Tempted

Chapter 7

Demetrius pushed up from the ground and turned so fast he stumbled and nearly fell on his ass.

Graceful, dickhead. And really fucking heroic. If you wanted to stare at her body, you should have left that sheer black nightgown on her instead of giving her your shirt.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to wipe away the image of Isadora’s near-naked lower half from his mind. Which was as productive as trying to open the friggin’ portal right this minute, because all he could see were her sleek bare legs, those creamy inner thighs, that little treasure that was hidden just under the hem of his shirt…

His face grew hot and his pulse beat so hard he could hear the blood pounding in his veins. Damn it, he didn’t want her. He didn’t like her. She wasn’t even his type.

He thought back to that girl at the club. The dominatrix with the delta tattoo and fuck-me boots. Now she was his type. She was the kind of female he was attracted to. The only kind he deserved.

Isadora cleared her throat. Scowling, he glanced sideways and saw she’d crossed her good leg over her bad and pulled his shirt down over both legs as far as she could, then wrapped her arms around herself in a don’t-even-look-at-me move he’d have to be a moron to miss.

Okay, just fucking refocus.

He stalked across the ground, picked up what was left of his weapons. He was going to need to make more. The invisibility spell he’d cast on the edge of the cliff wouldn’t last long, and with the sun setting they needed to find shelter. Two days on this island had already taught him the really nasty stuff came out at night.

“I didn’t realize you were a…” Isadora swallowed. “A witch.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, right.” Louder, she added, “You’re from Jason’s line. It shouldn’t surprise me, since he shacked up with a sorceress. Do the other Argonauts know?”

“I don’t give a flying rat’s ass what they know.”

“That would be a no,” she muttered.

Her disgust hit him square in the chest, and before he could stop it that blackness circled, latched on, and squeezed. “I also don’t care what you think you know. But don’t lump me in with your little witch friends. I’m not the one who turned you over to a warlock.” I’m the one who fucking saved you, dammit. He reached for another broken spear from the ground.

“Oh my gods,” Isadora whispered. “Apophis’s witches. You were there.”

Her shocked voice brought his head up, and too late he realized bingo. Thanks to him, her brain had just snapped back into gear. She’d been out the whole time they’d been here, while he’d been getting his ass kicked trying to find a way off this damn island and at the same time making sure nothing snacked on her when he wasn’t looking. And though it would have been nice if she’d been awake instead of deadweight during all that, her consciousness now ignited a whole other set of problems. Namely, what did she really remember, and how the hell was he going to explain any of this?

Way to go, dumbass.

“I…I didn’t think anyone was going to find me.”

He definitely didn’t need to hear the quiver in her voice. And he sure as hell didn’t want to think about what that twisted warlock had done to her in the hours she’d been in his castle. Demetrius had already played every scenario around in his head a dozen times, then promised himself that when he got off this freakin’ island he’d go back and kick some warlock ass just to settle the score.

“How did you find me?”

Her soft words cut through his thoughts, and a little voice in the back of his head cautioned Ignore her. But instead of listening, he heard himself say, “Your handmaiden.”

“Saphira.” Her eyes slid closed. “She came to me in my chamber. I was…upset.” Her cheeks turned the softest shade of pink before she added, “She gave me tea, only it wasn’t tea. It was something else. And then…then I was out.”

“Nice handmaiden.” If the witch weren’t already dead, he’d add her to his takedown list. “Too bad the king didn’t call off your binding ceremony to Zander earlier.”

And whoa, why the hell did he even care? And since when had he turned into Mr. Noble? He gave his head a swift shake and glanced toward the thick forest to the west in an attempt to clear his gray matter.

“My father did what?”

The shock in her voice nixed his thoughts and brought his head around before he could stop it. “You didn’t know?”

“No. He…” Her surprised chocolate eyes skipped over the ground. “He decided to let Callia and Zander be together?”

Demetrius shrugged, though inside that darkness brewed deeper. If the king hadn’t reneged on the original arranged binding between Theron and Isadora weeks ago, neither of them would be here now. “Don’t know. Wasn’t there. Really don’t care.” He pointed toward the west. “I think our best bet is through those trees.”

“Wait. What was…?” She swallowed. “That thing looked like a Fury.”

Thank the flippin’ gods she’d changed the subject. He gathered the last of what was left of his weapons. “Furies have snakes in their hair. Like Apophis’s witches.” And trust me, Princess, they’re a thousand times worse. “That was a harpy.”

He moved to pick her up, but she blocked him with her forearm. “What happened to my leg? The last thing I remember is stepping through the portal from Apophis’s castle into a field full of daemons. How did we get here? And”—her eyes widened—“what happened to Gryphon? He came through with us.”

Demetrius fought to keep his shoulders relaxed as he straightened. Here came the questions. He should have picked up his damn pace. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean, Your Highness,” he snapped, at the end of his patience with her and this place and all of it, “I don’t know what happened to Gryphon. When I opened the portal to get us the hell out of there, something crisscrossed and we wound up here.”

“Crisscrossed? That’s your best explanation?”

“That’s the only one I’ve got.” And the only one you’re gonna get.

“So where is Gryphon?”

“I don’t know.”

She stared at him, and then slowly her eyes narrowed to thin slits. A demeaning look he was used to seeing on her pale face. “What you really mean is you don’t care.”

His head snapped back as if she’d hit him. She obviously couldn’t consider the possibility he was as worried about Gryphon as she was. But then why would she? She thought he was a son of a bitch, which wasn’t far off the mark. And considering what had been running through his head a few minutes ago, if he wanted to find a way to get her off this island before Atalanta’s little scheme clicked into gear, it was better all around if she went on thinking he was nothing more than a righteous prick.

But it still cut. Just as it always did when she refused to look him in the eye or turned the other way when she saw him in the castle. Even if that was the only way it could be.

“Yeah,” he muttered as he rested his hands on his hips and glared down at her. “You’re right, Princess. I don’t fucking care.”

Her mouth snapped shut. She crossed her arms over her middle and looked down at her legs. If she was at all still hurting or upset, she didn’t show it. The tight line of her shoulders was a clear sign she was well and truly pissed. Which was exactly what he wanted, wasn’t it?

“Where the hell are we?” she asked without looking up.

Oh yeah, her adrenaline swing was in full gear. She’d morphed from scared shitless to ticked in the span of a few seconds, thanks to him.

Well, good. He handled pissed a whole lot better than freaked-out and vulnerable any day of the week.

He shifted his legs wider, crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you tell me? Since you’re the expert on everything. Where the hell do you think we are?”

“Harpies and rabid boars—”

“Calydonian boars. There’s a big difference”

“Whatever. They don’t really exist.”

“Tell that to the two dead monsters down on that beach.”

Her eyes met his. Eyes, he noticed, that weren’t quite as enraged as he’d originally thought. Lurking behind the tough-girl shield was true fear.

Which, skata, he did not need to see.

“The Argonauts extinguished the lines,” she protested. “Thousands of years ago, that was the first thing Zeus commanded them to do. To sweep the world, gather the monsters wreaking havoc on humans, and destroy them. It’s in all the history books. They did that. They—”

“Your history books were obviously wrong. If you ever left that palace you call a bedroom suite, you’d know that.” Refusing to be moved by her shocked expression, he added, “Look around you. The Argonauts didn’t kill anything. They gathered and they dumped. Right here in the middle of the Ionian Sea. And lucky us, we followed.”

“Ionian Sea?” Shock flicked over her features. “Pandora isn’t a real island. It can’t be. It—”

“Looks pretty damn real to me.” He glanced up, noted the sun had now completely dropped behind the water and that dusk was creeping in fast. They were about out of time. The fresh kills down below were like blinking beacons to the nasties. They needed to get the hell out of here before the really ugly shit woke up and went hunting.

Far off in the forest below, a bloodthirsty howl echoed. Isadora’s head snapped in that direction and her eyes grew even wider until a halo of white surrounded her golden brown irises.

“Sounds pretty fucking real too. Let’s save the bickering for later, shall we? We need to make tracks.”

“Wait,” she said when he bent toward her. “Open the portal and take us home.”

He clenched his jaw. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because whatever crisscrossed to get us here screwed with my ability to open the portal.”

She pressed a hand against his chest when he lifted her into his arms. A hand that was warm and soft and ignited a tingle in his skin he liked and hated all at the same time. “Demetrius…”

Bloody hell. He did not like the way she said his name. Didn’t like the sudden soft lilt to her voice or the way the sounds rolled off her tongue. And it didn’t make him think of hearing her say his name just like that when she was naked, beneath him, her head kicked back on a pillow—

“Pandora can’t be real. It can’t be.”

“Why the hell not?” He pushed the image out of his mind and looked down at her this-can’t-be-happening expression. It was all he could do to keep his face neutral as that tingle spread lower and his mind flashed back to the revealing black nightie she’d been wearing when he’d first found her. To the way her skin had peeked out from beneath the sheer black fabric. To the sway of her hips, the roundness of her breasts, the soft indent of her belly button…

“Because,” she whispered, “if the creatures are real, if Pandora is real, it means the myth is real. And according to the myth, there’s no way off the island. No one who’s been here has ever lived to tell about it.”

Like he didn’t know that? Reality snapped back firmly in his face. Welcome to my hell, Princess. Dying on this island wasn’t his greatest fear. It was being stuck here alone with her that scared the shit out of him.

He headed for the trees. “Then we’re gonna have to figure out a way to prove the myth wrong now, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but—”

A scream joined the howl far below. Her hand gripped his shoulder. She pulled her body close to his on reflex. His skin warmed in response and before he could stop it, a whole host of electrifying tingles erupted beneath her fingers where she held him, beneath her breast pressed tight to his bare chest, then rushed straight down his torso right into his cock.

Which he so didn’t need, now or ever.

He ground his teeth to the point of pain. And shoved a whole lot of I-don’t-give-a-shit into his voice when he said, “I liked you a lot better when you were unconscious.”

Orpheus stared across the room toward Gryphon, out cold in the center of the bed. A series of monitors beeped and hummed above his head. Wires and tubes ran into the Argonaut’s hands, resting on the thin blanket covering his body. His chest rose and fell as if he was deep in sleep and his face looked as it always had. Only nothing was the same.

Three days. Gryphon had been unconscious for three days and nothing Callia had done or was doing was reviving him. The daemon inside Orpheus vibrated with the need to grab Callia and shake her until she healed his brother. The Argolean in him kept his feet rooted firmly in place against the wall of this room on the fifth floor of the castle. As he crossed his arms over his chest, he willed Gryphon to sit up and start bitching at him as he’d done thousands of times over the years.

Callia moved over to the bed, studied a monitor near Gryphon’s head, reached down, and felt for his pulse. She jotted numbers on a clipboard, then stepped back to enter them in her little high-tech computer with its virtual screen, near the windows.

Footsteps brought Orpheus’s head around. Zander stepped into the doorway and cast Orpheus a tight smile. “Hey, man.”

Orpheus went back to watching the bed.

“Zander.” Surprise and relief lit Callia’s face as she put the clipboard down and moved to embrace the blond Argonaut.

Zander nodded toward the bed. “How is he?”

“Fine,” she said easily. Way too easily.

“When was the last time you took a break, thea?”

“I…” Callia’s eyes strayed to Orpheus. “I don’t need a break. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Zander said. “You’re about ready to fall over from lack of sleep. Even you have limits.” He unlooped the stethoscope from around her neck and set it on the table to his right. “No arguing.”

“But—”

“O?” Zander asked. “There’s an empty room across the hall. She needs an hour or two of rest. If something changes, you’ll come and get her, right?”

Orpheus didn’t look at either of them, kept his gaze firmly on the bed. He wanted them both gone if they were going to stand here and bicker. “Go.”

“Come on.” Zander pulled her toward the door.

Callia paused at the threshold. “Orpheus…”

The concern in her voice was too much. He set his jaw. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

“Okay,” she said softly. But his peripheral vision picked up the uneasiness in her eyes, the compassion rushing over her features. And that space in his chest that was already tight as a drum stretched even tighter.

They disappeared out into the hall. Footsteps sounded on the wide marble floor, then the snap of a door. A rasp of cloth met Orpheus’s ears, followed by the press and slide of two mouths joined in a heated kiss.

His overly sensitive hearing picked up every nip and suck and lick, even through closed doors and soundproof walls. Normally he’d get a sick kick out of listening to what they were up to in that other room, but right now all he could think about was the fact that if something didn’t change soon Gryphon was never going to have that. Not that rush of want or the carnal fire of desire. Not with his soul mate. Not with any female. Not ever again. All because of him.

Theirs was a relationship anchored in animosity. Mostly on Orpheus’s part. And yet in all the years Orpheus had dissed his brother or undermined what the Argonauts were doing, Gryphon hadn’t given up on him. The guardian had a serious case of heroics, and on more than one occasion Orpheus had told his younger brother he wasn’t worth saving. But Gryphon had never believed him.

“Oh, Zander,” Callia whispered across the hall. “Nothing’s working. He’s not getting better.”

“It’s only been three days, thea. The knife wound he took was pretty deep.”

“You don’t understand. The wound in his side has completely healed. That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s what the warlock did to him.”

“You said the burns on his skin are already gone. I thought—”

“They are,” she cut in. “But I ran some extra tests this morning. Zander”—her voice lowered—“the burn has condensed inside his chest. And it’s growing.”

Silence met Orpheus’s ears. Callia’s words swirled in his brain and his brow lowered with curiosity.

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “It’s like the burn or energy or whatever is consuming him from the inside out.”

“Consuming him?” Zander asked. “How is that even possible? You said his body was healing. He’s looking stronger every day.”

“I know.” Orpheus pictured Callia pressing her fingers against her forehead as she tried to figure out what she was missing. He’d seen her do it several times over the last few days, and even though he wanted to drop-kick her into action, he knew she was doing all she could. “I’ve tried everything. I even had Max take a break from sitting with my father to come down and help me direct a healing energy, hoping that would make a difference, but it hasn’t. Whatever the warlock hit him with was so strong…”

Max was Callia and Zander’s son, and his power of transference was an aid to Callia as she drew on her healing powers. But the fact she’d needed Max’s help with Gryphon wasn’t what set off a tremor of unease in Orpheus’s chest. It was the way her voice trailed off and the words she held back that put him on alert.

“So what does that mean, Callia?”

“It means,” she whispered, “there’s nothing else I can do for him. It’s not his body being destroyed. It’s his soul. And my powers aren’t strong enough to heal the soul. Nothing is. Even if I could figure out how to stop the damage, if he were to awaken right now, he wouldn’t be the same, Zander. His soul is dying one piece at a time.”

A lump formed in Orpheus’s throat and his eyes shot to his brother’s face. No, that couldn’t be.

But even as he thought the words, he knew they were a lie. He’d taken a shot of Apophis’s energy during that fight too. The blast had knocked him off his feet, sent him spinning into the wall. But he’d been able to shake it off and get back up. Gryphon hadn’t.

There was only one difference between them. As brothers, they shared the same father, the same lineage, the same link to the ancient hero Perseus, the same blood that made them both bigger, stronger, tougher than most. And yet Orpheus had walked away from Apophis’s attack without a single scratch.

Because he was part daemon. Because what was vile in them lived in him. Because he had no soul to destroy.

The tightness in his chest that had been holding him together snapped like a rubber band. And a green glow illuminated the room as his eyes shifted from gray to the calling card of the daemons.

“Have you told Theron yet?” Zander asked in a gruff voice.

“No. I…I don’t know what to tell him.”

Silence fell, and then Zander said, “Come here, thea.” Cloth rasped again. “We’ll figure something out. There’s still time.”

Not much, Orpheus realized. Not much at all.

A heavy weight pressed down around him. He was responsible for this. He’d taken Isa to the witches. Even though he wasn’t directly responsible for her abduction, he’d been the one to tempt that witch with exactly what she wanted. And then he’d taken it one step further and led Gryphon to his death by thinking he could play hero for a few hours and rescue the princess himself. In the end all he’d done was fuck things up worse than he ever had before.

Out of nowhere he thought of the Orb of Krónos. Even with the four chambers empty of the classic elements—earth, wind, fire, and water—the Orb held a power like nothing else. It had kept Max safe when he’d escaped Atalanta and her daemons. Maybe it could put a stop to whatever was killing Gryphon.

He rushed out the door and down the stairs, a renewed sense of urgency pushing him. There were servants coming and going who could alert Callia if Gryphon’s conditioned changed before he got back. He didn’t care that retrieving the Orb from its hiding place would put his carefully constructed plans into chaos. Didn’t care that he was about to give up everything he’d ever wanted. All that mattered was Gryphon.

Which was fucking ironic, wasn’t it? He’d never given a shit about anyone else in his whole life. He hadn’t thought a soulless being could develop a conscience.

As he hit the foyer of the castle and stopped on the gleaming marble floor, he closed his eyes and imagined his shop on Corinth Avenue. And ignored the voice in the back of his head warning that an Argonaut without a soul was a very dangerous thing.