he growled, that ever-calm mask loosening its hold on his features for the briefest of moments and revealing a stunningly intense fire.  Oh, to be burned.  “I do not like this game you are playing.”

            “No game, Flowers.  I promise you.”

            “What do you want from me?  And do not dare lie.”

            Now there was a loaded question.  She wanted all of his masculinity focused on her.  She wanted hours to strip and explore him.  She wanted him to strip and explore her.  She wanted him to smile at her.  She wanted his tongue in her mouth.

            At this point, only the last seemed achievable.  And only by playing unfairly.  Good thing Devious was her middle name.  Literally.      

            “I’ll take a kiss,” she said, gazing at his soft, pink mouth.  “Actually, I insist on a kiss.”

            “I didn’t find any Hunters nearby,” Reyes said, suddenly standing beside Lucien.           

            “That doesn’t mean anything,” Sabin replied.    

            “She’s not a Hunter and she is not working with them.”  Lucien’s attention never wavered from her as he waved his friends back.  “I need a moment with her.  Alone.”

            His assurance stunned her.  And he wanted to be alone with her?  Yes!  Except, his friends stayed up.  Jerks. 

            “We are strangers,” Lucien told her, continuing their conversation as if it had never ceased.

            “So?  Strangers hook up all the time.”  She arched her back, pressing the core of her into his erection.  Mmm, erection.  He hadn’t lost it, was still aroused.  “There’s no harm in a little bittie kiss, is there?”

            His fingers sank into the curve of her waist, holding her still.  “You will leave?  After?”

            His words should have offended her, but she was too caught up in the tide of pleasure that simple embrace elicited to care.  All of her pulse points began a wild dance.  A strange, luscious warmth fluttered inside her stomach. 

            “Yes.”  That’s all she could have from him, anyway, no matter how much she desired more.  And she’d take it any way she could get it: coercion, force, trickery.  She was tired of imagining his kiss and craved the reality of it.  Had to have the reality of it.  Finally.  Surely he would not taste as amazing as she dreamed.    

            “I do not understand this,” he muttered, eyes closing to half-mast.  Dark lashes cast shadows over his jagged cheeks, making him appear more dangerous than ever.

            “That’s okay.  I don’t, either.”  

            He leaned into her, hot, floral-scented breath scorching her skin.  “What will a single kiss accomplish?”

            Everything.  Anticipation beating through her, she traced the tip of her tongue along the seam of her lips.  “Are you always this talkative?”

            “No.”

            “Kiss her, Lucien, before I do.  Bait or not,” Paris called with a laugh.  Good- natured as the laugh was, it was still edged with steel.

            Lucien continued to resist.  She could feel his heart beating against his ribs.  Was he embarrassed by their audience?  Too bad.  She’d risked everything for this, and she wasn’t about to let him back out now.

            “This is futile,” he said.

            “So what.  Futile can be fun.  Now, no more stalling.  Only doing.”  Anya jerked his head down to hers and smashed her lips against his.  His mouth instantly opened, and their tongues met in a deep, wet thrust.  There was an intense rush of heat through her as the addictive flavor of roses and mint bombarded her. 

            She pressed deeper, needing more of him.  All of him.  Plumes of fire infused her entire body.  She rubbed against his cock, unable to stop herself.  He fisted her hair, taking complete control of her mouth.  Just like that, she was caught in a whirlwind of passion and thirst only Lucien could quench.  She’d entered the gates of heaven without taking a single step.

            Someone cheered.  Someone whistled.

            For a moment, she felt as if her feet were swept off the ground and she was without any kind of anchor.  A moment later, her back was shoved against a cold wall.  The cheers had somehow, suddenly, died.  Frigid air nipped at her skin. 

            Outside? she wondered.  Then she was moaning, unconcerned, and winding her legs around Lucien’s waist as his tongue conquered hers.  One of his hands crushed her hip in a bruising grip – gods, she loved it – and the other tunneled through her hair, fingers once again curling tightly around the thick mass and angling her head to the side for deeper contact.

            “You are – you are – ” he whispered fiercely. 

            “Desperate.  No talking.  More kissing.”

            His control vanished.  His tongue thrust back inside her mouth, their teeth banging together.  Passion and arousal were a hot blaze between them, a raging inferno.  Truly, she was on fire.  Frantic.  Achy.  He was all over her, already a part of her.    

            She never wanted it to end.

            “More,” he said roughly, palming her breast.     

            “Yes.”  Her nipples tightened, throbbing for his touch.  “More, more, more.”

            “So good.”      

            “Amazing.”

            “Touch me,” he growled.

            “Am.”     

            “No.  Me.”

            Understanding dawned, and with it an intensification of her desire.  Maybe he did want her.  After all, he yearned to have her hands on his skin, which meant he longed for more than just a kiss. 

            “My pleasure.”  With one hand, she gripped the hem of his shirt and lifted.  With the other, she caressed the ropes of his stomach.  Scars.  She felt scars and shivered, the jagged tissue wonderfully hot. 

            His muscles clenched against each stroke, and he bit her bottom lip.  “Yes, like that.”

            She almost came, his reaction like fuel in an already blazing fire.  She did moan.

            Her fingers traced the circle of his nipples before dabbling at the tips.  Each time she grazed them, her clitoris throbbed as if she were touching herself.  “I love the feel of you.”

            Lucien licked his way down the column of her throat, his tongue leaving a trail of sensual lightning.  Her eyelids cracked open, and she nearly gasped when she realized they were indeed outside, leaning against the club’s exterior in a shadowed corner.  He must have flashed them there, the naughty boy. 

            He was the only Lord capable of transporting himself from one location to another with only a thought.  A skill she possessed, as well.  She only wished he’d flashed them to a bedroom. 

            No, she forced herself to add, fighting a wave of despair.  Bedroom bad.  Bad, bad, bad.  Bad Anya for thinking otherwise, even for a second.  Other women could enjoy the electric press of skin against skin and naked bodies straining for release, but not Anya.  Never Anya.   

            “I want you,” he bit out roughly.

            “About time,” she whispered.  “I’m so wet for you.”

            He raised his darkly haloed head, blue and brown irises intense, before pinning her with another scorching kiss.  On and on it continued, until she was willingly, blissfully drowning in him.  Branded to her very soul, where she was no longer Anya but Lucien’s woman.  Lucien’s slave.  She might never get enough of him, would have allowed him to penetrate her then and there if she’d been able.  Gods, reality was so much better than fantasy.

            “I need to feel more of you.  I need your hands on me.”  She dropped her legs from him, standing, and was just reaching for his fly, wanting to free his cock and wrap her fingers around its swollen thickness, when she heard a nearby echo of footsteps.

            Lucien must have heard them, too.  He stiffened and jerked away from her.

            He was panting.  So was she.  Her knees almost buckled as their gazes locked together, time momentarily suspended.  Passion-lightning still sparked between them; never would she have guessed a kiss could be that combustible. 

            “Right your clothing,” he commanded.

            “But. . . but. . . ”  She wasn’t ready to stop, pending audience or not.  If he’d just give her a moment, she could flash them someplace else.

            “Do it.  Now.”

            No, there would be no flashing, she realized with disappointment.  His hard expression proclaimed he was done.  With the kiss, with her.  

            Tearing her gaze from him, she looked down at herself.  Her top had been anchored underneath her breasts.  She wasn’t wearing a bra, so the hardened pink tips of her nipples were visible, two little beacons in the night.  Her skirt was around her waist, showing off the front of that barely-there thong. 

            She smoothed her outfit, blushing for the first time in hundreds of years.  Why now?  Does it matter?  Her hands were shaking, an embarrassing weakness.  She tried to will them to stop, but the only command her body wanted to hear was to jump back into Lucien’s arms.

            Several of the Lords rounded the corner, each glaring and sullen.

            “I love it when you disappear like that,” the one called Gideon said, his irritated tone making it clear he didn’t love it at all.  He was possessed by the spirit of Lies, Anya knew, so he wasn’t capable of uttering a single truth.  

            “Shut up,” Reyes snapped.  Poor, tortured Reyes, keeper of Pain.  He liked to cut himself.  Once, she’d even seen him jump from the top of the warriors’ fortress and luxuriate in the feel of his broken bones.  “She might appear innocent, Lucien, but you failed to check her for weapons before you swallowed her tongue.”

            “I’m practically naked,” she pointed out, exasperated.  Not that anyone paid her any heed.  “What weapon could I possibly be hiding?”  Okay, so she was hiding a few.  Big deal.  A girl had to protect herself.

            “I had everything under control,” Lucien said in that unaffected voice of his.  “I think I can handle one lone female, armed or not.”

            Anya had always been fascinated by his calmness.  Until now.  Where was his lingering passion?  Wasn’t fair that he’d recovered so quickly while she still struggled for breath.  Her limbs hadn’t even stopped trembling.  Worse, her heart pounded like a war drum in her chest. 

            “So who is she?” Reyes asked. 

            “She might not be Bait, but she’s something,” Paris said.  “You flashed her, but she isn’t screaming.”

            That’s when all of their narrowed gazes finally shifted to Anya.  She’d never felt more raw, more vulnerable, in all the centuries of her life.  Kissing Lucien had been worth the risk of capture, but that didn’t mean she had to endure an interrogation.  “All of you can just shut it.  I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

            “I didn’t invite you, and Reyes’s told me no one here declares you a friend,” Paris said.  “Why did you attempt to seduce Lucien?”

            Because no one would freely consort with the scarred warrior, his tone proclaimed.  That irritated her, even though she knew he hadn’t meant it to be rude or hurtful, was probably just stating what all of them considered fact.

            “What’s up with the third degree?”  One by one, she glared at them.  Everyone but Lucien.  Him, she avoided.  She might crumble if his features were still cold and emotionless.  “I saw him, he appealed to me, so I went after him.  Big deal.  End of story.”

            Each of the Lords crossed their arms over their chests, a yeah-right action.  They’d formed a semi-circle around her, she realized then, though she’d never seen them move.  She barely managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes. 

            “You don’t really want him,” Reyes said.  “We all know that.  So tell us what you do want before we force you to tell us.”

            Force her?  Please.  She, too, crossed her arms.  A short while ago, they’d cheered for Lucien to kiss her.  Hadn’t they?  Maybe she had cheered for herself.  But now they wanted a play-by-play of her thought process?  Now they acted as if Lucien could not tempt a blind woman?  “I wanted his cock inside me.  You get it now, asshole?”

            There was a shocked pause.

            Lucien stepped in front of her, blocking her from the men.  Was he. . . protecting her?  How utterly sweet.  Unnecessary, but sweet.  Some of her anger evaporated.  She wanted to hug him.

            “Leave her alone,” Lucien said.  “She doesn’t matter.  She’s unimportant.”

            Anya’s happy buzz immediately evaporated, too.  Doesn’t matter?  Unimportant?  He’d just held her breast in his hand and rubbed his erection between her legs.  How dare he say something like that? 

            A red haze winked over her vision.  This must be how my mother always felt.  Nearly all the men Dysnomia had taken to bed had hurled insults at the woman when their pleasure had been sated.  Easy, they’d said.  Not good for anything else. 

            Anya knew her mother well, knew Dysnomia had been a slave to her lawless nature as well as looking for love.  Mated gods, single gods, it hadn’t mattered.  If they had desired her, she had given herself to them.  Probably because for those few hours in her lovers’ arms, she had been accepted, cherished, her darker urges sated. 

            Which made the betrayal afterward all the more painful, Anya thought, eyeing Lucien.  Of all the things she’d expected and yearned for him to say, “unimportant” hadn’t been close.  She’s mine, maybe.  I need her, perhaps.  Don’t touch my propert