After gathering an array of weapons, he returned to the barren wasteland he’d claimed as his personal territory. A world without water, foliage, or life he’d discovered a year ago. He resided in the realm’s only remaining structure: a dusty, musty palace topping a steep hill. The king and queen’s suite, specifically. Though Brochan conducted all business in the throne room. High ceilings allowed for easy flight.

  Despite frequent visits, he’d left the palace in its abandoned state. A black cloth draped the throne. Material covered most of the portraits on the walls, as well. The visible images displayed past monarchs. Warlocks and witches. A lone skeleton leaned against the bottom of the throne as if someone had curled up in a favorite spot after doing their best to preserve the artifacts of a dead civilization.

  As Brochan strode to the table he’d pushed to the center of the chamber, broken glass shards sliced his heels. The stinging injuries proved minimal, yet he left a trail of blood in his wake. Oh, well. This wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  Books and ancient scrolls littered the tabletop, most depicting a tale about Viola. In his quest for vengeance, he’d managed to cobble together bits and pieces of her past.

  The earliest known sighting? An obscure reference to a “beautiful, golden-haired goddess of the Afterlife, who fed on souls.” Origins unknown, said to be cold, cruel and heartless. The next mention told of a crime committed against the goddess Dione, first wife of Zeus. Both former power players among the Greeks. Reports suggested this golden-haired beauty slaughtered Dione’s servants for entertainment.

  Cold and cruel, Brochan understood. But heartless? No. No one loved harder than Viola. She loved herself utterly, madly, completely. So, clearly, she had a heart. It was shriveled, yes, but it was a heart nonetheless, which meant she did have a weakness. He had only to find it.

  Brochan grabbed the scroll with a sketch of Viola. A type of mugshot, he thought the humans called it. Dione had meted out revenge, arranging for Viola’s incarceration in Tartarus, where she had spent centuries.

  A young Viola peered up at him from the page, her expression startled, her hair wild and in tangles.

  His chest clenched. He traced a fingertip across her lips and scowled. Beautiful on the outside. Monstrous on the inside. Selfish. Haughty. As brutal as advertised. Everything he’d once fought against in the skies. But…

  She was also charming without effort. Wonderfully confident, no matter the situation. Never shy or soft-spoken, as his wives had been. No, Viola took what she wanted, when she wanted it, and let nothing stop her. A commendable trait. An insufferable trait. But even still, Brochan hungered for her.

  Fool! Every foul thing she did, she did with one aim: to save that devil-dog. As if her bloodthirsty pet was worth more than McCadden. Or anyone.

  If Brochan must watch his brother age and die, Viola must experience the same with her darling Fluffy. He expected—nay, he demanded—tit for tat.

  Temper flaring, he fixed his attention on the story of the goddess’s imprisonment. For centuries, Viola languished in her cell, locked in solitary confinement. At some point, she became bonded to Narcissism.

  According to the warden’s report, that bond was forced upon her. Brochan refused to feel sorry for her, however. He––

  The tattoo on his arm heated, and he tossed the scroll with a huff. Viola was excited about something. On the prowl for a gullible immortal already? This could not be borne.

  Fury bubbled inside him. But so did anticipation. The time for observation and hoping the goddess inadvertently revealed the key to Nevaeh ended now.

  A quick plan formed. Bring her here. Imprison her until she gifts the key. Choose her ultimate fate. His lust for her hadn’t mattered, didn’t matter, and wouldn’t matter.

  Decided, Brochan unsheathed a blade and flashed away.

  Chapter Three

  Not him. His aura burned too bright.

  Not him. His aura indicated a rageful temper.

  Not him. His aura spoke of fear. No courage.

  Music blasted as Viola strutted through a crowded nightclub packed with wolfshifters, searching the sea of faces. Three days had passed since Brochan’s demise, and she’d barely thought of him more than a hundred times. Practically never when you considered that most people had trillions of thoughts a day. But…

  She maybe, kinda, sorta did possibly, perhaps miss the stimulation of his insistent chase. Having such a dedicated bodyguard hadn’t sucked. At least Brochan could no longer stop her from feeding Fluffy or temporarily quieting Narcissism. Exactly what she planned to do tonight.

  The fur-baby required a full battery recharge, and the demon demanded adoration. Winning a man’s heart provided both. For a short time, at least.

  Two birds, one slightly distasteful stone. Hardly a big deal. The pangs now arching through her meant nothing.

  For two days, she’d failed at her mission. But not tonight. Victory was critical. Soon, the demon would begin siphoning her confidence, leaving her vulnerable against the mountain of insecurities and loathing buried beneath her glorious self-assurance. A circumstance she abhorred—as anyone would. Her tears never ceased and fears constantly overran her mind.

  Confidence was her drug of choice, and she planned to get smashed. So. Here we are. Viola endeavored to do what she hated and loved: charm someone into falling in love with her.

  Exactly as she’d done to McCadden and so many others. Meaning, another family would be devastated.

  Her chest tightened, squeezing her rib cage.

  You deserve better, Narcissism whispered. Always better.

  Yes. She did.

  Tightening further… Why should she care about others, anyway? People might not mean to, may actively try not to or have the best intentions, but they always betrayed you. It happened without fail. But oh, how she yearned to torment the fiend the way he so often tormented her. If anyone deserved to suffer, he did. But how was she supposed to fight a monster responsible for her confidence?

  Just get this done and move on.

  Lights flashed as randy wolfshifters flailed and thrashed upon the dance floor. Not him. Not him. Not him. As usual, she sought a specific type of male. Someone eager for love but also courting death. Her gift to herself. Selecting males on the verge of dying kept all guilt at bay…mostly. At least half, surely. Why should she allow death to extinguish so much power? Why not remove the power first? Win-win.

  Viola was born with an ability to read auras. A prized skill, to be sure. Auras shared the deepest secrets. The condition of a heart, whether pure or evil. The state of a mind, whether at peace or agitated. The amount of time someone had left, whether centuries or hours.

  Now that she thought about it, Brochan and his fellow winged Fallen Ones hadn’t sported an aura. Why? What did it mean?

  “Hey, sexy—” someone called.

  “No,” she said without pause. Not him, not him. Not—hmm. Him? Her steps slowed as she examined the male more thoroughly.

  He perched alone at the end of the bar, nursing a drink. His head hung with dejection. The soft glow of his aura revealed a tortured soul steeped in misery. Dark spots grew from the edges. Death had already sunk sharp hooks into his future.

  She peered closer at him. No oily residue marred his aura, suggesting an immortal disease, yet she knew he only had two weeks. Maybe three. He was going to die. Why not gift him with the best week of his life? Seven days of stimulating conversation, laughs, and kindness before she claimed his immortality and jetted, leaving him to die as a mortal rather than an immortal. Or seven hours. Yes, she liked that timeframe better. He would too probably.

  I’m practically a humanitarian. His family should thank her for her services. At the very least, they should offer her endless gifts of homage. Something Brochan should have done.

  Her chest tightened again. What if things had been different? What if she hadn’t killed the Fallen One? What if she’d explained how perilously close McCadden had stood at the cliff between life and death before she stepped in instead? Would he have thanked her for her actions? Not that she cared. So the tightening worsened. So what? A bout of heartburn, most likely. No big deal. Moving on.

  Yes, she’d found her man. Excitement without a single hint of guilt—not even the slightest drop, honest!—fizzed in her veins. Wearing a slinky white dress with a super-short hem and a deep vee to best display her ample cleavage, she sauntered over.

  She slid into the chair beside him and offered a greeting with a voice as potent as an erotic caress. “Hello, handsome.”

  He jolted, startled before shifting his gaze to her. Frowning, he pointed to his chest. “Me?”

  “Why not you?” she asked with the world’s most enchanting laugh. As much as she disliked the necessity of this, she also kind of enjoyed it. Flirting freely, earning adoration. Interacting with others. Living! Everything she’d been denied while whiling away the years in each of her prisons.

  Leave the past in the past. “I’m Viola, your newest obsession. And no, you’re not dreaming. I’m not some figment of your imagination.” She offered him a dazzling smile and traced a fingertip across his brow, leaving a spiritual mark only she and Fluffy could sense, ensuring easy tracking if they got separated. “I’m here, and I’m real.”

  He peered at her, dazed—surely—allowing the touch without flinching or commenting. “I just want to be left alone, ma’am.”

  Ma’am. Ma’am? He dies today!

  Think of Fluffy. Deep breath in. Out. Viola curbed her murderous urges. But he deserved what was coming now, and that was that.

  She pasted an even more dazzling smile. “If someone can’t charm you into changing your mind within a five-minute span, they’re a slacker. I’ll do it in four. Are you willing to give me a chance?”

  His brow furrowed, his confusion obvious. “You wish to charm me? Why?”

  She leaned closer, telling him, “Better question. Why wouldn’t I want to?” A strange sensation prickled on her nape, and she glanced up. Gasped. No way she saw what she thought she did. This…this…it was impossible. Wasn’t it?

  “I don’t understand,” the wolfshifter said.

  “Neither do I.” A trick of the light? Please be a trick.

  The music stopped abruptly, every shifter in the spacious building halting. The once-headless Brochan stood at the back of the room, alive and well—and clearly incensed.

  But, but… “I decapitated him. Like a boss,” she said, jumping to her feet. She wobbled on her towering stilettos. Was he a ghost, come to haunt her?

  Brochan was shirtless, wearing only a pair of black leathers. Standard mythological warrior attire rather than ghostly. Although, other warriors wore boots. His feet were bare. His skin appeared a deeper shade of blue than before, his facial features sharper, and his wings larger. Her heart fluttered. Bone hooks protruded from the joints. Lethal danger radiated from him, chilling her.

  Curses and threats rang out around him as her companion leaped to his feet.

  “Get behind me,” he commanded, moving in front of her. “I will protect you.”

  As if! No one protected her better than herself. A lesson she’d learned as a vulnerable child, courtesy of her mother.

  As she stepped around him, the shifters roared their wrath over the unwelcome intrusion. Black shadows seeped from their pores, growing together to create a wolfish mask from head to toe.

  The moisture in her mouth dried. No, no trick of light or ghost. He was here, he was real, and staring right at her.

  How had Brochan recovered from a missing head? Not even she could do that, and she could do absolutely anything better than anyone, her talents and abilities unlimited.

  The mutated Fallen One stood across the room, his gaze remaining fixed on her. A maniacal glint lit his silver irises, his grim expression bordering on homicidal. He might have shown her mercy before, but he wouldn’t do so again. The promise of agony emanated from him, his muscles hardening.

  “I’ve decided what I will do with you,” he proclaimed for one and all to hear.

  His deep, husky timbre roused a wealth of goose bumps. She faked a yawn. “You’re planning to give me a front massage, aren’t you?”

  He blinked and growled. “Not a massage. But hands will be involved.”

  The second he stepped forward, the shifters flew into motion, pouncing on him. Brochan went high and then low, left then right, remaining in a constant state of motion as he made his way toward her. No one felled him. A few wolves clawed his arms and torso, but they didn’t slow him, and they suffered greatly for their efforts. In retaliation, Brochan tore off their limbs. Like, all of them. Arms and legs. His claws were much bigger and far sharper.

  Viola watched, mesmerized. In battle, he was magnificent, full stop. Fierce and unrelenting. Utterly savage. Such strength! He was determined to reach her, whatever the cost. Did he even know how sexy that was? Her heart fluttered, and her palms dampened. He remained pitiless against anyone foolish enough to approach him. Wreaking havoc, he spun, flaring and retracting his wings as necessary. His opponents dropped, groups at a time, unable to stand. Or breathe.

  But even as Brochan killed, he kept his gaze on Viola’s companion. When the male eased closer, the beast flared his horns and swung his claws with more force.

  She inched away from the shifter, increasing the distance between them, and Brochan returned to a normal speed.

  Okay. All right. Her nearness might get Fluffy’s meal axed sooner rather than later.

  Confidence cracking, Narcissism retaliated against her, releasing a kernel of fear. Vines slithered from it, one after the other, each tipped by a memory. Growing stronger. Stronger.

  She had battle skill, grit and wiles, but she might not have enough skill, grit and wiles to defeat this male. But retreat? Never! Still, a timeout could help matters. A few months, years, or centuries to really think things through before she hunted him down and continued their war, soundly defeating him. Of course. Later today, once her chosen target had escaped the bar, she’d find him and reintroduce herself.

  Yes. Perfect plan. No flaws, as usual. Fate must agree. The shifter’s aura hadn’t changed, so, he wouldn’t be dying via Brochan’s rage.

  “Go home,” she told the male. “We’ll chat later. I promise.” Viola flashed to a remote island in the mortal realm, leaving the shifters to deal with the beast. My gift to you.

  Waves lapped at glistening white sands, instantly soothing her nerves. The scent of coconut and salt saturated over-warm air. Breathing deeply, she dropped into the gritty warmth, hitting her knees and—

  “No!”

  Brochan appeared a few yards in front of her, bathed in sunlight. But, but… How had he found her so swiftly?

  Heart thudding, she rocketed to her feet and yanked off her bracelet. The same one she’d used to remove his head. With a flick of her wrist, the jewelry locked into a sword, and she squared off with him. Why, why, why didn’t he have an aura? Was he death itself or something?

  “How are you alive?” she demanded.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Nothing has the power to kill me, goddess. Especially not you.”

  Oh, that cut. She could do anything. “I bet I’ll find a way.” In fact, an idea already percolated…

  “You cannot escape me. Not now, not ever. No matter how many times I die, I’ll always come back for you.” He took a single step closer, nothing but aggression and menace. “I’ll just be angrier.”

  Shivers of dread slipped down her spine. Definitely dread. Not excitement.

  “You ensured my brother’s end, and you took my life,” he continued. “From this moment forward, I own yours.”

  She inched backward. Not because she was cowed but because she had a brain. Common sense said: Stay away from the murdering monster.

  Her core offered multiple objections. Get closer…

  Raising the sword, she grated, “I can strike at you in ways others cannot.”

  He remained unperturbed. “Strike at me all you wish. Before, you caught me off guard. This time, I’m prepared.”

  Not exaggeration but the unvarnished truth. Anyone who fought an entire pack of wolfshifters without breaking a sweat wielded a skill set far beyond hers. Again, she inched backward. “I won’t hand over the key to Nevaeh.” She couldn’t. But, if he persisted in assuming she owned it, well, he would fight to keep her safe, even from himself.

  Gorgeous bombshell—brilliant mastermind.

  “You will hand it over, goddess. That, I promise you.” All that gravel in his voice had taken on a guttural edge. “Until you do, you’ll live in my home. If you run, I’ll drag you back. If you ambush me, I’ll punish you. If you disobey me, even once, I’ll punish you worse.”

  Narcissism peeked from a corner of her awareness. More self-assured by the moment, the fiend prowled through the corridors of her mind. Soon, it brimmed with possibilities. To win the heart of a beast…was there a more ultimate conquest? To crush his heart afterward… The demon grew positively giddy.

  No. She would rather kill Brochan than work her wiles on him. Fluffy couldn’t dine on his poisonous immortality. What’s more, Viola didn’t want to win and crush him. Which she could totally do. If she tried, even a little. He wasn’t worth her time. He planned to lock her up.

  A shudder racked her. Why not confess the truth? What harm could it do? “Your brother was weeks away from a true death. Without my aid, thank you. When I took his immortality, I altered his fate and actually prolonged his life. I did you both a favor. So. I’ll hear your thanks now.”

  “You’ll hear my thanks. Now.” Flash. He appeared directly in front of her, glaring as he clamped a big, callused hand against her throat. The tips of his claws rested against her skin, and her pulse jumped. He held her weapon at bay with his other hand.

  Of course, he’d doubted her. Why wouldn’t he? They were foes of circumstance. The very reason she hadn’t tried to explain her motives before this.

 

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