Was it only a day ago that she’d been coughing up grit in the tunnel? Since then, she’d suffered a fiery Vrekener crash, a log to the face, and tongue amputation.

And that was after weeks of captivity.

I’m not doing too good here. On top of all that, she was trapped in a cave with gold nearby, which left her antsy. She could feel it, could all but smell it, yet she couldn’t reach it, to touch, to worship. Like an itch she couldn’t scratch. No, worse than that—like a blade in the back she couldn’t reach.

Think of something else. Shivering and miserable, she envisioned her lavish suite in Castle Tornin. Tonight, she’d be in her warm bed, watching movies—rom-coms and epic love stories. Or maybe she’d read a new self-help book.

Funny—before all this, she’d been chafing at Tornin. She often felt like a third wheel with Rydstrom and Sabine. Things improved when Rydstrom’s sisters visited or when Cadeon and Holly brought the girls, but their visits weren’t frequent enough to satisfy Lanthe.

Sharing a castle with Sabine and Rydstrom could be trying. Though Lanthe had her own tower in Tornin, she’d still see him kissing Sabine down in the courtyard, or holding her hand just to walk to dinner. Their obvious adoration for each other made Lanthe . . . jealous.

Not that her sister didn’t deserve every happiness, but Sabine had never even wanted love for herself. Lanthe had dreamed of it for centuries, leaving no stone unturned to find it; yet she was the one alone, with no prospect of it.

The closest she could get to a lasting relationship was with a murderous Vrekener. Ugh!

She couldn’t believe she’d had even a passing thought that Thronos’s physique was attractive! Damn her Sorceri hormones.

If she could get back to Rothkalina, she vowed on all the gold in her private vault that she would never chafe again.

She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed. She was acting as if she’d see home again. If the male pacing this cave had anything to do with it, she’d live out her days in a floating hell.

Until she jumped.

FOURTEEN

At least one of us can sleep. After about half an hour, the sorceress had passed out—while he sat back against a wall of hieroglyphs, watching her.

She seemed to have blocked him out, ignoring him so totally that he might as well not be here. In a way, ignoring him was precisely what she’d been doing for the last several centuries.

Because he didn’t rate. To her, he mattered not at all.

Positioned as she was, her ridiculous excuse for a skirt was riding up. Any higher and he’d be able to see the cleft of her ass. Recalling the feel of those shapely curves in his palms made his shaft stiffen with a swift heat.

Though he hadn’t slept in weeks, he wouldn’t with Melanthe near, for fear of what he might do to her. Over his adult life, every single one of his dreams had featured her—him doing things to her.

Sometimes he’d wake to find himself thrusting against the sheets, the pillow, his fist—anything to ease the pressure his body continued to struggle with.

Culminating like that was considered a disgrace for a mated male. Releasing anywhere outside his mate’s sex was taboo, a waste of a precious resource.

Soon he wouldn’t have to worry about such things. Once he wed her, he’d wake to find himself thrusting between her thighs.

In mere days, they’d be back in the Skye. Within his home, he’d take her to his bed—a Bed of Troth.

Craftsmen had begun carving it for him on the day of his birth, a practice that wasn’t unusual among the more stable Lorean species. For Vrekeners, this lifelong bed was considered hallowed. By law, it was the one place he could claim her.

Just that act would marry him and Melanthe. They’d be officially bound, and—with the gods’ favor—expecting.

But now he had another urgent reason to return to his home. If what she said was true and his knights had acted outside his specific orders not to hurt either sister, Thronos was going to rain down punishment.

Melanthe had once sent Thronos crashing to his doom. Years later, had they done the same to Sabine?

Not for justice. But for vengeance. The master I now serve.

Sabine had killed the sovereign of their species, his own father; Thronos could almost accept the idea of assassinating her, their vow notwithstanding.

But to target Melanthe?

It made no sense. In one thing she was correct: if he accepted Melanthe’s version of events, then his beliefs would be turned inside out.

He would investigate thoroughly, keeping her under close guard. For her safety. And ours.

How was he going to control her powers without that collar . . . ?

Thronos rolled his head on his neck to loosen the knotted muscles there. Though he should be exhausted, he was wired. Yes, he was alert to danger, feeling less than secure in this place, but it was more.

That weird feeling of expectancy hit him then, along with an easing within him. Even as constant desire for Melanthe racked him, he was feeling more nonchalant about consequences. He found himself less concerned about missteps and offendments.

Which could prove ruinous with the temptation sleeping not ten feet from him.

Were these changes because of her or this place? Both?

So what would happen to him after six more days here with Melanthe? Perhaps he should head out tomorrow and scout for an alternative portal.

He heard her sigh in sleep. Without waking, she turned on her side to face him, displaying ample cle**age.

When he could drag his gaze from her br**sts, his eyes followed the seam of her lithe thighs all the way up to the shadow beneath her skirt. He shifted uncomfortably as his length grew even harder.