The Immortal (Rise of the Warlords 2)

She expected a rebuke. Something. Anything. She got eerie silence instead. Wait. Her gaze darted. Everyone had frozen midaction and gone eerily quiet.

“General?” Heart thudding, Ophelia darted through the capacious room. She checked every occupant for a pulse but found none. She refused to panic, though. She could figure this out. She could.

She was Ophelia Falconcrest, and she could do anything.

3

Harpina

6:00 a.m.

Day 1

Halo Phaninon, Immortal of Immortals, wrapped a towel around his waist and exited his private bathroom. His concubine was naked and bent over the bed, reading a book. Excellent. He paid the Amazon well to service him each morning at this exact time.

Be here. Be ready. Expect nothing in return. Why use his hand on himself when he could easily afford a warm, soft receptacle? Though he didn’t like touching or being touched, he functioned best with at least one physical release a day. A small measure of relief from the relentless pressure inside him. The constant squeeze of a spiked, gauntleted fist around each of his organs.

Sometimes he imagined his chest filled with metal gears and pullies, fueled by memories of his years at the Order, ever tightening.

“Good morning, Halo.” Andromeda flipped to another page, not bothering to glance up. They’d been together for one year, three months and eight days.

Today, the sight of her agitated him, and he drew up short. Frowning, he rubbed the center of his chest. What was this he was feeling? Because it wasn’t consuming desire or frothing passion. Not that he’d ever experienced those things.

He thought he might recognize remnants of...guilt? But why would he feel guilty? Andromeda was here of her own volition and paid handsomely for her troubles.

Just get in and get out. No hint of weakness was to be tolerated. Ever. Halo might disdain the lessons he’d learned at the Order, but he never hesitated to employ them. Logic and precision colored his decisions, not emotion.

Determined, he positioned himself behind the Amazon, clasped her hips and kicked her feet apart.

Page flip.

He pursed his lips. She was the fourth concubine he’d ever employed. Beautiful beyond imagining. Tall and leanly muscled with pale hair and golden skin.

Most Amazons were known for their strength, bloodthirst, and total lack of a softer side. Females utterly unbothered by his detachment. Halo’s ideal companion. Andromeda teetered somewhere between sharp steel and melting butter.

The guilt intensified. Don’t do this.

“Got a busy day ahead?” she asked when he continued to stand behind her, motionless.

“Yes.” Deep breath in. Out.

“That’s cool.”

Perhaps it was time to select a new concubine? “Enough chatter.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Page flip.

Gritting his teeth, he removed the towel, tossed the material next to the Amazon, and placed the tip of his erection at her core. This isn’t right.

He reached up and gripped the rail above the bed. Just get it done. With a hard thrust, he sank inside the Amazon.

Pleasure surged, and he breathed easier. All right. Yes. This was nice. Exactly what he’d needed to properly start his day.

He pulled out a little, then thrust again. And again. Faster. Faster. He frowned. Not as much pleasure now. Faster still.

She moaned and gasped and continued to read. The glide grew slicker. Better. And worse. The gears in his chest tightened, any lingering pleasure quickly morphing into pain.

Beads of sweat popped up on his brow. He pumped even faster, hammering into her. But the gears increased their speed too.

Muscles tensed, turning to stone. Tendons pulled taut. Ignore the ache.

Hammering... He would empty himself, and he would reset. As always.

Come on, come on! He just needed a minute of ease. Even a few seconds would do.

Andromeda said, “You want me to change positions or maybe—”

“I said no more chatter,” he grated. In. Out. In, out. Faster.

Faster...

“Ahhh!” Halo wrenched free of her, severing contact. He was panting, almost wheezing, throbbing from head to toe. “Go. No, say nothing else,” he snapped when she straightened and met his gaze. “Just go.”

Leaving the towel behind, he returned to the bathroom, where he showered and dressed in a black T-shirt, leathers and boots. His motions only grew more and more clipped as his frustration sharpened. He desperately needed some kind of reset today.

Adjust course as needed. Why not hunt down a phantom or twenty and pour himself into combat? Yes. Halo sheathed a three-blade at his waist. A weapon forged from trinite—a combination of fireiron, demonglass and cursedwood. The only substance able to kill a phantom in any form. The more phantoms he killed, the better he protected his brothers. The Astra Planeta. Skylords who had forever altered Halo’s fate, the day they were brought together by the god Chaos to serve, for a time, as his royal guard.

Though centuries had passed before the other Astra managed to build a bridge between the empty vessel Halo had been to the worthy male he might become, they had persisted until they succeeded. By example, they taught him the joy of protecting what belonged to him and the value of trust. The sweetness of believing in someone other than himself. Again and again, they’d earned his loyalty. He loved nothing—except those males.