She lay in the same position she’d been in before—her head tipped to the side, her blond hair wild around her face. One hand lay in the sand; the other rested on her stomach as her chest rose and fell with her breaths. He had no idea if the spell had worked. He’d know only when she woke and tried to stand. Brushing his hand across her brow, he leaned down to her. “Wake up, kardia. Open those eyes for me.”
She didn’t move.
Worry pushed in, but he focused on her breathing, on the fact she didn’t have a fever, and tried again. “Wake up, kardia. Open your eyes so I know you’re there. Please open your eyes.”
Still nothing.
Disappointment filled his chest, but he refused to let it affect him. She was alive. For now that was all that mattered. Maybe it was a good thing she was out for the time being. At least she wasn’t in pain, and sleep would hopefully give her body the chance it needed to heal.
He decided to splint her leg just in case. He tugged off his shirt, dropped it on the ground. Casting another look over the barely-there nightgown those witches had dressed her in, he told himself to stop being a pansy and get on with it already.
He grasped the hem of the gown near her knees and gently pulled it up, careful not to look at what was being revealed. Shifting one arm underneath her back, he lifted her so he could drag the gown over her head. Then he reached for his shirt and slid her arms in one sleeve, then the other, and laid her back down as he tugged the two halves of the shirt closed at her front and started in on the buttons.
Damn these buttons. Why in Hades did there have to be so many? His hands grew slick as he fumbled to cover her as quickly as possible. Catching one button, he moved to the next, this one between her breasts. A flash of skin caught his attention. He tried to look away but couldn’t. Her skin was shades lighter than his, smooth where his was scarred, soft where his was rough. The button slipped from his large fingers. He grappled with it again, his knuckles grazing the swell of her breast as he moved.
Heat ignited through his torso, spread to his belly and into his groin. His gaze slid lower, to the strip of skin visible on her belly, lower to the juncture of her thighs…
He jumped to his feet, swiped his forearm across his brow, and turned away. Sonofabitch. This was exactly what Atalanta wanted. This was why she’d sent them here to this remote island. Well, she wasn’t going to get her way. He was getting away from Isadora before he did something he knew he’d regret later.
After tearing her gown into strips of cloth, he braced the wood against her shin and tied it in place, careful not to touch her more than was necessary. Then he set off into the trees in search of supplies to build a shelter and hopefully to cool himself the hell down.
Isadora was still asleep when he came back nearly an hour later and set to work. The sun beat against his bare skin as he lashed boards together with vines and covered the structure in foliage. When he was satisfied with the result, he carefully picked Isadora up and placed her inside, made sure she was covered again, then turned to look out over the water and the glowing sunset.
Okay, so, injuries looked after, shelter built…Now they needed food. He was good so long as he had a goal. It was the downtime alone with her that he was seriously dreading. He reached for one of the limbs he’d brought back with him, stripped off the foliage, and looked around for a rock to use to sharpen the end into a point so he could go fishing. That’s when he heard the howl.
He froze, lifted his head, turned to look back into the trees growing darker by the second as dusk crept in.
No, not a howl, he realized, dread racing down his spine. That was a scream. But not the kind that came from man or animal. This scream was made by a beast, and the roars that erupted around it were the sort that lived in nightmares.
His fingers tightened around the limb in his hand. He looked to Isadora, still asleep in the shelter. And knew—damn it—he’d been right. They really were in hell, and the first part of Atalanta’s plan was coming true. He couldn’t leave Isadora now, not even for a second. And that meant if he wasn’t careful, Atalanta just might get exactly what she wanted.
Isadora was floating again. The gentle push and pull echoed in her mind, tugged at her consciousness, dragged her from the depths of something murky and dark.
Images drifted through the haze, ones that made no sense and couldn’t be real. A seven-foot glowing blue man with floor-length hair. Yellow acid hitting her in the face. A field of daemons and a woman with soulless black eyes wearing a long bloodred robe. And then there was him.
Her blood warmed and a tingle ran along her skin as the image morphed and shifted. This male most definitely wasn’t blue. He was tall, muscular, powerful. With short jet-black hair and hands that seemed to span the width of her rib cage. She couldn’t make out his face, but his voice was familiar when it whispered in her ear. And when his arms came around her, his body was hotter than anything she’d ever felt.
She shifted, tried to reach for him because his touch felt so wickedly good she wanted it all over again. Anywhere. Everywhere. Only as she held out her hand, the image swirled and dissolved, leaving behind only the swish and sway of the wind.
No, not wind. Water.
Isadora listened closer. A strange sense of foreboding washed through her, pushing out all that heat from before.
She rolled to her stomach, groaned because every muscle in her body ached, then drew in a mouthful of sand. Pushing up on her hands, she coughed as she dragged her eyes open.
Blinding light burned her retinas. She dropped back onto her butt and winced as pain shot up her spine and down her legs. Holding up her hand to block the glare, she forced her eyes open again.
Her surroundings slowly came into view. She was sitting on a beach. The sound she’d heard was indeed water, but nothing seemed familiar.
Her mind spun and tendrils of panic wedged their way into her chest. Where was she? And how in Hades had she gotten here?
A figure moved to her right, and she looked that way only to be blinded all over again by the setting sun. She winced and squinted at the shadow coming toward her.
The mystery face was shrouded in shadow, dark hair wreathed in a halo of light from the sun behind. But even from this distance she could tell he was male. Male and massive and very impressive, especially wearing next to nothing as he was.
Tingles rushed over her as he drew closer. A smattering of dark hair covered his olive skin and impressive chest, catching the light as he moved. Her eyes drifted lower to chiseled six—no, eight—pack abs, to black pants that rode low on lean hips and were rolled up at the calves, to strong, perfect bare feet throwing sand as he moved with the grace of an Olympian.
For a fleeting moment she had the feeling she was in the presence of a god. She held her breath as he stopped feet from her, and though she tipped her head back and squinted to see more clearly, his face was still cast in shadows.
He dropped a rope on the sand at her side, one she now realized had been hooked over his shoulder as he’d dragged something behind him. Sunlight glinted off his muscular arms and chest, accented the droplets of sweat gathering on his tanned skin, which she could now see was marred with thin white scars.
“You’re finally awake,” he said in a clipped and familiar voice as he rested his hands on his hips. “About damn time.”
Wait. Gods didn’t have scars, did they? They were immortal. They couldn’t be hurt, not like humans and Argoleans. She tipped her head the other way, tried to get a good look at him. Still couldn’t.