The Darkest Warrior (Lords of the Underworld 14)

Reflexes well-honed, Gillian tossed a blade at Johanna. The Shawazon general shouldered a grateful Winter out of the way, caught the weapon and crouched in front of the commander--who she then stabbed in the heart.

Dark mist rose from his body, quickly enveloping Johanna. Savoring the influx of power, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back. The runes in her hands glowed, almost brighter than the sun.

"Thank you." Healthy color bloomed in Johanna's cheeks. "Thank you so much."

"Anytime," Gillian replied, and meant it.

From her perch on the ground, Winter grumbled, "Just do us a favor and don't get captured next time."

"I wish you'd given me such sage advice before I entered the camp and tried to steal a kiss from a handsome stranger," Johanna said with a salute. "Would have saved me a little light torture."

Impatience intensifying, Gillian tugged Winter to her feet and grabbed the shield she'd discarded. "You guys ready to fight our way out?"

Johanna claimed the dagger the commander had sharpened and blew him a kiss. "Mind if I borrow this? No? Thanks bunches."

"Hey. I wanted his dagger," Winter said with a pout.

"How about we take daggers and swords from his friends?" Gillian suggested. The beauty of compromise. "And let's not forget magic!"

Smiles abounded as they raced out of the tent and into the still-raging storm. Soldiers were now rushing outside, shields raised. Amid the chaos and confusion caused by the storm, Gillian and company blended in with the growing crowd...and performed the perfect sneak attack.

Girls against boys. Girls--killed--everyone.

By the time the last soldier died, ice daggers had ceased falling. The tang of old pennies and emptied bowels tainted the air. Blood had turned the ground into a crimson sea of destruction.

Magic rose from the corpses and wafted to the rightful recipients.

Tendrils of strength flooded Gillian...but didn't heal her. Ugh. Despite her many kills, the men had been short on magic.

"How many Walshes did you kill?" Winter asked.

Breaths sawing in and out, Gillian cut a strip of cloth from a tent, wrapped her wound and replied, "Lost count. Sorry."

"Wouldn't matter anyway," Johanna said. "I bet I beat you both. How old are you grannies, anyway?"

"Ha-ha," Winter said.

"Come on. Let's go home."

Winter and Johanna trash-talked as they raced across the dunes. Gillian would have joined in, but she was too busy ignoring the aches and pains screaming for relief.

By the time they crossed the Shawazon border, the suns were in the process of rising, lovely golden rays glowing in the purple-red sky and highlighting...no, surely not. Gillian blinked rapidly, certain she wasn't looking at a tall, muscular form with bronzed skin, and silver razors in his dark hair.

Or maybe she...was? He was speaking to Rosaleen, his back to Gillian. His bare back. With a butterfly tattoo the color of shamrocks.

Tension stole through her body--but so did a familiar current of heat. Gillian came to an abrupt stop. Not yet getting the memo, her heart continued to race, faster and faster.

"Puck?"

19

A voice with the power to make him grow harder than steel. Hers. Puck spun so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. Frantic, he searched--there! Gillian Connacht stood at the crest of a sand dune, Winter and a woman he'd never met at her side. He noted the presence of the others absently, noted the dried blood and other things caked on all three females, as well. He knew he should wonder about the cause, and he would, just as soon as he stopped lusting like a lad with his first stable.

Gillian had undergone significant changes. Immortality hadn't frozen her at eighteen years old, but had allowed her to age into her perfect self. Her hair was longer, a shade darker, and wavy. Her cheeks were thinner, her breasts larger--luscious. Rounded hips were magnificently displayed in what must have become the Amaranthian woman's uniform: a black leather halter-top and short pleated skirt, bound together by metal links to shield vital organs. The rest of her was stunningly toned. Runes now branded her hands, the glittering swirls a stunning enhancement, like permanent flesh-jewelry.

He must have changed, as well, because what he'd felt for her before paled in comparison to what he felt for her now. Desire ruled him.

Perhaps their bond had deepened over the centuries she'd lived. Perhaps her magic called to his. The urge to close the distance, yank her into his arms, to touch and taste, to brand, bombarded him, nearly irresistible.

I will have what's mine. Want her. Badly. Must protect. Must keep.

Ambition protested. Must give her back to William.

She winced and clutched her side as she shifted from one booted foot to the other. A crimson-soaked cloth was wrapped around her torso from rib to hipbone.

Someone had hurt her.

Someone would die.

Barely controlling his rage, he rushed across the distance. Gillian met him halfway. They stopped in unison, only a whisper separating their bodies--his thrummed with new tension, hers exuded feminine heat.

She kept her gaze steady on his, so unlike the girl he used to know. The one who had looked away at the first opportunity.

When he inhaled the sweet scent of poppiberries, he couldn't stop a moan. Nor could the men in her clan, men who'd halted what they were doing to watch her with palpable longing.

Puck bowed up, ready for battle. If they did not turn away, they would die just as surely as "someone."

They caught sight of him and turned away.

Better. As Puck returned his focus to his wife, fascination and awareness charged the air, and the rest of the world faded. Erratic and wild, his pulse points drummed against his heating skin. Each beat spoke: Take. Her. Take. Her.

Indifference erupted in a chorus of displeasure, but not even the fiend could distract Puck from the vision before him. "Gillian--"

She punched him, rattling his brain against his skull.

"Well. Hello to you, too," he said, rubbing his stinging cheek.

Up went her chin. "That's for lying to me."

"I'm--"

She punched him again, splitting his lip.

"--sorry," he finished, his ears ringing.

"That's for breaking my finger." Punch. "That's for abandoning me in a strange land." Punch. "That's for returning three hundred years later than promised."

He waited for the next blow, but she drew in a deep breath, exhaled and nodded, as if satisfied in a job well done.

Lifting a brow, he said, "Finished?"

"Yep. For now." She knit her brows. "Hey, why aren't I hurt, too?"

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; He tapped the gold cuff still anchored to his wrist. "Excellent form and flawless technique, by the way. Winter and Cameron trained you well. Until you began to train them, of course."

Pride brightening her features, she fluffed her hair. "Thank you." Then her cheeks bloomed a lovely shade of pink, making him want to reach out and touch. How hot did she burn? "You've already read my letters."

"I have." He'd used magic to absorb every word written by both Gillian and Cameron. But no amount of magic could have curbed his surprise as the details had been unveiled.

Gillian had built an orphanage for needy children and a shelter for abused females. She'd been courted by kings and princes--who would be executed when Puck united the clans. She'd learned to wield magic, had even killed for it.

With each new letter, Puck had actually felt her grow and toughen. And when she'd mentioned her happiness? His heart had fluttered, something it had never done.

She'd mentioned she had "Hulk-outs," and he'd almost smiled. Had his wee wife thrown a temper tantrum or two?

The urge to smile had faded when he'd come upon the Oracles' prophecy. No happy ending.

Even now, guilt welled. By bringing Gillian to Amaranthia, Puck had set her on a certain path. In essence, he'd doomed her, an innocent who'd experienced a tragic childhood. Because, even if he severed their bond right here, right now, he would do her no good. The prophecy had been spoken; it would come to pass, no matter how hard they tried to circumvent it.

Hadn't Sin proved this?

"So? Where's William?" Gillian asked.

That name on her lips! Hate it! Puck wanted to grab her by the shoulders and press her against the hard line of his body. He would kiss her so deeply, he would erase memories of the male from her mind.

Where's William, my sweet? He's dead, if you ask about him just one more time.

Ridiculous thought. Merely a pipe dream.

"The fool struck out on his own, hoping to track you down," he said, "even though he knows nothing about this realm or its inhabitants."

"And you just let him go?" Her chiding tone set his nerves on edge.

"Should I have tied him down?" Puck had searched the Shawazon camp instead, thinking Gillian might be hiding inside one of the homes. He'd found no sign of her but had found countless women sharpening swords, making repairs on different dwellings and practicing combat moves.