The phantom, p.8
The Phantom, page 8
He had no need of a chisel. Not with his claws. Hand lifted, index finger poised over the rock face, claw extended, he announced, “As long as all females of this realm abide by our agreement—no harm comes to Blythe the Undoing, the harphantom in my care—I agree to the following. In ten days, a ten-day to-the-death tournament will commence, free of my interference. The winner will become queen. I will spend the night of her coronation with her. In return, I will remain near the palace unless I’m on a date, then I will remain near the date. As for the encounters themselves, I will spend six hours with each of the ten residents here, without committing murder. I will also escort the queen to Harpina.”
That said, he scraped his personal symbol into the stone. A circle with two smaller circles inside it, the pair divided by a jagged line. The same symbol was branded into his nape, though it contained marks added by Chaos and the other Astra. Their symbols. This allowed them to telepathically communicate with each other. Usually.
Now on to part two of his oath. Roux sliced his finger with a claw and sealed the vow with a bead of his blood.
The compulsion took root inside him in an instant, and he nodded. “It is done.”
His challengers celebrated with increased vigor, thinking they’d won some great prize. Think again. They should ask his concubine about his idea of romance. He usually polished his weapons while she cleaned his room or mended and washed his clothes. Sometimes, when they were both feeling particularly social, she complained about the difficulty of removing bloodstains and dried viscera, and he grunted a response.
Ready for what came next, he summoned his discarded backpack. The straps appeared in his hand. Excellent. He might not be able to teleport things from other worlds, but he could still call for what he’d brought with him.
Hanging the weight of it from his shoulder, he strode over, picked up the crystal crown, and hooked it to the side of the pack. He returned to the women. Many reached out, intending to trace their fingers over his chest. A fierce glare and low growl stopped them.
“Move,” he commanded, and they reluctantly backed up.
He crouched before the slumbering Blythe. The heat had never truly died and revived in seconds, reminding him of a low-grade fever. He swallowed a curse. No woman should be this lovely.
Scowling, he removed her shackles with a single tug, then tossed the metal aside. He had no need of such a restraint. Not when he had a better one in the pack.
As gently as possible, Roux gathered the beautiful harphantom in his arms and clutched her to his chest. Her slight weight barely registered, yet every inch of his body zeroed in on her. Her soft cheek pressed against his shoulder, her warm breath fanned his flesh, and her floral scent filled his nose.
The heat intensified until he felt engulfed by flames.
Teeth gritted, he commanded, “Lead the way.”
8
THE SHIFT
Hazy lights flipped on inside Blythe’s head, illuminating a cluster of waiting memories she couldn’t quite reach. Confused, she blinked open her eyes. Where am I? Where’s Isla? What happened?
Too-bright sunlight seared her eyes, leaving her blinking rapidly. As heavy lids slid shut for good, other details made themselves known. Warmth and power enveloped her. Magnificent power. Fierce and strong. Incredible! The fact that her wings were pinned? Who cared?
Tension seeped from her. This felt oh, so right. Perfect, actually. This was everything she’d been missing.
Did her consort carry her to bed?
Her consort... There’d been a battle. An injury. A harpy only rested and recovered with a fated mate, death the only exception. Blythe was very much alive, rested and recovered. Right? Or did she not have a consort?
She had a child. That much she knew. A precious little girl she longed to enfold in her arms. But... Why can’t I remember anything else?
Noises intruded upon her thoughts, coming from here, there, everywhere. Even in her head, where a haunting melody played without cease. A healing tune. That. That was what enveloped the cluster of memories. The vibration of sound created an impenetrable shield.
She wanted to work up a good mad about it...but mmm. The air smelled good. Really good. Really, really, really good. A shiver-inducing combination of cedarwood and spiced oranges.
Moaning, she burrowed into the source. How delightful. Both velvety soft and steel hard at once.
A hungry growl joined the outer clatter. A low-impact quake followed.
Threat? Her eyes sprang open, the act no longer a struggle. She took stock, cataloguing everything at once. Tattoos. Multiple silos, all windowed and as tall as skyscrapers. Dirt streets, not the cobblestone paths she was used to seeing. Groups of unfamiliar women of varying species wore primitive leather dresses and mingled about. Some stood near steaming pots and roasting game. Some trained with blades and spears. In a nearby pond, others washed clothes.
Whoever they were, whatever their task, they stopped to stare at her with expressions of awe. Hmm. What if they weren’t focused on her, but the male who constrained her?
The male. Her maybe, maybe not consort. But he must be. No way she was nestled against some strange man’s chest. But...
Something’s wrong. What wasn’t she remembering? What, what? She poked and prodded at the song barrier, desperate for answers, but the melody endured, unbroken.
Determined, Blythe fought inside and out, twisting and contorting, seeking freedom from both the song and the male.
He held tight. When a handful of observers rushed over, he tensed. Did the women intend to help her? Hope crested—every female reached out—and crashed. They merely sought to caress him.
“Do not dare,” a gravelly voice snapped. His voice. The male’s.
Exclamations came, one after another. “Ahhh! He even sounds like sex!”
“Where did you find him, and how long can I rent him?”
“A real-life slice of man-candy!”
“We’ll be making an announcement about him soon,” someone called. “Now back off. We gotta get him settled in at the palace first. Oh, and no one touches the piece of glass in his arms.”
Glass? Blythe?
“I will gut anyone who tries.” His every word dripped with promise. “Understand?”
She went still. He protects me?
Amid rising murmurs, she poured what remained of her strength into eradicating the song. Finally, the notes split down the middle, memories surging forth. Laban. Invasion. Betrayal. Ation. Wraith. Roux.
Rage fueled her hatred, heating the ruby and bringing more of that dreaded weakness. But no matter. You didn’t always need to be the strongest opponent to win a battle; you just had to be more determined. She erupted, hissing, cursing, and clawing.
“How are you so soft and so vicious at the same time?” he muttered.
She squirmed and fought and bucked. But the ruby continued to heat and weakness continued to flood in, allowing the song to repair itself. The next thing she knew, her memories vanished, and she was floating away in an ocean of nothingness.
* * *
“This is where you’ll be staying.”
Roux couldn’t identify the speaker. The entire welcome party had crammed into a hallway at the top of the “palace.” A silo set in the center of a circle of nineteen other silos.
With Blythe in his arms, he pushed past the group. Any blip of contact razed already-razed nerves. There. A door. He shouldered his way into a spacious bedroom.
“Feel free to drop off your baggage and join us on the third floor for a quick game of strip poker. Don’t worry. We won’t let you be late for your first da—”
He kicked the door shut, ending her invitation.
A quick scan revealed lavishly detailed furniture made from wood, stones, and metals. Candles flickered throughout, tinging the air with the fragrance of magnolia and melting wax. A set of open windows lured in golden sunlight and a cool breeze.
He teleported his backpack to a cushioned chair near the crackling hearth, then strode to the four-poster canopied bed. As gently as possible, he placed his sleeping bundle atop the mattress. He meant to walk away and find her clean clothes, but the sight of her arrested him.
Black locks spread over a white pillow, framing a face too lovely to be real. Long lashes fanned out, reminding him of a peacock’s plumage. The most ridiculous thought he’d ever entertained. For once, her plump red lips weren’t set in a grim line, turned down in a frown, or curved in a calculating grin. No, they were slightly parted, as if she prepared for his kiss.
His breath hitched. That. That was the most ridiculous thought he’d ever entertained. As if she would ever wish to kiss him.
Trying not to care, he reached out and traced a fingertip over the glistening ruby embedded in her throat. Warm. Because she burned?
A now familiar heat infiltrated his being, as wonderful as it was terrible. With a huff, he pivoted to begin his search for clothing at last. A chore requiring less than thirty seconds. The desired items hung in a wardrobe on the other side of the room. A plethora of leather tops, shirts, dresses, and sheer gowns. A pale blue one caught his notice. The perfect match for her eyes.
Not select it? Impossible.
The heat worsened as he returned to the bed, the swatch of material in hand. Ignore it. He traded her bloody garment for the clean one, never allowing himself to gaze anywhere but the pillow. A feat requiring every ounce of his strength. Still the heat increased.
The second he finished his chore, he exited the force field of her unnatural appeal and sank into the chair near the hearth. Only then did he let himself peer at her. And peer at her he did, unwavering, planning to spring up at the first sign of wakefulness. Because...just because.
He kept his gaze glued to her even as he dug into the pack, removing a dagger and stone. After dropping the bag at his feet, he sharpened the already sharp blade. For hours. Watching. Waiting. Wondering who he was soon to face. The snuggler who rubbed against him for comfort or the she-beast who fought as if she would happily die as long as she took her enemy with her.
She stretched atop the mattress. Roux froze rather than spring up. He held his breath as she eased into a sitting position. Baby blues glided over the room, slid over him, then darted back and widened. He expected a spill of black over her irises. The blue lingered.
Hope bloomed. Was he soon to interact with the snuggler?
“Are you my consort? You must be. I slept in your presence, and you’re so familiar,” she said with a soft tone.
She had no memory? “I believe your kind makes an exception for harpies near death.”
“I neared death?” Moaning, she massaged her temples. “This song...what is it hiding?”
She didn’t remember because of a song? But why would the siren—the answer crystalized before the question fully formed. Of course the siren had manipulated Blythe’s memory. To stop the wraith from utilizing the ruby, draining the harphantom at a time she needed to heal to survive, the siren had to take control of her emotions.
“I am...Roux,” he said, offering nothing more. How should he handle this? Her?
“Roux,” she echoed. She traced her gaze over him, radiating curiosity and, dare he believe it, attraction? “Are your tattoos moving?”
He glanced down, and sure enough. The alevala moved, as if he waged war inside himself.
Reeling, he dropped the weapon and tool, dug a shirt from the pack, and yanked the material over his head. A type of armor for them both. He needed a barrier against the torment of her gaze, and she needed to not get trapped in his past.
“Well, that wasn’t very nice, now, was it?” she chided. Half pouting, half smiling, she stood to steady legs. In a beam of light, the blue gown revealed more than it concealed. Her curves—he wiped his mouth.
Pure grace, she approached him, hips swaying, slits parting in the skirt, revealing hints of her thighs.
Sweat beaded on his brow. He couldn’t...he shouldn’t...
A scream exploded from the back of his mind. Jaw clenched, he gripped the arms of his chair. The mental interruption came from the escapee he’d noticed at the tea party with Isla. Someone he needed to capture and imprison at last. But miss this moment of comradery with Blythe to do so? No.
All sensual grace, the harphantom eased onto the ottoman in front of him. “Did something happen to me?”
He gave a slow, solo nod, afraid of startling her, reminding her of her hatred for him. “What’s the last thing you recall?”
“I know I’m a harpy and a phantom, my name is Blythe the Undoing, I have a daughter named Isla, and I’m working to become General. Although, I can’t become General with a child. So what am I missing?” Her brow furrowed. “I see flashes of you getting your smolder on but not much else.”
No memories of the consort then, despite recalling her child. But what did she mean, Roux’s smolder? “You’re missing a lot. Though it would be easier to lie to you, I’ll be honest. I am not your consort. You despise me.”
“Are you sure? Despise is a strong word.” A teasing smile blossomed as she slid her gaze over him. “Maybe I’ve been flirting with you.”
The chair arms cracked. So badly he longed to reach out and shift a lock of her silken hair between his fingers. “I’m quite sure. On four separate occasions, you’ve extracted at least one of my organs.”
Those ice blue eyes glittered with mirth. A queen of delights, she waved a hand through the air, dismissing his words. “Foreplay, babe. That, I promise you. Judging solely by the book cover, I’m certain you are a story I’ve been eager to read, muscle to muscle.”
The way her voice dipped... He gulped. Once he pried his fingers from the chair, he tugged at the collar of his shirt. She was a playful feast of carnality.
Oh, how Roux dreaded the return of her memory.
“You...find me handsome then?” In that moment, he wanted this female to like him. A dream destined to go unfulfilled. “Or perhaps you meant you can’t wait to crack my spine.”
There was something in the core of his being that only Chaos and the other Astra could tolerate. A fact Roux had accepted long ago. He doubted Blythe would have favored him as a compatriot even if her consort still lived.
“Put it this way, Astra,” she rasped, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “You’re a first edition, and I’m a highly motivated collector with cash to burn.”
He had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Thoughts left his head and gathered behind his zipper.
“Astra,” she repeated with a frown. Her head tilted to the side, as if she were trying to work out a puzzle. She muttered, “Astra, Astra, Astra. Laban.” Her frown deepened. “Invasion. Betrayal. Ation. Wraith. Roux.” Her lids dropped, slitting.
Roux lunged in her direction, hoping to prevent what came next. Too late. She swiped and ducked, avoiding capture. He stumbled back with blood trickling down his side.
“Five,” she snapped. Then she gasped, the organ falling from her clasp. She rubbed the ruby while wobbling on her feet. “I remember the rest now. Hatred. Weakening. Sleeping. I’m going to kill—” Eyelids sliding shut, she crumpled.
He caught her before she landed, clutching her to his chest. As he carried her to the bed, his inhalations came in quick succession. She was just so soft. So sweet. With such an incredible scent.
Reluctant, he placed her onto the bed and retreated to his seat by the fire, where he sharpened the already sharp dagger once again. And once again, his gaze remained glued to her.
Anticipation slithered through him. What would the she-beast do next?
* * *
Bright lights flipped on inside Blythe’s head, bringing instant clarity. Laban. Invasion. Betrayal. Ation. Wraith. Roux. Flirting. Hatred. Weakening. Sleeping. Strengthening. Destroying the song once and for all. Waking. Committing murder—soon. Yep, all her memories were accounted for.
With a hiss, she popped open her eyelids and jolted upright, freeing her buzzing wings from confinement. She perched on an ultrasoft mattress, and she wore a clean, transparent nightgown. A spacious bedroom filled with amazingly detailed furniture surrounded her. The scent of cedarwood and spiced oranges saturated candle-lit air. Night had come. Roux sat by a crackling hearth, a pile of weapons scattered about his feet. He was as still as a statue but wide awake and staring at her, squeezing daggers in a white-knuckled grip. It would have been creepy if it hadn’t been so sexy.
His intensity clashed with her rage—and gained ground. From wild inferno to dying spark she went. A cloud of smoke lifted from her mind, revealing a waiting revelation. Night had come. Hours had passed. Time she’d spent sleeping, vulnerable to attack while her greatest enemy hovered nearby. Oh, the horror!
Blythe ran her tongue over her teeth. Harpies only slept with their consorts, yes, but this didn’t count. It couldn’t. Like Roux had said, she’d been recovering from a near death experience. Because of him. Go ahead and slice.
Reason abandoned her. She didn’t care that Penelope had taken possession of her firstone dagger and nothing Blythe did today would cause permanent damage to the Astra. Attack!
Unleashing a war shriek, she hurled herself at the blond giant. Swipe. She clawed out his throat. Tit for trach. “One,” she said, holding up her prize. New body part, fresh start.
He didn’t tense or gasp. Healing in record time, barely even bleeding on his chair, he set his daggers aside with slow precision. His yellow irises spun with striations of magenta, gray, and russet. There was no hint of red, despite the violence of the moment.
Her rage roiled on and on and on. Except, now there was something else mixed with it. Something hot she couldn’t identify.
He arched a brow. “Foreplay?”
Argh! “Absolutely not.” She tossed the bloody mess in his face. Crimson splattered his skin. Somehow it looked good on him. “I’m a vicious killer.” To prove it, she leaped onto his lap and attacked him with renewed force.
That said, he scraped his personal symbol into the stone. A circle with two smaller circles inside it, the pair divided by a jagged line. The same symbol was branded into his nape, though it contained marks added by Chaos and the other Astra. Their symbols. This allowed them to telepathically communicate with each other. Usually.
Now on to part two of his oath. Roux sliced his finger with a claw and sealed the vow with a bead of his blood.
The compulsion took root inside him in an instant, and he nodded. “It is done.”
His challengers celebrated with increased vigor, thinking they’d won some great prize. Think again. They should ask his concubine about his idea of romance. He usually polished his weapons while she cleaned his room or mended and washed his clothes. Sometimes, when they were both feeling particularly social, she complained about the difficulty of removing bloodstains and dried viscera, and he grunted a response.
Ready for what came next, he summoned his discarded backpack. The straps appeared in his hand. Excellent. He might not be able to teleport things from other worlds, but he could still call for what he’d brought with him.
Hanging the weight of it from his shoulder, he strode over, picked up the crystal crown, and hooked it to the side of the pack. He returned to the women. Many reached out, intending to trace their fingers over his chest. A fierce glare and low growl stopped them.
“Move,” he commanded, and they reluctantly backed up.
He crouched before the slumbering Blythe. The heat had never truly died and revived in seconds, reminding him of a low-grade fever. He swallowed a curse. No woman should be this lovely.
Scowling, he removed her shackles with a single tug, then tossed the metal aside. He had no need of such a restraint. Not when he had a better one in the pack.
As gently as possible, Roux gathered the beautiful harphantom in his arms and clutched her to his chest. Her slight weight barely registered, yet every inch of his body zeroed in on her. Her soft cheek pressed against his shoulder, her warm breath fanned his flesh, and her floral scent filled his nose.
The heat intensified until he felt engulfed by flames.
Teeth gritted, he commanded, “Lead the way.”
8
THE SHIFT
Hazy lights flipped on inside Blythe’s head, illuminating a cluster of waiting memories she couldn’t quite reach. Confused, she blinked open her eyes. Where am I? Where’s Isla? What happened?
Too-bright sunlight seared her eyes, leaving her blinking rapidly. As heavy lids slid shut for good, other details made themselves known. Warmth and power enveloped her. Magnificent power. Fierce and strong. Incredible! The fact that her wings were pinned? Who cared?
Tension seeped from her. This felt oh, so right. Perfect, actually. This was everything she’d been missing.
Did her consort carry her to bed?
Her consort... There’d been a battle. An injury. A harpy only rested and recovered with a fated mate, death the only exception. Blythe was very much alive, rested and recovered. Right? Or did she not have a consort?
She had a child. That much she knew. A precious little girl she longed to enfold in her arms. But... Why can’t I remember anything else?
Noises intruded upon her thoughts, coming from here, there, everywhere. Even in her head, where a haunting melody played without cease. A healing tune. That. That was what enveloped the cluster of memories. The vibration of sound created an impenetrable shield.
She wanted to work up a good mad about it...but mmm. The air smelled good. Really good. Really, really, really good. A shiver-inducing combination of cedarwood and spiced oranges.
Moaning, she burrowed into the source. How delightful. Both velvety soft and steel hard at once.
A hungry growl joined the outer clatter. A low-impact quake followed.
Threat? Her eyes sprang open, the act no longer a struggle. She took stock, cataloguing everything at once. Tattoos. Multiple silos, all windowed and as tall as skyscrapers. Dirt streets, not the cobblestone paths she was used to seeing. Groups of unfamiliar women of varying species wore primitive leather dresses and mingled about. Some stood near steaming pots and roasting game. Some trained with blades and spears. In a nearby pond, others washed clothes.
Whoever they were, whatever their task, they stopped to stare at her with expressions of awe. Hmm. What if they weren’t focused on her, but the male who constrained her?
The male. Her maybe, maybe not consort. But he must be. No way she was nestled against some strange man’s chest. But...
Something’s wrong. What wasn’t she remembering? What, what? She poked and prodded at the song barrier, desperate for answers, but the melody endured, unbroken.
Determined, Blythe fought inside and out, twisting and contorting, seeking freedom from both the song and the male.
He held tight. When a handful of observers rushed over, he tensed. Did the women intend to help her? Hope crested—every female reached out—and crashed. They merely sought to caress him.
“Do not dare,” a gravelly voice snapped. His voice. The male’s.
Exclamations came, one after another. “Ahhh! He even sounds like sex!”
“Where did you find him, and how long can I rent him?”
“A real-life slice of man-candy!”
“We’ll be making an announcement about him soon,” someone called. “Now back off. We gotta get him settled in at the palace first. Oh, and no one touches the piece of glass in his arms.”
Glass? Blythe?
“I will gut anyone who tries.” His every word dripped with promise. “Understand?”
She went still. He protects me?
Amid rising murmurs, she poured what remained of her strength into eradicating the song. Finally, the notes split down the middle, memories surging forth. Laban. Invasion. Betrayal. Ation. Wraith. Roux.
Rage fueled her hatred, heating the ruby and bringing more of that dreaded weakness. But no matter. You didn’t always need to be the strongest opponent to win a battle; you just had to be more determined. She erupted, hissing, cursing, and clawing.
“How are you so soft and so vicious at the same time?” he muttered.
She squirmed and fought and bucked. But the ruby continued to heat and weakness continued to flood in, allowing the song to repair itself. The next thing she knew, her memories vanished, and she was floating away in an ocean of nothingness.
* * *
“This is where you’ll be staying.”
Roux couldn’t identify the speaker. The entire welcome party had crammed into a hallway at the top of the “palace.” A silo set in the center of a circle of nineteen other silos.
With Blythe in his arms, he pushed past the group. Any blip of contact razed already-razed nerves. There. A door. He shouldered his way into a spacious bedroom.
“Feel free to drop off your baggage and join us on the third floor for a quick game of strip poker. Don’t worry. We won’t let you be late for your first da—”
He kicked the door shut, ending her invitation.
A quick scan revealed lavishly detailed furniture made from wood, stones, and metals. Candles flickered throughout, tinging the air with the fragrance of magnolia and melting wax. A set of open windows lured in golden sunlight and a cool breeze.
He teleported his backpack to a cushioned chair near the crackling hearth, then strode to the four-poster canopied bed. As gently as possible, he placed his sleeping bundle atop the mattress. He meant to walk away and find her clean clothes, but the sight of her arrested him.
Black locks spread over a white pillow, framing a face too lovely to be real. Long lashes fanned out, reminding him of a peacock’s plumage. The most ridiculous thought he’d ever entertained. For once, her plump red lips weren’t set in a grim line, turned down in a frown, or curved in a calculating grin. No, they were slightly parted, as if she prepared for his kiss.
His breath hitched. That. That was the most ridiculous thought he’d ever entertained. As if she would ever wish to kiss him.
Trying not to care, he reached out and traced a fingertip over the glistening ruby embedded in her throat. Warm. Because she burned?
A now familiar heat infiltrated his being, as wonderful as it was terrible. With a huff, he pivoted to begin his search for clothing at last. A chore requiring less than thirty seconds. The desired items hung in a wardrobe on the other side of the room. A plethora of leather tops, shirts, dresses, and sheer gowns. A pale blue one caught his notice. The perfect match for her eyes.
Not select it? Impossible.
The heat worsened as he returned to the bed, the swatch of material in hand. Ignore it. He traded her bloody garment for the clean one, never allowing himself to gaze anywhere but the pillow. A feat requiring every ounce of his strength. Still the heat increased.
The second he finished his chore, he exited the force field of her unnatural appeal and sank into the chair near the hearth. Only then did he let himself peer at her. And peer at her he did, unwavering, planning to spring up at the first sign of wakefulness. Because...just because.
He kept his gaze glued to her even as he dug into the pack, removing a dagger and stone. After dropping the bag at his feet, he sharpened the already sharp blade. For hours. Watching. Waiting. Wondering who he was soon to face. The snuggler who rubbed against him for comfort or the she-beast who fought as if she would happily die as long as she took her enemy with her.
She stretched atop the mattress. Roux froze rather than spring up. He held his breath as she eased into a sitting position. Baby blues glided over the room, slid over him, then darted back and widened. He expected a spill of black over her irises. The blue lingered.
Hope bloomed. Was he soon to interact with the snuggler?
“Are you my consort? You must be. I slept in your presence, and you’re so familiar,” she said with a soft tone.
She had no memory? “I believe your kind makes an exception for harpies near death.”
“I neared death?” Moaning, she massaged her temples. “This song...what is it hiding?”
She didn’t remember because of a song? But why would the siren—the answer crystalized before the question fully formed. Of course the siren had manipulated Blythe’s memory. To stop the wraith from utilizing the ruby, draining the harphantom at a time she needed to heal to survive, the siren had to take control of her emotions.
“I am...Roux,” he said, offering nothing more. How should he handle this? Her?
“Roux,” she echoed. She traced her gaze over him, radiating curiosity and, dare he believe it, attraction? “Are your tattoos moving?”
He glanced down, and sure enough. The alevala moved, as if he waged war inside himself.
Reeling, he dropped the weapon and tool, dug a shirt from the pack, and yanked the material over his head. A type of armor for them both. He needed a barrier against the torment of her gaze, and she needed to not get trapped in his past.
“Well, that wasn’t very nice, now, was it?” she chided. Half pouting, half smiling, she stood to steady legs. In a beam of light, the blue gown revealed more than it concealed. Her curves—he wiped his mouth.
Pure grace, she approached him, hips swaying, slits parting in the skirt, revealing hints of her thighs.
Sweat beaded on his brow. He couldn’t...he shouldn’t...
A scream exploded from the back of his mind. Jaw clenched, he gripped the arms of his chair. The mental interruption came from the escapee he’d noticed at the tea party with Isla. Someone he needed to capture and imprison at last. But miss this moment of comradery with Blythe to do so? No.
All sensual grace, the harphantom eased onto the ottoman in front of him. “Did something happen to me?”
He gave a slow, solo nod, afraid of startling her, reminding her of her hatred for him. “What’s the last thing you recall?”
“I know I’m a harpy and a phantom, my name is Blythe the Undoing, I have a daughter named Isla, and I’m working to become General. Although, I can’t become General with a child. So what am I missing?” Her brow furrowed. “I see flashes of you getting your smolder on but not much else.”
No memories of the consort then, despite recalling her child. But what did she mean, Roux’s smolder? “You’re missing a lot. Though it would be easier to lie to you, I’ll be honest. I am not your consort. You despise me.”
“Are you sure? Despise is a strong word.” A teasing smile blossomed as she slid her gaze over him. “Maybe I’ve been flirting with you.”
The chair arms cracked. So badly he longed to reach out and shift a lock of her silken hair between his fingers. “I’m quite sure. On four separate occasions, you’ve extracted at least one of my organs.”
Those ice blue eyes glittered with mirth. A queen of delights, she waved a hand through the air, dismissing his words. “Foreplay, babe. That, I promise you. Judging solely by the book cover, I’m certain you are a story I’ve been eager to read, muscle to muscle.”
The way her voice dipped... He gulped. Once he pried his fingers from the chair, he tugged at the collar of his shirt. She was a playful feast of carnality.
Oh, how Roux dreaded the return of her memory.
“You...find me handsome then?” In that moment, he wanted this female to like him. A dream destined to go unfulfilled. “Or perhaps you meant you can’t wait to crack my spine.”
There was something in the core of his being that only Chaos and the other Astra could tolerate. A fact Roux had accepted long ago. He doubted Blythe would have favored him as a compatriot even if her consort still lived.
“Put it this way, Astra,” she rasped, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “You’re a first edition, and I’m a highly motivated collector with cash to burn.”
He had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Thoughts left his head and gathered behind his zipper.
“Astra,” she repeated with a frown. Her head tilted to the side, as if she were trying to work out a puzzle. She muttered, “Astra, Astra, Astra. Laban.” Her frown deepened. “Invasion. Betrayal. Ation. Wraith. Roux.” Her lids dropped, slitting.
Roux lunged in her direction, hoping to prevent what came next. Too late. She swiped and ducked, avoiding capture. He stumbled back with blood trickling down his side.
“Five,” she snapped. Then she gasped, the organ falling from her clasp. She rubbed the ruby while wobbling on her feet. “I remember the rest now. Hatred. Weakening. Sleeping. I’m going to kill—” Eyelids sliding shut, she crumpled.
He caught her before she landed, clutching her to his chest. As he carried her to the bed, his inhalations came in quick succession. She was just so soft. So sweet. With such an incredible scent.
Reluctant, he placed her onto the bed and retreated to his seat by the fire, where he sharpened the already sharp dagger once again. And once again, his gaze remained glued to her.
Anticipation slithered through him. What would the she-beast do next?
* * *
Bright lights flipped on inside Blythe’s head, bringing instant clarity. Laban. Invasion. Betrayal. Ation. Wraith. Roux. Flirting. Hatred. Weakening. Sleeping. Strengthening. Destroying the song once and for all. Waking. Committing murder—soon. Yep, all her memories were accounted for.
With a hiss, she popped open her eyelids and jolted upright, freeing her buzzing wings from confinement. She perched on an ultrasoft mattress, and she wore a clean, transparent nightgown. A spacious bedroom filled with amazingly detailed furniture surrounded her. The scent of cedarwood and spiced oranges saturated candle-lit air. Night had come. Roux sat by a crackling hearth, a pile of weapons scattered about his feet. He was as still as a statue but wide awake and staring at her, squeezing daggers in a white-knuckled grip. It would have been creepy if it hadn’t been so sexy.
His intensity clashed with her rage—and gained ground. From wild inferno to dying spark she went. A cloud of smoke lifted from her mind, revealing a waiting revelation. Night had come. Hours had passed. Time she’d spent sleeping, vulnerable to attack while her greatest enemy hovered nearby. Oh, the horror!
Blythe ran her tongue over her teeth. Harpies only slept with their consorts, yes, but this didn’t count. It couldn’t. Like Roux had said, she’d been recovering from a near death experience. Because of him. Go ahead and slice.
Reason abandoned her. She didn’t care that Penelope had taken possession of her firstone dagger and nothing Blythe did today would cause permanent damage to the Astra. Attack!
Unleashing a war shriek, she hurled herself at the blond giant. Swipe. She clawed out his throat. Tit for trach. “One,” she said, holding up her prize. New body part, fresh start.
He didn’t tense or gasp. Healing in record time, barely even bleeding on his chair, he set his daggers aside with slow precision. His yellow irises spun with striations of magenta, gray, and russet. There was no hint of red, despite the violence of the moment.
Her rage roiled on and on and on. Except, now there was something else mixed with it. Something hot she couldn’t identify.
He arched a brow. “Foreplay?”
Argh! “Absolutely not.” She tossed the bloody mess in his face. Crimson splattered his skin. Somehow it looked good on him. “I’m a vicious killer.” To prove it, she leaped onto his lap and attacked him with renewed force.
