mutiny?
“And you’re always an obedient little soldier?”
Easily seeing through her attempt at “divide and conquer,” the vampire turned to leave. “I’ll return with the food.”
“Wait.”
He muttered a low curse, glancing over his shoulder. “What now?”
“How long am I going to be held a prisoner?”
“That’s up to Styx.”
“You can’t just leave me trapped down here.”
“Watch me.”
He walked away, exposing the most delectable butt she’d ever seen encased in denims. She swallowed a groan at the desire that flared through her, pretending she was leaning her head through the bars to yell at the bastard and not to admire his fine backside.
“You’re a cold-blooded and heartless bastard, leech.”
“Roke.”
She frowned as his disembodied voice floated through the air. “What?”
“My name is Roke, not leech.”
Roke walked away despite the annoying urge to turn around and release Sally Grace from the barren cell.
Dammit, what was wrong with him?
Okay, the female was pretty. Astonishingly pretty. He’d known that from the moment he’d caught sight of her in the dungeon’s monitor. So what? Weren’t there thousands of women who were far more beautiful? Certainly they were all more charming.
The spiteful little witch had the tongue of a shrew and the temperament of a rattlesnake.
Then why did he have to force his feet to carry him out of the dungeons?
It had to be because she managed to look so pale and young and defenseless, he grimly reassured himself, grimacing as he entered the marble hallway. There was a part of him that was an instinctive protector of the weak. Perhaps it was natural to be bothered by the sight of such a small, fragile creature locked in the cells that were a level beneath the original dungeons and devised for only the most dangerous of Styx’s enemies.
A nice explanation.
Unfortunately it didn’t explain why he’d been so fascinated by the warm scent of peaches that seemed to cling to her skin. Soap? Perfume?
Or the jolt of arousal that had slammed into him when he’d allowed his gaze to trail down to her slender body, which was curved in all the right places.
He growled low in his throat. He didn’t want to be aroused by the female. Not only because she was a witch. Vampires hated magic and magic users. All magic users. Or even because she’d been a toady for the Dark Lord.
Roke was male enough to understand that his cock didn’t give a shit about the race, religion, species, or moral integrity of a potential lover. It responded to primitive needs that were disconnected from his brain.
But he’d learned long ago that only a fool gave in to his passions. Especially when it involved an unworthy female.
These days he was very selective about the women he took to his bed. He wanted a female he could respect and who understood his duty to his clan. One he could depend on not to make demands.
“And I thought I had piss-poor people skills,” a deep voice drawled.
“You do,” Roke retorted, watching the massive Aztec step through an open door to block his path.
The Anasso was casually dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, his hair pulled into a long braid, but there was nothing casual in the heavy, pulsing power that filled the air.
Roke clenched his hands. He was too alpha not to react to the unspoken challenge in the air, although he was wise enough to keep his instincts tightly leashed.
Styx narrowed his dark eyes. “Is this mood because I asked you to keep an eye on our prisoner, or because she’s a witch?”
“I’m not a nanny,” he growled, not about to admit the arousal that continued to plague him.
Styx’s lips twitched. “Thank the gods.”
“I’m glad one of us finds this amusing.”
“You’re stuck here for now,” the king pointed out. “You can snap and snarl like a rabid hellhound or you can accept your fate with a little grace.”
Grace?
Roke hadn’t wanted to come to Chicago in the first place, but the Anasso had insisted they needed his rare talent for reading prophecies. Then, just when he was preparing to return to his clan in Nevada, the prophet, Cassandra, had claimed to have seen him in one of her visions.
Now he was stuck in this godforsaken palace of marble and gilt, so bored out of his mind that he was beginning to imagine he could be attracted to a pint-sized witch.
“Just because that damned prophet—”
“Careful, Roke,” Styx interrupted, his power edged with pinpricks of warning. “That ‘damned prophet’ is part of my family.”
Cassandra was the sister to Styx’s mate, Darcy.