The Darkest Kiss

launched them at him. The whoosh was the only warning he had before the stars embedded in his heart.

He howled. 'Again in the heart? Where is your originality?' He winced as he yanked them out, and his jaw set stubbornly as he tossed it to the ground. 'This doesn't have to be messy, Anya.'

'Hell, yes, it does.' She threw another star.

He ducked, and the tiny blade sailed over his shoulder. Then he took another step toward her. Brave man. 'Why can't you give Cronus the key?'

'Why couldn't you pick me rather than Cronus?' she ground out. 'Why couldn't you pick me rather than your friends?'

Oh, gods. Had she truly said that? Whined like that? Heat spread over her entire face. Of course he'd picked his friends. She might wish otherwise—even the night Ashlyn sacrificed herself for Maddox, Anya had dreamed of Lucien being willing to do the same for her—but that was the way of the world. Lovers, whether they'd done the deed or not, came and went. Friends were forever.

Lucien paused. 'For all I know, Anya, you will forget me tomorrow. Why should I risk all that I hold dear for a few days with you?'

Because I'm worthy, damn it! Foolishly, selfishly, she would have liked to hear that he'd go through anything for her, no matter how little or long they'd be together. Punishment. Hell. Torture. A combination of all three. 'I could have helped you find those artifacts. I could have helped you fight Hydra. I could have helped you find that godsdamn box.'

His shoulders sagged slightly. 'I know.'

Her hurt increased. He'd rather kill her than to 1) risk getting to know her more and perhaps watch her walk away one day and 2) obtain her aid for an item he desperately craved.

Growling low in her throat, she launched yet another star. He wasn't fast enough this time and it sliced into his already injured thigh.

'Damn it, Anya.' He jerked it out and tossed it aside, even though he could have tossed it at her. 'Calm down.'

'Calm down? Are you serious?'

'Yes.'

Shithead. 'You wanna kill me, you're going to have to work for it.'

'Very well.' Eyes narrowing, he allowed his long legs to eat up the rest of the distance between them.

She flashed to the living room, but he was right behind her. She whipped around and jumped backward, placing a coffee table between them. He simply picked it up and tossed it aside. The glass shattered on impact, raining shards all over the room. The wooden legs splintered.

Why, why, why did the force of his determination and strength arouse her? Now of all times? She wouldn't let that arousal affect her, though. From the beginning, he'd done nothing but insult her, smash her hopes and ignore her feelings. He deserved whatever pain she dished out.

'If we are going to fight, it might as well be honorable,' he said, and then he disappeared.

She wasn't given time to wonder where he'd gone.

He reappeared a moment later holding two swords. He threw one in her direction, and she caught it by the hilt. Heavy, but that wouldn't be a problem. She was much stronger than she looked.

'There's no fun in honor,' she told him, waving the thick metal back and forth.

'Try it. You might be surprised.'

'Seriously, though. You want to swordfight a girl?' She tried to put enough censure in her voice to shame him, even though she hummed with excitement. Could he beat her?

'You are hardly a typical girl, so yes. I want to fight you.'

'I'll take that as a compliment, Flowers.'

'It was meant as one.'

Lucien was on her in the next heartbeat. She raised her sword to parry and metal clinked against metal, the force of which caused her to stumble. He continued to surge forward, continued to push her backward, his thrusts quick and unceasing, but she managed to twist to the side, swing and slice into his shirt. Oopsie, flesh too.

Blood seeped through the cotton, soaking it to his stomach. The flow swiftly stanched, and the wound, she suspected, closed. Damn immortal warriors and their supernatural healing! Because they were designed for battle, they healed much quicker than even the gods.

'Luck,' he said.

'Talent.' Clink. She kicked a lily-filled vase at him, and it shattered against his chest. Droplets of crimson appeared, blending with the sweat that trickled from his temples.

'We shall see.'

'Should we worry about visitors?' she asked, dodging as he lunged at her.

'This place was chosen for its isolation. More than that, we paid dearly to be ignored, no matter what was heard.' He jumped backward, hunching to remove his stomach from her line of fire.

'Well, aren't you a Smartie McSmartpants.' She went low, aiming for his ankles. Hobbling him would be amusing.

Unfortunately, he hopped out of the way. They began a dance of thrust, parry and retreat, moving throughout the entire home. Clank. Something fell to the ground and splintered. Clank. Another item followed suit.

Within fifteen minutes, the couch and love seat were destroyed, as was every knickknack and even the television. Curtains were ripped down, and holes were punched into the walls. Much longer, and the authorities would arrive. Anya was panting, growing tired, but she managed to cut Lucien on his upper arm, calf and again his stomach.

He'd managed to cut her not at all.

Oops. Take that back. The tip of his sword slashed across her left shoulder, causing the shirt to gape and reveal the lace of her favorite demi-bra. The skin above it stung.

'You cut me,' she said, gaping at him.

'I am sorry.' And he did sound apologetic.

She growled, a predator locking on the evening's meal. 'Not yet, but you will be!' She withdrew a dagger and stabbed at his thigh.

Contact.

'Ouch!'

End this. There was only one sure way to do that. She spun on her heel as she chopped at him, forcing him to turn and backing him toward the bedroom. He was strong—stronger than her, she admitted, for she knew he had been pulling back every time his blade almost nicked her. Why he did that, she didn't know, since he'd finally gotten serious about killing her.

'I don't know why I hung around you so long,' she said amid thrusts and parries. 'I don't know why I helped you.'

'That makes two of us.' His straight, white teeth bared in another scowl.

'You know what? I'm sick of your poor-me routine. It's old, sweetcakes.'

'There is no routine,' he gritted out.

'Like hell.' Spinning, she swung at him with her fist. Contact. 'You have scars. So the hell what. That doesn't mean all women think you're ugly.'

When she swung at him again, he batted her wrist away. 'You cannot think me handsome, and so you cannot want me. Not really. You have even admitted it.'

'People lie all the time, asshole. I believe I've mentioned that I personally do so on a regular basis.'

He stilled, panting. His eyes widened with astonishment. And hope? 'You lied about why you have stayed with me?'

'Wouldn't matter if I did. I hate your guts now.' She dropped her sword and shoved him. 'You were going to kill me.'

He stumbled backward, finally past the threshold of the bedroom. He dropped his sword, too, and it clanked against the floor. 'From the beginning, I meant to kill you. My intentions were never a secret.'

'Yeah, but you weren't serious about it.' When he made no move toward her, she pushed him again. Again,