The Warlord (Rise of the Warlords 1)

She grinned, a temptress without equal, transfixing his gaze.

He held himself motionless—barely. “Impressive.”

“I know.” Boom!

Whoosh. A bullet ripped through his heart at the same instant an arrow cut through his shoulder. He had no time to process what she’d done before she launched her next strike.

Boom, boom, boom! Whoosh, whoosh. Three new bullets and two new arrows battered him. He stumbled forward, then back, toppling over something he hadn’t noticed before. Trip wire? He crashed into the floor, falling like a cannonball.

He thought he might admire her the tiniest bit.

“My motto?” She dropped from the corner, landing with spectacular grace. Walking toward him, she swayed her hips, lifted the gun and fired off another round. “Why wait to kill your enemy tomorrow when you can kill him today?”

Only admire her the tiniest bit, Roc?

He remained on the floor, ignoring the pain. “There are few ways to kill an Astra, wife, and this isn’t on the list.”

“I figured. So I brought a sword.” The gun thudded to the floor. A whistle of metal sounded. She reached his strike zone and swung.

He didn’t attempt to dodge. He caught the sword in his hands. The blade sliced skin and muscle, hitting bone with a clink.

Her lips parted, and her breaths quickened. “I’m fighting a robot? Dude. You have no idea how much sense this makes.”

He frowned. She considered him emotionless? “I promise you, I’m all man. My threshold for pain is unsurpassed, my ability to heal unmatched.” Blood poured from the wound, but the newest flare of pain barely registered. “Are you done with this ambush, or do you have more planned? I have duties.”

His feigned boredom provoked the desired response. Fury exploded inside those ocean-water eyes, some of the ice melting. The loveliest color bloomed in her cheeks.

“You’re going to pay for that,” she grated.

She. Was. Magnificent. He hardened. He throbbed.

Intense waves of heat emanated from him, the urge to yank her closer nearly irresistible. To hold her, if only for a moment. To kiss her again. The last time. To touch. To...protect?

He rejected the notion without taking time to analyze it.

Her gaze slid over his body, a virtual caress, and she licked her lips.

His shaft throbbed harder.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, Roc?” She met his gaze.

He couldn’t stop his next words. “Tell me.”

“Absolutely nothing.” Hips swishing gracefully, she stepped out of range. The sultry way she moved... “My work here is done.”

She must have rendered him stupid, because he struggled to understand. “What do you mean?” What work?

A grin of delight bloomed. “You crave me. Even now, you ache for me. Do you know how much I crave you? Zero point zero.”

A lie. “I make you wet, and we both know it.”

She tsked. “Are you sure it was you? Or my thoughts of Hades?”

Jealousy shattered what little remained of his calm. Disgusted with her, with himself, Roc snapped, “You are not my gravita,” and flashed away.

12

Gravita? What did that even mean?

Taliyah made her way to the dungeon, tumbling the question through her mind. You are not my...downfall? You are not my...friend? You are not my...good girl?

The answer remained at bay.

When Roc first appeared in her bedroom, she’d sensed his irritation and assumed he’d stumbled upon some of her traps. But as they’d peered at each other across the sword’s blade, something had changed. For a moment, he’d observed her as if she were the answer to his prayers. Then, of course, he’d turned into a snarling beast.

Whatever. His opinion hardly mattered. Like him, she had duties. Namely, coming up with a new game plan. It was nonoptional now.

Plan A, feeding, had failed. Plan B, shooting and beheading Roc, had also failed. So far, plan C eluded her. That was why she wanted to talk with the harpies below. She’d scope out the other prisoners, too. Maybe she’d come upon the perfect snack. Hunger gnawed at her more forcefully than she’d expected.

Taliyah descended dark, dank steps and entered a wide corridor with crumbling stone walls and flickering torches. Water dripped in several places. A horrid odor of mold and death coated the air, creating a fetid perfume. In the dungeon, the ground remained cold all year around, just like in the garden, freezing her feet inside her boots.

Navigating the corridors, she eyed every cell. Most contained a prisoner who’d committed a terrible act against harpykind.

Hmm. Not a great selection, to be honest. Despite their varying species, no prisoner displayed hints of strength. Even if she tapped out the entire lot, she doubted she’d fill her tank halfway.

The General contenders occupied the cell at the end of the farthest corridor. The only way in or out of it was flashing, a skill these harpies did not possess. They had no strength, either. Metal bands pinned their wings, crisscrossing above and below their breasts outside their shirts.