Shadows Before the Sun

penchant for open-air living was growing on me. There was about twelve feet of stone floor separating the bath from the outside. I could soak and watch the dawn transition into day.

I swam to the edge of the pool, rested my elbows on the ledge, let my head fall on my good arm, and closed my eyes with thoughts of the banquet, the Circe, and Hank.

* * *

Sometimes he dreamt.

After the lashes, after his death and resurrection, when he was left naked on the floor to heal for the next go-round, he slipped into unconsciousness. And he dreamt.

Mostly they were nightmares, repetition of his torture, of his tired soul being pulled back into his broken body. But some were relished, like those of death, blood, and vengeance against the Circe.

And some were more painful than all the others.

The good ones were the worst.

The good ones left him waking up to the reality where nothing good existed. He hated the good ones.

Yet, they would come, like they did now, and he would find himself in another time, another place where his mind and body were healthy, where his gaze was currently fixed on the hypnotic sight before him, of the woman who slept in a steaming bath overlooking the sea.

The water pressed and flowed over his skin as he moved toward her. Droplets fell from the ends of her hair and ran down the curve of her back, disappearing into the water that hugged her hips.

He wanted to touch her, to lay his rough palm on her smooth skin, to feel the contrast and make a connection, forge a link, to claim her—all of her. Body. Mind. Heart.

His heart pounded. He felt powerful. But she was more so because she could reduce him to this . . . need.

The water lapped at her back as he moved behind her. He could smell her skin, her hair, hear her soft breathing. A sudden tenderness went through him, making him pause as he went to touch her.

No, he was not tender. Not kind or good.

He was fucked up. Changed. And he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care if she cared.

He reached out and slid his fingertips over her hip and then around the curve until he held her. He swallowed hard. Her skin was hot like the water. Silky. Damp. He stepped closer, moving his other hand up her back and then curling it over her shoulder.

Christ, it hurt, being so close, yet not close enough.

He bent over and kissed her shoulder. She stirred, releasing a soft female sigh that made his fingers dig into her hip. He held on as though his life depended on it. As if letting go would shatter him into a million pieces.

His lips brushed back and forth against her skin and then moved to the spot where her shoulder met her neck. He smiled against her warmth. He liked this spot. He wanted to tell her how he felt, what he wanted to do to her, how his body was about to break apart because of her.

So he did.

He wrapped his arms around her, his big hands splayed over her bare stomach, dipped his head, and spoke softly, just below her ear, the deep power of his words giving life to his thoughts, his wants, his driving need. He told her everything.

She straightened, finally waking like Aphrodite rising from the sea. Her back pressed into his chest. Her hands settled over the top of his, holding him to her as her head dropped back, exposing more of her neck as though she wanted more, wanted him.

Accepted him.

9

The knock at the bathroom door heralding breakfast jerked me out of the dream so fast I almost sucked in a mouthful of water. My heart beat like a jackhammer, and my body practically hummed. I coughed several times and then swallowed hard, trying to reclaim some control over myself, but it was pretty damned difficult.

That dream . . . God.

Feeling dazed and shaky, I left the pool and dressed quickly to the sound of servants bringing in the morning meal, setting the small buffet, and Alessandra’s muted voice.

As I sat down on the end of the bed to pull on my boots, I was still reeling. Still shaking. Cheeks still flushed and warm.

Hottest dream on record. Period.

Hank’s deep, exotic voice echoed in my mind and whispered against my skin.

The mark on my shoulder, however, was still unresponsive, and that realization cooled me off considerably. Thankfully, the ache in my arm was nearly gone. And in a few hours, I’d meet the infamous Circe, start making headway into finding Hank, and proving those delegates wrong.

He was here. He had to be.

Shaking off the last shreds of the dream, I stepped into the main room. Sandra took one look at me and said, “We need to do something about your wardrobe.”

“Gee, thanks. Good morning to you, too.” I went to the table to pick up a slice of warm bread, feeling edgy and frustratingly unsatisfied. “There is nothing wrong with my clothes.”

“I didn’t say that. But you can’t exactly wear that outfit to the banquet. And this”—she gestured from my toes to my head with a wild flourish of her hand—“just doesn’t cut it.”

“Well, let’s see . . .” I lifted a foot. “Steel-toed boots.” I stuck out my hip. “Cargo pants for ease of movement.” I slapped a hand on my weapon strapped to my waist. “ITF-issued High Frequency Tag gun; otherwise known as a Hefty.” I spun around so she could get the full effect. “Outfit designed to maximize that ass-kicking edge . . . priceless.”

Alessandra huffed. “You’re such a smart-ass.”

“So are you. You’re just a better morning person than me. Which is annoying by the way.” I sat down on the couch.

“You might be my personal bodyguard, but within the confines of the palace, attending meals and meetings, to carry a weapon is to suggest the place unsafe. It would be an offense to our host to attend the banquet armed. And you can’t go dressed like my bodyguard.”

“All of which I do know.” I shoved the last bite of bread into my mouth.

“Good. Then let’s go shopping.”

* * *

The hall was lit with small lanterns set into niches in the walls. Alessandra walked ahead of me, the fine material of her midnight blue gown flowing out behind her and making shadowy waves on the walls. Wind and string instruments echoed down the passageway in an exotic melody.

And even though the sights and sounds were beautiful and mesmerizing, I was unarmed and feeling completely exposed and antsy.

Don’t attack the Circe on sight, I repeated, knowing myself and knowing as soon as I laid eyes on the old bitches I’d want to rip their collective throats out. Don’t kill the Circe. Don’t react at all.

“They are eerily insightful,” Sandra had counseled me as we got ready—her in some kind of traditional gown with yards of gauzy fabric and me in loose pants that fell like cool silk and matching tunic with long, flowing sides. “They pick up the smallest vibes. Think of them as a pack of drug-sniffing dogs, and we just lit up a joint back in our room.”

I’d just stared at her with a you-did-not-just-say-that look. She sniffed and