ROMAN DAGGER …Verity burst into peals of laughter. “You?” she giggled. “You? If you owned that dagger, it’d make you over two thousand years old.” She eyed him brazenly from head to toe. “You’ve got a pretty nice body for your age, Drago,” she mocked. “Why don’t you show me exactly just what you’ve got on under that tunic so I can see how a twothousand-year-old man stacks up against today’s hotties.” Verity continued to chuckle, but when Drago unfastened the cord at his waist and stripped off the golden tunic, her laughter died to a choked gasp. He wore nothing at all underneath his tunic, but what was there was definitely superior to any man she’d ever seen in the twenty-first century. “Do I compare favorably, mistress?” He stalked proudly around the chair and paused beside her, completely naked except for his leather sandals. The silver light made plains and valleys of his muscles, highlighting the smooth, taut curve of his hips and the ridges across his thighs. The swollen moon shone full upon him, clearly illuminating Drago’s face and body. Verity eyes widened as she comprehended the full extent of his masculine perfection. Built like a warrior, he had wide shoulders that tapered down to a flat, muscular stomach. Thin, raised marks—scars—marred, but didn’t detract from the perfection of his arms and chest. His upper thighs and buttocks were sculpted with power. Between his legs…she forced her eyes upward, desperately trying to ignore the sight of him and the swelling evidence of his masculinity…
ALSO BY CHERRY S LOE Caress The Dragon Curse Of The Morrigan Book I: Roman Dagger Book II: Adrian’s Sword
CURSE OF THE MORRIGAN BOOK I
ROMAN DAGGER BY CHERRY SLOE
AMBER QUILL PRESS, LLC http://www.amberquill.com
ROMAN DAGGER AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2004 by Cherry Sloe ISBN 1-59279-199-9 Cover Art © 2004 Trace Edward Zaber
Layout and Formatting provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com
PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To Sharon—girlfriends should always indulge themselves, and we’ve had lots of practice! A toast to us both.
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CHAPTER 1
Velvety smooth hilt…straight, clean lines…a slight widening before the tip. Perfection. All eighteen inches of hard iron. Pugio. Roman dagger. Verity Reed stroked the intricately etched artifact with a soft cotton cloth. It was a stunning example of Roman metalwork. The hilt was wrapped with ridged bronze designed to fit securely within a warrior’s hand. Beautiful work and very distinctive. The curious thing about the hilt was a ruby pommel inset shaped like a crow. Most Roman blade hilts she’d seen had little or no decoration. Decorative artistry was saved for the sheath. The blood-red stone was an unusual addition, almost an extravagance. The blade needed no embellishment. Its deadly perfection glimmered blue-black, and not a nick or scratch marred the keen edge. One and one-half pounds of edged death that, in the right hands, would find and pierce an enemy’s heart. She gave a final caressing rub and shifted on her workbench stool, 1
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wincing at the stiffness in her back. Two months of restoration work plus tonight’s six hours of meticulous detailing, but it had been worth every moment. The final piece of the Legions of Rome exhibit was ready for the museum wing’s grand opening and ribbon-cutting ceremony. Verity made a time and date mark in her ledger noting the completion of the restoration process and grinned. Monday’s opening would be on time and under budget. City dignitaries as well as the media were champing at the bit to see the priceless collection and feast upon the promised canapé buffet. She’d even managed to coerce the museum’s wait staff into wearing replica Roman tunics and light cloaks made specially to order by a local costume company. Everything was on schedule and according to plan. She burst into a spontaneous, off-key version of Jailhouse Rock , and tucked the ledger away in her center desk drawer. Catching a glimpse of her face in the glass door of her battered utility cabinet, Verity had to grin. Her honey-brown hair was pulled up into an untidy knot on the top of her head with a rubber band and her large, hazel eyes had dark smudges beneath them from lack of sleep, but she looked alive. Excited and energized. It felt wonderful. Wrapping the precious artifact in a buffing cloth, Verity tidied her small, windowless office workspace between Elvis-like gyrations, then looked around to make sure everything was neat and organized. Unlike her coworkers in the adjacent offices, Verity’s desk was all business, not even a potted plant or photo to liven up the tiny area. Her private life was just that—private—and she preferred to keep it that way. She pulled on her worn, black leather jacket and carefully checked to make sure her key lanyard was in the side pocket. Still humming, Verity snapped the overhead lights off, picked up the wrapped dagger, and headed down the administration hallway to the service stairs leading up to the museum’s third floor. 2
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Carefully cradling the wrapped weapon in the crook of her arm, she negotiated up the staircase and into a vast, central atrium. Nighttime track lighting, cleverly hidden in niches high above, gave the area a faint, spectral glow. It was enough light to negotiate by without turning on the main overheads. Accustomed to working late nights, Verity ignored the surrounding half-darkness, her trainers making echoing squeaks as she crossed the polished gray marble floor to an arched hallway labeled Putnam Wing. A set of huge, vertical crimson banners to either side of the hallway were emblazoned in gold with the words: The Legions of Rome Have Arrived! When she’d seen the small advertisement in the San Diego UnionTribune want ads for an archivist with restoration experience and a master’s degree in ancient Roman history, Verity knew she’d found her dream job. The curator of the newly-expanded San Diego Museum of European History, Ernst Koenig, took one look at Verity’s curriculum vitae and telephoned her personally to arrange for an interview for the position. The timing had been perfect…starting afresh in a new city with a new job—a brand new life away from her latest romantic failure. After a whirlwind interview, Koenig offered Verity the archivist’s job, which included readying the museum’s new Putnam Wing for a recently donated private collection of Roman art and antiquities. Verity smiled, remembering the first time she had seen the astonishing assortment of pieces. The benefactor had been an elderly British émigré of means and with a lifelong passion for Roman relics. Blessed with both money and a large house in the upscale suburb of Rancho San Diego, the woman indulged her collector’s obsession throughout her long life. Upon her death, crate upon crate of jewelry, weapons, statuary and metalwork had been delivered to the museum, each piece fascinating and in desperate need of cataloging and cleaning. The dagger had been the sole item in the collection to be personally 3
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delivered by the attorneys representing the deceased woman’s estate. Ensconced in a carved olivewood box and wrapped in yellowed linens, the dagger had been conveyed directly to Verity, as the collection’s archivist-in-charge. The lawyers had disavowed any knowledge of the blade, only that the box and its contents had been stored separately and almost lost to probate. Apparently, the woman’s heirs hadn’t been pleased to give it up, but the will had been quite specific. The dagger was to be donated to the museum. Now here she was, two years later, on the verge of her own personal triumph. Verity knew she’d pretty much dedicated every waking moment to the collection and its restoration, much to the chagrin of some of her male co-workers. After a while, they stopped asking her out, finding her distracted refusals enough to wilt their amorous advances. Verity felt a twinge of regret. She realized they meant well, but the collection had been—was—her obsession, her focus. She needed the opening to be perfect, a salve to her unsure spirit. As nice as they all were, none of them understood her passion. She hadn’t been a success in her personal life, but she would succeed with her career. Tonight, the last room in the Putnam Wing was her destination. Organized with attractive glass exhibit cases depicting the lifestyle of the Roman legionnaire, room three was Verity’s personal favorite. She had put in long hours of research and restoration, and the overall result was satisfying. A central, freestanding glass display cabinet showcased the weapons used by a Roman soldier: two pilum—or javelins, a gladius—or short sword, and the scutum—or shield. The dagger was the final and most valuable piece. “I wish I could’ve known the man who carried you into battle,” she mused aloud. The overhead track lights flickered. A puff of air almost like a small breeze blew against her face. Verity stared up at the air-conditioning 4
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vents in the ceiling, trying to place the source. Was this an earthquake? Surely not in San Diego. Then she heard a man’s voice. A low, rumbling whisper snaked through the air. “Venio.” I come. “Who said that?” She whirled around, looking suspiciously at the doorway and listening. Koenig was the only other person with both the authority and the security codes to enter the building, and he was on vacation in Palm Springs with his wife playing golf and enjoying their time-share. What had she heard? After straining her ears for the tiniest sound and detecting nothing, she shook her head, ashamed at her gullibility. “Great. I’m so tired, I’m hallucinating in Latin,” she muttered. Carefully unwrapping then aligning the dagger on the black display platform in the center of the glass case, she took one more look around the darkened exhibit room, rechecking the setup. Again, perfection. Complete at last. “And they thought it couldn’t be done,” Verity congratulated herself. A soft beeping noise from the serviceable wristwatch on her pale wrist informed her it was almost two in the morning. “Damn,” she muttered. “Sid’s not going to forgive me for this one.” But at least a cat’s not going to knock me down a flight of stairs for enjoying my work. Out of habit, she clenched her left hand. The little finger was crooked and bent inwards at an unnatural angle. A little parting gift from Toby, her first boyfriend after college. The bastard had never understood her love for her work, her passion for ancient artifacts. Sailing and using his fists had been the only things he’d really understood. She grimaced, recalling his cruel taunts. “Frigid bitch” and “damned, emotionless stick” had been two of the more hurtful. Verity counted herself lucky to escape that short, but disastrous relationship with only a twisted finger. Unfortunately, many men she met couldn’t 5
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overlook her deformity. They couldn’t see past the serious archivist with the crooked finger to the passionate woman beneath. The distant metallic skid of a garbage can crashing onto the atrium’s marble floor brought her head around sharply. “Who’s there?” she shouted. Nobody answered. The museum was calm, quiet. Besides me, who’s crazy enough to be working this late on a Friday night? Leaving the glass case open, Verity strode out of room three to investigate. No one should be coming into her wing of the museum this late. Who could it be? A janitor, perhaps, retrieving some forgotten equipment? Whoever it was, they were going to get an earful. Verity walked quickly back through the wing’s convoluted hallway. A vague sense of trepidation blossomed. Something was just not right. She slowed just before the end and peeked around the last turn in the corridor, a primal instinct deep within urging caution. Eyes straining in the dim light, she peered out into the open atrium room and searched for movement. Then she saw him. A man stood in the center of the atrium. Motionless, he stared upwards at the stained-glass skylight in the ceiling. The mosaic’s vivid tones, muted by the moonlight, spilled over his dark hair and muscular body, painting him in a barbaric wash of color. His strong face was harsh, almost bitter with contained anger. His regal nose looked as if it had been broken and reset many times, giving him an air of menace. He wore some sort of sleeveless shirt or tunic, belted at the waist with a cord and coming mid-way down his thighs. Built with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, like a wrestler, he wore the garment easily. Verity looked more closely. That looks like one of the outfits the wait staff is going to wear for the opening on Monday. How did he get hold of one? The man broke off his scrutiny of the window and began to turn in a small circle, eyes searching the atrium for something…or someone. 6
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He was no waiter. Fear made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. A thief! She sucked in a breath, praying he would choose to loot any other wing that led off of the central atrium but hers. Steal something in the Greek wing, the Etruscan wing…there’s nice jewelry there… Without further hesitation, the intruder made a beeline for the Putnam Wing. Her hiding place. Verity felt the blood drain from her face. She took two stumbling steps back along the corridor before turning and sprinting for the rear of the wing and the emergency door leading to the fire stairs. One too-sharp turn and her athletic shoes slid, making a loud, squeaking noise on the new marble tile. The quickening slap of footsteps told her the intruder knew someone else was in the wing. Pounding around the final corner, Verity saw the welcome glow of the exit sign. With a sob of relief, she threw herself against the door’s press-bar. It wouldn’t open. Panicked, she banged frantically against the bar, but the mechanism was either locked or jammed. Oncoming footsteps told her to move fast or be caught. She spun and ran for room three. The glass display case was just as she left it—doors wide open. Reaching in, Verity grabbed the dagger and dove behind a large square pedestal boasting a mannequin wearing legionnaire’s armor. She waited, heart pounding in her chest, the dagger clutched tightly in her sweating hand. Footsteps paused in the doorway. There was a moment of silence then she heard him walking toward her. He would reach her hiding place any second. She would be trapped. At his mercy. I have to get out of here. Clutching the dagger tightly, she rose to a half-crouch, took a steadying breath, and sprinted for the doorway to the outer hall. 7
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The intruder was standing just on the other side of the legionnaire mannequin, staring at it with a look of puzzlement upon his face. Glimpsing her as she darted past, he shot out his hand, expression shifting to determined. Blindly, she slashed out and up, feeling the blade catch and tug on something…cloth or skin. A grunt of pain told her the dagger had hit its mark. Feeling a rush of adrenaline hit her system, Verity ran flat-out down the hallway, trying to ignore the unintelligible shouts from behind. If she could reach the atrium, she could run down the main stairs and out of the ground floor entrance doors. One turn…another…she shot out into the atrium…and felt a rockhard arm hook her from behind, snagging her around the waist like a deer in a snare. Her breath flew out with a whoosh, she tumbled forward with a gasp…stopped. Powerfully corded muscles held her motionless in mid-air, despite her forward momentum. Shocked and breathless, she realized he was lowering her back to the floor. The man had plucked a grown woman out of mid-air and held her as if she weighed no more than a child. The thought was daunting. Think, Verity, think! she ordered herself. Could she run away? Could she fight him? A flash of hope: the Roman dagger was still clutched in her hand, shielded from the thief’s view by her body. “If you try to cut me again, you will regret it.” The words were low, but full of menace. The man spun Verity around and the look of grim determination upon his face squashed any thoughts she had of reaching the main staircase. Despair washed over Verity as she realized she couldn’t escape. No one would even find her body until Monday morning. “Don’t hurt me,” she whispered, knowing her life was about to end. He reached out his hand…
8
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CHAPTER 2
Verity tensed, scrunching her eyes shut, waiting for the blow that would end her life. It never came. She opened her eyes and couldn’t make sense of what she saw. He was holding out her bundle of keys, dropped during the mad flight down to room three. “I would never voluntarily harm you,” his dark voice said quietly. “I cannot.” His voice was rich and dark with a hint of gravel. Underneath his careful diction, she detected a hint of Mediterranean accent. Verity took the offered keys with shaking fingers and stared at the mysterious intruder, her heart pounding. Thick, dark hair was cropped tight to his head; a straight line of bangs curling high upon the forehead. He wasn’t wearing any pants that she could see, just the yellow tunic-type outfit that reached to midthigh, and a pair of open-toed leather sandals wrapped around his ankles and muscular calves. His slate-grey eyes watched her without 9
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expression as he stood before her in what looked like a parade rest stance. “Who the hell are you?” Verity demanded, voice quavering. “I am called Drago.” He looked her up and down with a slightly disdainful expression. “I am mistaken. You must not be the bearer.” He leaned closer to Verity, eyes narrowing at the sight of the dagger clutched in one hand. “Is that your dagger?” he demanded, pointing one accusatory finger. “Did you indeed summon me?” Not exactly Mister Friendly, but at least he wasn’t assaulting her. Verity decided that a good offense was a good defense. “I don’t know how you got in here, um, Mr. Drago—” She forced irritation into her still-shaky voice. “—but you need to march right back down those steps and out those front doors before I call the police.” She pulled herself up to her full five-foot four-inches and pointed firmly toward the marble flight of steps. He stared at her, unmoving. “Listen,” she coaxed. “You need to get out of here before the police arrive and take you down to the city lockup. Just go on, and once you’re out of the building, I’ll forget the whole thing. Like it never happened.” Verity forced a bright smile, mentally urging him to leave. He continued to stare at her, clearly not intending to move. She sighed. “I know there are a lot of tempting objects here in the museum—” “I am not a thief!” His voice growled with outrage and he pulled himself up even more stiffly, if that were possible. “Okay, let me ask you a question, Mister Drago. Just why are you here in the museum in the middle of the night?” A faint, bitter smile curved Drago’s lips. “I have a habit of lending my services to ladies in need.” Great. A thief with a fetish. Her wristwatch beeped three a.m. and Verity felt a wave of exhaustion; the weight of the night’s activities pressed down upon her 10
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like a smothering blanket. Everything seemed so unreal, so fantastic. She took a steadying breath. “Okay, if you’re not a thief, then at the very least, you’re an intruder. You need to leave now and come back on Monday when the museum opens.” She forced a polite smile. “From your costume, it looks like you’re a fan of Roman antiquities, and that’s great, but what you need to do now is to walk downstairs and go on out the doors so I can lock up the building.” Polite expression frozen in place, Verity reached out to tug Drago’s arm and felt something wet. She examined her hand. Blood. Peering closely, she saw a dark, spreading stain on his left bicep. The linen of his tunic-like garb was sliced open, revealing skin glistening with blood. “Oh, my God, you’re hurt! I did cut you! Why didn’t you say something?” “It will heal,” Drago’s voice was flat. Dismissive. His angular, masculine face was tight with disapproval. “You need to get to a hospital right now,” she urged. “I require no leechcraft, woman,” he snapped, dark brows drawing downward. “I will eventually heal. I have little use for physicians and their instruments of pain.” Leechcraft? Verity put one hand to her forehead and rubbed her now-throbbing temples. Fuck it. She’d had enough drama for one night. “Listen, buster,” she snapped out. “I don’t care about your medical phobias. You need attention and we need to get out of here, so follow me!” She swore she heard him curse under his breath, but Drago obediently stood aside and waited for her to lead the way out of the atrium. Verity sucked in her breath as she strode past him. The man was large. Not excessively tall, but wide and muscular. He seemed to fill the space around him with physical presence as well as a barely-contained anger. She estimated his height at around six feet tall. Next to his sheer 11
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bulk, she felt positively miniscule. “I’m glad you’re on my side,” she muttered. Drago didn’t reply, just stared down at her, his face shrouded in the half-darkness. Verity was suddenly reminded that she had the Roman dagger in her hand. “Wait a minute. I’m going to have to do something with this,” she worried aloud. “I’m afraid I need to put it back in room three. Maybe I should lock it up in my office—” “You will take the pugio with you,” interrupted Drago. “It will be safe from prying eyes and thieving fingers in your possession.” He looked at the dagger with a half-loathing expression. “It cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.” “How did you know it is called a pugio?” asked Verity curiously. “Are you some sort of re-enactor or something? And what are you wearing? Is that one of the tunics I bought for the waiters to use on Monday?” Now she was getting angry. “Did you take that outfit out of my office closet?” The last was loud and accusatory. “You know, buddy, I was willing to just forget this little break-in and let bygones be bygones, but now I’m calling the cops.” “Take me to your dwelling.” The words came out through gritted teeth. I knew it. A pervert. “No way, pal,” she refused, shaking her head. “You know a lot about Roman antiquities and I’m flattered that you’re showing an interest in this piece, but that doesn’t mean I owe you a freebie.” Verity wiped her blood-smeared fingertips on her jacket. “Let’s go. I’ll help you get to a hospital and get your paperwork taken care of and help you contact your family or wife or whatever.” Drago loomed over her so quickly that she shrank back. “What I need is for you to fulfill your obligations as my mistress and take me to your home. What I need is to be fed and given a place to sleep, like any good slave. What I need is to be taken away from this infernal relic mound!” The last was said in a loud roar, his heavy accent 12
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making the words almost unintelligible. He stood with his fists clenched, eyes closed, breathing harshly. “I don’t understand,” Verity whispered. “Obviously.” “Well, if you’d just tell me what this is all about, maybe I could help you.” She tried a reasonable tone of voice, the type taken when one is faced with a man showing signs of lunacy. “It used to be easier,” he murmured, eyes still shut. “The bearer used to understand the rules. Why does she torture me so? Goddess Epona, help me.” The last was a plea. Drago turned to face Verity, a strange wildness in his dark eyes. “What the evening is all about is this.” Leaning over, he grabbed her shoulders, pulled her against his hard body and captured her mouth with his own. Verity’s lips parted with shock, and Drago took advantage of her hesitation to slide one hand up behind her head, grabbing her thick knot of hair and holding her motionless. His kiss was hard, hard enough to bruise, and it forced her mouth open. He devoured her mouth in passion mixed with fury. The faint, metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as her teeth grazed the edge of his lip. He pulled back quickly, a thin smear of crimson staining the edge of his lower lip. Verity struggled for one brief moment, her panic rising, but what Drago did next dispelled any thought of escape. Reaching down, he raised Verity’s hand—the one still clenching the dagger—and placed the edge of the razor-like blade against his stomach. He held her arm immobile, the deadly sharpness of the weapon pressed firm against the warm linen of his tunic. With the slightest thought, Verity could easily eviscerate him. The fear of inadvertently hurting him, combined with the heady knowledge that she could, aroused her. She gasped, drifting slightly toward him and that slight bit of encouragement was all that he needed. The tenor of the embrace changed. Drago switched from harsh and 13
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demanding to coaxing. With gentle nibbles and quick flicks of his tongue, he urged Verity to surrender her lips’ sweetness. She felt a rushing tingle of excitement at the juncture between her legs. Her skin felt flushed, heated, and the tips of her nipples ached where they pressed against the rock of his chest. His scent was strangely exotic—spicy sandalwood, salty air, tangy male undertones all combined to curl around her senses and drug her into an erotic trance. Verity had never reacted like this to a man before. Her other tentative attempts at lovemaking, the subsequent humiliations and failures…all were forgotten as her body unfolded slowly, a tentative flower opening before the mesmeric warmth of Drago’s kiss. He stroked her mouth, deepening their embrace, and she leaned into him with a small moan. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the magical moment of wild attraction. Drago’s lips plucked and caressed her own, drawing forth a tingling burn that made her itch for more. Much more. Verity’s hand relaxed and the dagger tumbled to the floor with a clatter. Startled, she jerked away from Drago’s embrace and stooped awkwardly to snatch up her artifact. He cupped her elbow, helping her rise. The frisson of electricity between them was frightening. She held up one hand, forestalling any further assistance. “I’m leaving and, when I get home, I’m calling the police,” she cautioned, voice tense with strain. “Don’t be here when they arrive.” Eyes locked on his impassive face, she backed into the atrium’s open elevator, pressed the lobby level button, and prayed that the doors would close before she walked back into his arms. Verity didn’t remember anything that happened from the time she entered the elevator until the moment she walked up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. Everything after that kiss—the run to her car, the wild drive through the deserted streets of San Diego, even the trip over the Coronado Bay Bridge—was a blank in her memory. She felt damn lucky she hadn’t gotten a ticket. 14
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Throwing her leather jacket over an armchair and placing the dagger on the end table, Verity hurried into her bathroom and flipped on the vanity light. Feeling warm, she yanked off her long-sleeved Tshirt and dropped it to the floor along with her jeans. With shaking hands, she ran some cold water into the sink and splashed her face and throat, trying to sort out the cacophony of emotions that whirled through her body. Verity deliberately looked in the mirror. It wasn’t the lively countenance she’d seen hours before. The face that stared back at her belonged to a stranger. Her usually composed, oval face was pale, almost bloodless; crimson flags of color high upon each cheekbone. Her eyes, normally a mossy hazel, were dilated, bright green with overexcitement. Lips bruised from Drago’s kisses were swollen, parted and ready for more… “No! No! No!” Verity snarled at herself. Was she insane? What was this intense attraction to an utter stranger, most likely a criminal, who was probably looting the museum of its artifacts at this very moment? “Ye gods,” she moaned. “I’ve got to call the police and try to explain why I left a big man in a small tunic running around a multi-million dollar art collection without any supervision.” “Phone, phone…where did I put it?” she grumbled. Damn. A few minutes of kissing and her mind was completely devoid of rational thought. A quick search of the living room and her bedroom turned up nothing. “The deck!” It must be outside on the apartment’s small patio, forgotten in her early-morning rush to finish going over Monday’s canapé menu with the caterers while at the same time attempting to herd Sid back into the house. Verity’s third-floor apartment had a very small balcony that offered a partial view of the Pacific Ocean. Big enough for a padded lounger, a small table, and a few plants, it offered her a respite from her busy work. It was her aerie, her own private escape high above the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Hurrying to the sliding glass door, she unlocked the catch and stepped out into the cool, salty air. Looked for 15
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the telephone… Stopped. She wasn’t alone on the balcony. Drago leaned against the railing, his gunmetal eyes glinting in the moonlight, thin lips slightly upturned in a mocking smile.
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CHAPTER 3
“He’s just sitting out there, Sid. Pulled a Captain Kirk and beamed onto my balcony.” Verity poured herself a third, generous glass of merlot and threw the now-empty bottle into the recycling bin with a clink. “And when I saw him, this thing lit up like a Christmas tree bulb.” She snatched the Roman dagger off of her kitchen counter and held it close to her face, squinting carefully. The ruby’s glittering facets were still the same. The red glow that had flashed through her living room the moment she’d opened the door to the deck had vanished. But Drago hadn’t. Her unconcerned wisp of tabby cat opened one eye long enough to scrutinize Verity. Finding no food forthcoming, he let it droop shut again. The cat equivalent of a shrug. Unsteadily, Verity wove her way through her tiny third-floor apartment, unlocked the narrow door to the balcony, and stepped out. The brush of cool sea air against her bare legs and arms felt sensual, invigorating. She shivered, remembering Drago’s bruising kiss. The 17
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fact that she was only wearing her silk bra and matching panties didn’t seem to matter much, for some reason. Normal reserve was being washed aside by the glorious grapes of the Napa Valley, and she didn’t give one fig. Verity snapped her fingers at her pet. “Come on, pal,” she ordered fuzzily, “You’re my backup.” Sid reluctantly rose and followed her out onto the porch, looking unimpressed with his mistress’ current state of intoxication. Drago turned from his solitary scrutiny of the neighborhood rooftops and looked coolly at Verity then down at her cat. He raised one dark eyebrow in silent inquiry. “See, Sid? He isn’t a figment of my imagination,” she said, flinging herself onto the thick cushion of the deck chair and dropping the dagger onto the little glass-topped table. “He even left a blood stain on my jacket.” She flexed one bare foot at the cat. “Tell me I’m not crazy, Sid,” she begged. “It’s four o’clock in the morning, I’m slightly drunk, I’ve got a guy who poofed onto my porch…I don’t know what to do.” Sid ignored her pleas and moved to investigate a moth fluttering near the potted lemon tree in the corner. Drago said nothing, just watched her from his chosen spot at the railing. Verity glowered at him, irritated by his indolent smile. After several minutes of ineffective glaring, she finally gave in to her curiosity. “How did you get up here?” she asked. “I poofed,” he replied, deadpan. Verity pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. Drago’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Don’t stare at me!” she ordered, but didn’t lower her legs to their previous position. “As you wish, mistress.” Immediately, he turned away and resumed his vigil over the silent streets of Coronado. 18
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Verity tried hard to think, but a heady sense of wildness was building within her. Wine, along with a curling spiral of carnal interest. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate. Shit. “You said you were a…slave, and I was your mistress,” she began, voicing her thoughts with care. “I’m going to suspend my disbelief for a moment and ask: why do you say that?” “You wield the Morrigan’s dagger,” he said, baritone voice dropping low and tense. “Who’s dagger? What does that mean?” she demanded. “I thought this—” She touched the gleaming weapon. “—was just some legionnaire’s dagger that had finally made it from the private collecting sector to the museum world. I didn’t know it had belonged to anyone in particular.” Verity was getting sidetracked looking at the thick muscles on Drago’s legs. His calves were beautiful in the moonlight, corded and unyielding. Even the backs of his knees were attractive. She had the crazy urge to run her tongue along them; she wanted to dip her tongue into each hollow and curve, taste the salt of his inner thighs… “It’s just some nobody legionnaire’s dagger,” she repeated defensively. He whirled to face her, jaw set and square. “The Morrigan is a particularly vengeful goddess and the dagger belongs to me,” he ground out. She could see his tension as he waited for her reaction. Verity burst into peals of laughter. “You?” she giggled. “You? If you owned that dagger, it’d make you over two thousand years old.” She eyed him brazenly from head to toe. “You’ve got a pretty nice body for your age, Drago,” she mocked. “Why don’t you show me exactly just what you’ve got on under that tunic so I can see how a twothousand-year-old man stacks up against today’s hotties.” Verity continued to chuckle, but when Drago unfastened the cord at his waist and stripped off the golden tunic, her laughter died to a choked gasp. 19
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He wore nothing at all underneath his tunic, but what was there was definitely superior to any man she’d ever seen in the twenty-first century. “Do I compare favorably, mistress?” He stalked proudly around the chair and paused beside her, completely naked except for his leather sandals. The silver light made plains and valleys of his muscles, highlighting the smooth, taut curve of his hips and the ridges across his thighs. The swollen moon shone full upon him, clearly illuminating Drago’s face and body. Verity eyes widened as she comprehended the full extent of his masculine perfection. Built like a warrior, he had wide shoulders that tapered down to a flat, muscular stomach. Thin, raised marks—scars—marred, but didn’t detract from the perfection of his arms and chest. His upper thighs and buttocks were sculpted with power. Between his legs…she forced her eyes upward, desperately trying to ignore the sight of him and the swelling evidence of his masculinity. Verity cast around for something—anything—to say. “The knife cut on your side…it’s gone,” she babbled. “How?” He wasn’t circumcised, she noted wildly. His cock was as magnificent as the rest of him, thick and wide, straight and perfect. “I heal fast,” he replied, taking a step closer. “There’s nothing left but a scar.” She reached out to stroke the shiny line, white against the darkness of his olive skin. Her traitorous fingers itched to caress the rest of his warm flesh, run the tips across the dark hairs that graced his forearms. She shook her head slightly, trying to focus on his miraculous medical recovery. Against her will, one arm stretched out… Deftly avoiding her touch, Drago gracefully knelt beside her, sliding one lean finger along the tender arch of her leg and up over her knees. “Shall I continue to show you how an older man measures up against a stripling?” he inquired, dark eyes challenging, watchful. “I 20
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sense you have only experienced the clumsy groping of untried youths, not the practiced passion of a blooded fighter.” His face was taunting. Arrogant. Verity couldn’t believe what was happening. A beautiful—no, gorgeous—stranger was offering to make love to her, acting as if her every wish was his command. Her dizzied mind froze, incredulous, but her body urged her on, telling her that this was an opportunity she wasn’t strong enough to pass up. “Show me everything, Drago,” she whispered. “Please.” Drago bent, placing his lips against her leg, just below the knee. He dusted light, flirty kisses up the outside of her thigh until he reached the bottom of her silk panties. He paused and slipped one hand behind her buttocks; the other hand drifted up toward her bra and stopped. He looked puzzled, dark brows furrowing in frustration. His hand fumbled at the fastening, but could not undo the eyelet hooks. “Undo this contraption,” he ordered peremptorily. With a quick motion behind her back, Verity unhooked the eyelets and allowed the undergarment to slide down her shoulders and over her thrusting nipples, baring her aching breasts to his gaze. She arched her back slightly, hazel eyes meeting ash-grey. With that look, she challenged him to do his worst…or best. Drago nodded slightly, taking up her gauntlet. He ran his darkened gaze the length of her body, the long graceful curves of her calves, the soft curve of her belly, the shadowy valley between her breasts. His look was knowing, and that shadow in his eyes said he knew she wouldn’t tell him no, no matter what he asked. “Remove my panties,” Verity ordered. The excitement within her was building; a hot clenching of desire that tightened the rosy buds of her nipples and moistened the hot slit between her thighs. “As you wish, mistress,” he breathed. Instead of using his hands, Drago chose other means of removing her undergarments. Bending down, he slid his tongue beneath the band of her silken panties where 21
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they were the narrowest, right above her hipbone. Then he bit down on the delicate fabric and began to pull. Verity closed her eyes, savoring the flicker of his hot tongue. The trace moisture he left upon her skin flared hot-cold in the sea air. She gave an involuntarily twitch of her hips. Drago continued to pull the wisp of peach down, tugging it over the curve of her hip, past the mound of her mons, and down the smooth curve of her hips. Once he reached her knees, he slid them off with one smooth motion of his hand. Verity felt the chill of the night sky on the junction of her thighs, the unfamiliar sensation strangely erotic. She shivered and opened her eyes, spreading her knees slightly in invitation. Drago paused, admiring the line of her body, the soft thatch of golden-brown curls that graced her woman’s mound. He gave a small but genuine smile, the first she’d seen from him. The softening of his sensual mouth was incredibly erotic; without being told, Verity knew she had witnessed a rare occurrence. Drago leaned over and placed perfect lips against her calf, the tip of his tongue brushing repeatedly against her skin. It burned like fire. Verity’s breathing quickened and her pulse pounded with excitement. The wine had made her feel giddy, but Drago’s seduction burned the liquid haze away, leaving her impatient with need. Velvet lips continued their journey up her leg, finally reaching the soft dip below her pelvic bone. For a moment he paused, waited, then with delicate deliberation, his tongue flicked out to lave that hollow in her skin. The sensation was electrifying. Verity gasped and arched slightly upon the chair. She put one shaking hand on the back of Drago’s head, relishing the masculine hair beneath her fingertips. His hair was cut tight to his head, but she felt the slight curl to it and knew that, if permitted to grow out, his hair would be wavy. She allowed the silky locks to slide through her fingers. 22
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Drago abruptly reached up and grabbed her wrist, preventing her from continuing her hazy exploration. His eyes were unreadable. “Do nothing, mistress. Tonight is for your pleasure alone.” With that, he placed one hand upon each side of Verity’s hips and swiveled her around so she sat upright upon the edge of the padded lounger, one leg upon either side of his kneeling figure. He smiled crookedly, an odd mixture of anger and desire, his metallic eyes reflecting silver in the moonlight. “Your skin is like the finest cream,” he murmured, stroking his hand lightly from Verity’s shoulder along the curve of her breast to her waist. “As smooth as alabaster, with the scent—” He bent his head to place a kiss upon her palm and breathed in deeply. “—of rosemary.” He paused, scrutinizing her wrist and the delicate tracing of veins beneath the skin. “And you have freckles. They are lovely.” His fingers traced the breaks in her finger and she hazily realized that the hand caressing her deformity had matching breaks of its own— yet was all the more beautiful for those flaws. “Your breasts are small, yet perfect,” he continued. “Created for the purpose of giving pleasure.” Leaning forward, Drago took one of Verity’s outthrust nipples into his mouth, rolling it delicately between his lips. Verity gasped, a fine dew of sweat breaking out upon her forehead despite the cool October breeze blowing in off the Pacific. The feel of Drago’s mouth was exquisite torture upon her breasts. Her tits ached and the nubbin between her thighs grew slick with excitement. She braced her hands on the chair and threw back her head to the watching moon, leaving her body open for him to do with her as he pleased. Drago’s lips drifted lazily to her other breast, kissing along the side of one soft mound. His warm hand covered the wet nipple, caressing and teasing with thumb and forefingers. She moaned and again her hips bucked forward with desire. While Drago’s mouth and tongue continued their lavish attentions 23
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upon her breasts, his hand moved lower to the soft curls between her thighs. Verity’s arms quivered as his strong fingers brushed the outside of her tender folds. His palm covered her groin and he allowed his thumb to slide back and forth along the edge of her swollen lips. Her breath quickened, she felt the distant edge of something growing nearer…a need that would soon be quenched by this man and his caressing hands. “I feel the strength of your desire for me,” he murmured, soft words ghosting against her skin, raising goose bumps. “And now, mistress, I will take you over the edge of pleasure.” Two things happened at once; Drago suckled hard upon her stiffened nipple, tugging almost to the point of pain, and he slipped strong fingers deep within her moist passage. Verity cried out, an aching wash of warmth twisting through her body. His fingers withdrew, gliding over her small spot, and plunged again into her core. The combination of sensations—his lips and his fingers—was exquisite. Verity felt a building pressure, a twisting tension that threatened to slip out of control. She opened her mouth, gulping air. “Mistress,” he whispered, plunging into her again and again. “Give me your name.” Verity tried to focus her thoughts, an impossibility with his hands and mouth driving her up the peak toward ecstasy. She looked down, met his luminous grey eyes, and tried to understand the intensity—the need—within them. “My name is Verity,” she breathed. “Verity Reed.” The last ended on a whimper of pleasure. Drago’s dark eyes widened with an emotion she could not name. “Verity,” he said. “Truth.” His thumb flickered faster over her engorged pearl. “We shall see the truth of you.” And with that final caress, he brought her in a rush of golden haze and muscle-bending 24
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pleasure. Verity cried aloud, her body twisting with satisfaction and release. She had waited so long…too long for a lover’s expert touch. Drago caught her in his arms as she collapsed, spent. He laid her down upon the chair, remaining by her side as she floated through layers of pleasure. Later—how much later she didn’t know—Drago scooped her up against his broad chest and carried her back through the living room. He located her small bedroom and slipped her between crisp cotton sheets. Verity felt wonderful, almost lethargic, but she forced her eyes open, trying to watch Drago. He picked up and looked at books on her bookshelf, sniffed bottles of lotion and perfumes on her dresser. He seemed to have a need to investigate everything with his senses. She tracked him through heavy lids. He moved with casual grace and power, like a tiger she had once seen in the zoo. Along with that innate arrogance, he had an aura of confinement about him, of being caged. He paced the perimeter of her bedroom, taking in every detail with focused intensity, unselfconscious in his nudity. He was breathtaking, and Verity wanted to know why a man like Drago would bother to dally with a museum archivist. She concentrated, trying to use her powers of deduction, blunted as they were by wine and lack of sleep. Drago’s body showed the traceries of old scars, most of them from edged weapons. He still had on his open-toed leather sandals, and Verity’s eyes narrowed as she noted their design. Roman legionnaire’s sandals, from the first century B.C., and meticulously recreated from what looked to be real leather and hand-made brass buckles. A slight chill spread over her body, and it wasn’t from the air drifting through the open window. If those sandals weren’t authentic, she would eat the paper her Master’s thesis was printed on. It was time to ask some questions, while she still had a grain of sense left in her body. 25
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“Who are you, Drago?” she asked quietly. “And why are you here with me?” He turned, one hand still on the edge of her bureau, touching a framed photo of Verity and her father posing amidst the ruins of Pompeii. “I have told you my name, mistress,” he hedged, looking carefully neutral. “I am here to serve you.” Verity shook her head. “Serve me?” She laughed, this time allowing a touch of the hysteria she was feeling to bubble into her voice. “What are you, a theme gigolo? A Roman superhero who enjoys giving lonely women mind-blowing orgasms? Or are you just some weird Roman reenactor who gets his jollies off of speaking Latin and following single women around?” Her voice rose to a shout. “Enough of your bullshit answers! Tell me who you are and what’s going on, damn it!” Drago burst into a string of curses as unique as they were vulgar, for they were spoken completely in flawless Latin. Verity’s Latin was adequate; she could understand the gist of what he was saying and she paled with shock and a little awe. Finally, Drago paused, fists clenched at his sides, and visibly sought to contain himself. “All right, mistress,” he ground out, dark eyes locked on hers. “As you command.” He stalked over to her queen-sized bed and stood over her. She realized with surprise that he was trembling with the force of his emotions. “My full name is Dragus Lucius Valerus. By your calendar, I was born in the year 73 B.C. and I am—was—a centurion in Legion Twenty, Valeria Victrix.” He stopped, looking at her for a reaction. Verity remained motionless. Drago continued. “I am cursed.” His voice roughened, baritone deepening to the lower registers. “Sentenced for a moment of ignorance to live out an eternity of lifetimes in servitude.” He took a breath and blew it out harshly. “I am the slave to the bearer of the Roman dagger.” She waited for him to laugh, tell her it was just a joke. But he 26
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didn’t. “I cannot die,” he continued. “I am frozen in time, pulled through the ether by the whimsical wishes of each subsequent bearer of the Roman dagger.” He drove his hands through his dark hair, wrenching the scalp with his distress. “I live my days in a limbo-like purgatory, hearing voices speak around me, getting glimpses of the world, but never being free.” Verity stared at him, appalled. Drago obviously took her immobility for disbelief. His face twisted with fury, and he reached for the decorative glass vase standing on her dresser. With a flick of his wrist, he smashed it against the wooden countertop. As she watched, horrified, he took a jagged shard of glass and gashed his wrist, slicing deep into the tendons. Blood spurted everywhere, and Verity could see the severed vessels, purple against the crimson liquid that ran over his scarred palms. Her mouth moved in a soundless scream. “Look,” he ground out. “Watch and understand.” Ignoring him, Verity rolled out of bed and snatched a clean cotton shirt from her dresser, intending to staunch his suicidal wound and call the paramedics. Grabbing his hand, she paled. Her mouth dropped open with disbelief. Drago’s skin was re-knitting before her eyes, the rush of blood slowing to a rosy trickle, the severed veins sinking beneath the flesh, whole. Drago was healing before her eyes. She dropped his hand, shocked. “Do you believe?” he asked, quietly. “Do you understand the depths of my hell?” Verity slumped to the floor next to the bed, mindless of her nudity. She was in the presence of a two-thousand-year-old Roman centurion. And he was her love slave. For the first time in her life, she fainted dead away.
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CHAPTER 4
“Why do you speak English?” Verity asked late the next morning as she huddled in her terrycloth robe and tried to drink a steaming mug of coffee cradled in shaking hands. For some reason, his answer was very important. The thought of a citizen of ancient Rome speaking colloquial English unnerved her. Drago gave that tiny twist of his mouth that served as a small smile, then shrugged. “I can hear much of what goes on around the dagger when I am confined within…not actively serving anyone,” he explained. “After few thousand years, I have learned many languages.” He took a sip of orange juice, he had refused instant coffee after one taste, and looked thoughtful. “At this time, I believe I speak twelve languages. The only one I did not learn with great fluency was the dialect of the East, the Chinese as you now call them.” His mouth tensed. “It is just as well. My service for that particular master was…cut short.” Verity decided not to press him for details of that particular story. A 28
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thought struck her. “You mean you can see and hear what is going on around you when you’re confined inside the dagger’s prison?” He nodded. “Does that mean you could see and hear me once I took possession of the dagger?” Again, he nodded. “Yes, mistress. I know you like to listen to the music called ‘jazz’ and that, when no one is looking, you sneak pieces of See’s chocolate from the center drawer in your desk.” One dark eyebrow lifted slightly, daring her to deny it. Verity blushed and buried her face in her coffee cup. She felt dizzy from lack of sleep and over-stimulation. Taking a bite of a cinnamon bagel smeared with cream cheese, she chewed slowly and studied Drago’s angular face. He seemed tense. Avoided her gaze. She couldn’t begin to imagine the personal baggage that a two-thousand-year-old man would have, and wasn’t sure she wanted to. “So you’re a peeping tom,” she snapped, trying to goad him into a response. This time, it was Drago’s turn to flush. “I use what means I have at my disposal to gather information,” he replied stiffly. She grinned nastily, enjoying his discomfort. A thought occurred to her. “Can you show me your world? I mean, your place within the dagger? It’s a fascinating concept.” Drago looked suspicious. “I have never been asked this before,” he replied slowly. “I do not know—” “Let’s try,” she said. “I’m a researcher. I want to know what the dagger’s realm is like.” “Epona give me strength,” he whispered under his breath. “Why would you wish to visit my hellish prison?” he asked. “Do you mock me?” “No,” she answered, willing him to believe. “I need to understand.” Drago stared at Verity, assessing her sincerity. At last, with a look of great skepticism, he stood and beckoned her around to his side of the 29
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table. Covering her hands with his own, he asked, “Are you quite sure, Verity Reed?” She nodded. Her bedroom vanished. * * * They stood inside a large, ruby-red, canvas tent. Its only fittings were a simple wooden chair and a pallet-like bed piled with furs and woolen blankets. The tent flap was closed, the material bowing and waving with the force of some external breeze. Verity finished her awestruck examination and turned to her companion, almost stammering with excitement. “I didn’t really think…I mean, I can’t believe we’re here!” Her legs trembled with excitement. “The dagger really is magic, isn’t it? Drago? Are you all right?” Drago was still, almost wooden. His mouth was pinched and his hands were clenched at his sides. “It is very difficult to return voluntarily,” he said. “Is this so terrible?” she asked, his odd reaction calming her excitement and focusing her interest. “It looks comfortable.” “Open the tent flap,” he suggested quietly. Verity undid the crimson ties that held the flap fastened and opened the tent wall. Outside was…nothing…everything. A heaving vortex of light, sound, motion. A black maw that absorbed all energy. The abyss. With a terrified moan, Verity refastened the tent flap and tried to take several deep breaths. “I walked into that darkness, once,” Drago said bleakly. “I drifted like a leaf blowing in a whirlwind until my mind collapsed and I knew no more. When I awoke, I was back in my pavilion. I never attempted to leave again.” Verity was aghast. “You’re trapped here? In this tent? You can’t go anyplace else?” The thought made her queasy. “I have spent many decades within this tent, mistress,” he replied. 30
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“It is only when I am actively serving the dagger’s master that I can escape this prison and roam the world of men.” He tilted his head and looked pointedly at her. “So you can understand why I am reluctant to linger.” A shrill, metallic ringing echoed through the tent, making them both jump. “What is that?” Verity asked, looking around for the source. The ringing repeated, followed by a click and the sound of a familiar voice. “Miss Reed? Are you there? This is Ernst Koenig calling from Palm Springs. Well, you’re not home, so I bet you’re spending another Saturday at the museum putting the finishing touches on the Roman Legions project.” Dry laughter rattled through the tent. “All business, aren’t you? Anyway, I’ll be returning on Sunday. If you need me before that, you have my cell number.” With that, another click sounded, followed by silence. “I can only ‘hear’ and ‘see’ within a limited distance of the dagger,” said Drago. “But anything at all is better than the utter isolation of this cage.” Absently, he reached out to stroke the sloping roof of the tent. “The worst is when the dagger is locked away in a thick box or room. Then I near nothing. Nothing but the rasp of my own breathing and the constant blowing of the void…” He trailed off, looking drawn. Verity tentatively put one hand on his wrist. “I’m sorry for bringing you back, Drago. I didn’t realize how awful it is.” Impulsively, she leaned upward and brushed a soft kiss on his chiseled cheek. Drago looked shocked. Then, unaccountably, he smiled. Just a slight bend of the lips, but it tugged at Verity’s heart. A small sign of pleasure in a place of such stark misery. “You have a kind heart, Verity Reed,” he said softly. “Be wary of it.” She held up her left hand, the one with the crooked finger. “I think you’re overestimating your own heart’s hardness, Drago,” she softly 31
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chided. “I’ve never met a man who wasn’t repulsed by this…until you. Thank you for giving me back a little of my self-esteem.” “There is nothing wrong with your body, Verity Reed,” Drago took her hand and lightly kissed the ill-healed finger. “Nothing at all.” His lips lingered upon the edge of her hand. She felt his warm breath tickling the small hairs along her arm and wrist. A shiver of goose bumps ran up and down her spine. With only the smallest touch, Drago had the ability to strip her defenses and rouse her senses like no other man she had ever encountered. With a quick motion of his head, Drago slipped her bent finger into his mouth. Sucking gently, he flicked his tongue along the sensitive inner web of her fingers, holding her wrist gently in one lean hand. Verity’s knees weakened at the exquisite sensation. She looked at his face, the stormy, long-lashed eyes, the oft-broken nose, the warrior’s face. “You are so beautiful,” she said, unthinking. Drago paused, a surprised expression crossing his features. “I?” he asked. “You think that I am beautiful?” With a swift motion, he stepped close to Verity, cradling her in the warmth of his body, his arms wrapped gently around her waist. “Against my better judgment, I am beginning to like you and your strange ways of thinking, Verity Reed.” She could feel the press of his strong cock against her upper stomach and knew that he wore nothing beneath his tunic. A giddy wave of daring overtook her. Slowly, fearing rejection, she slipped her hand beneath the edge of his linen garment and ran her hand up his corded thigh. She kept her eyes on his, watching for his rebuff. Drago said nothing, eyes wary, but Verity felt the swelling press of his rod and knew he was not immune to her stroking. Feeling her way delicately to the juncture of his groin, Verity’s fingers encountered his wiry thatch of hair and the core of his jutting manhood. Emboldened by his immobility, she circled her fingers around its thick base, feeling the soft skin swell and twitch beneath her ministrations. Carefully, so carefully, she inched her hand upwards. 32
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The thick veins pulsed beneath her touch, quivering with the rush of blood. The tip of his engorged staff, with its rounded head, was exquisitely soft to the touch. She delicately traced its outline. Drago moaned softly, face slackened, eyes wide and dilated jet black. “Mistress…Verity…this must not be. It is forbidden! I am for your pleasure alone—” Harsh pounding, like the sound of a giant’s fist crashing against a castle door, reverberated through the tent, drowning out even the wailing undertone of the abyss. Shocked, Verity withdrew her hand, spinning around, looking for the source. The pounding repeated, thunderous in its echo. “Package for Verity Reed,” shouted an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “I’m leaving it on the landing.” The silence that followed was strained. Verity tried to read Drago’s expression, but he stepped back and kept his face deliberately blank, his shoulders rigid and tense once again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t seem to have much control around you.” A weak chuckle escaped her. “I apologize for offending you, Drago.” He did not reply. The flapping of the tent continued around them, a mocking accompaniment to her discomfort. “Let’s go back,” she said. “As you command, mistress,” he answered woodenly. * * * They spent the rest of Saturday being polite and overly civil, desperately trying to avoid each other in the small apartment. That night, Verity slept poorly, thinking of Drago stretched out on her living room couch and the magic that entrapped him. Something about the man drew her like a magnet. Perhaps it was his strength and his utter maleness, but more likely it was the totality of what he represented: the living representation of her life’s work. She needed to know more about him, his curse, and why his anger seemed to consume his soul. 33
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Verity closed her eyes and fought to relax. Sunday would be different. She would have to get some answers…and make some decisions.
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CHAPTER 5
“We’re going to the beach,” she declared firmly. That got his attention. Black brows drew together with suspicion, and his gunmetal eyes narrowed. “Why, mistress?” he asked warily. “Are we to board a ship?” “You’ll see,” she countered, grinning. Fifty minutes later, Drago was enjoying his first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. He stood calf-deep in the surf and stared out at the distant shapes of tankers and aircraft carriers, floating miles offshore. He seemed to revel in the sheer pleasure of being outside in the fresh air, and Verity couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. It had taken her only twenty minutes to find an open beach store on Orange Avenue, but it had taken her another thirty minutes to convince Drago that the dark blue trunks with the red palm trees decorating them were appropriate garb for the beach. After reminding him that he had probably worn much less at the public baths in Rome, he’d agreed to wear the suit—but sidelong glares told her he wasn’t comfortable with 35
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the situation. Verity could live with his discomfort. The trunks gave tantalizing hints of the masculine power beneath, the solid curve of his buttocks and thighs stretching the silky material over his crotch in a mesmerizing way. “Just be happy I didn’t buy you a thong.” She grinned. The morning was bright and clear, the usual onshore morning haze nonexistent. It was a perfect day for a relaxing trip to the seashore, and she was determined to make the most of it. Finding a clear patch of white sand isolated from the scattering of other early beachgoers, she spread out a large, purple beach blanket and began stripping off her sundress. “What are you doing?” Drago sounded shocked. “I’ve got my swimsuit on underneath,” she explained. “It’s okay, Drago. Compared to the tourists you’re going to see over the next few hours, my outfit is pretty dowdy.” She pulled her dress off, folded it neatly, and put it inside her beach bag. The one-piece suit she wore was a conservative, bright green Speedo. Verity usually used it for snorkeling or doing laps at the local pool. Drago’s look was solemn. “Do not sell yourself short, mistress,” he said. “I consider myself a lucky man to have sampled a few of the pleasures beneath that alluring outfit.” Verity flushed, feeling her skin burn hot. Drago could send her heart pounding out of control with only a few words. She tried to ignore the reoccurring thoughts of last night’s amazing encounter, but the memory of his lips upon hers, his sensitive fingers exploring the moist folds of her secret place… She flushed again, this time with remembered passion. “Don’t call me that,” she said. Desperate to change the subject, she muttered, “I’m going swimming. Do you want to come?” “Swimming was never a skill I had the leisure to master,” he said. “I will watch.” Great. Now she had an audience. Striding into the surging waters, 36
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Verity plunged cleanly through a wave and began swimming out to the boundary buoy. The ocean’s chill soothed her raw nerves and she slipped into the rhythm of the stroke. Minutes slipped by, and Verity lost herself in the rush and pull of the sea, her hands slicing cleanly through the water, legs kicking as she reached the buoy and turned, beginning the swim back. The high whine of the Jet Ski didn’t penetrate her concentration until the craft was almost upon her. Even hearing the motor, Verity assumed the rider was outside the posted swimming area, but it wasn’t the case at all. Ignoring the warning markers, a young woman sped recklessly through the waves, her crimson hair streaming out behind the Jet Ski like a banner. The high shrieking of her laughter was clear over the loud snarl of the motor. Verity saw that the Jet Ski was coming straight for her and realized it was too late to avoid being hit. Desperate, she tucked and tried to swim downwards, away from the craft’s deadly hull. The sudden surge of water and the glancing thud against her leg told her that she hadn’t moved quite fast enough. All the air was knocked out of her lungs and she spiraled through the water, body tumbling. The force of the blow confused her, and she didn’t know which way was up. Lungs burning for air, Verity floundered in the water, frantically trying to find the surface. A red haze filled her vision and she felt herself slipping down… Strong hands slid beneath her arms, yanking her upwards. Dimly, Verity realized she was breaking the surface and her mouth opened to desperately gulp in cool air. Coughing and retching, she instinctively began to kick her legs and circle her arms, trying to tread water. Who had saved her? A flash of seal-slick dark hair next to her gave the answer. Drago. His grey eyes were wide with concern, the thick lashes beaded with seawater. “Verity! Are you all right? Can you swim to shore?” he gasped, awkwardly treading water beside her. 37
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Verity nodded. “Do so. I will follow.” Together, they struggled the remaining distance back to the beach, panting and spitting out seawater once their toes touched the leading edge of the sand. Drago helped her stagger to their towels and Verity collapsed, panting and coughing, on the soft cotton. “I thought—” she coughed hard, wiping her face. “I thought you couldn’t swim. Thank you.” “I do not swim as well as you do, but every soldier in my legion was taught the basics.” Drago shook his head and saltwater flew everywhere. “When you spend time at sea, it is a good idea to learn how to float. Are you badly injured?” Verity shook her head. “Good,” he said seriously, and kissed her. The feel of his mouth against hers was electric. At first, he covered her mouth sweetly, pressing gently and requesting without words that she open to him. As she began to respond to his kiss, he deepened the intensity, flicking his tongue against her own, and widening his mouth to take her tentative thrusts. Their jaws worked as they pressed more tightly together, thrusting, nibbling, devouring. Drago’s hand brushed her leg and Verity gasped with pain. Drago jerked back, lips swollen and full. “I must apologize, Verity. That was unlooked for so soon after your near-disaster. How badly are you hurt?” Breathing hard, Verity ran her tongue over her tingling lower lip. His eyes followed her movement, and she felt her breasts ache beneath the chilly material of the swimsuit. Whatever century he was from, he knew how to kiss, that was for sure. She concentrated on calming herself. Once her heart stopped its rapid pounding and her breathing slowed, she took stock of the damage the Jet Ski had done to her body. An 38
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angry, purple bruise was forming on her right hip and upper thigh. She cursed and wished for a bag of ice. “Don’t worry, Drago. I’m okay. It’s just a bad bruise.” “You were lucky,” he said. “That woman drove straight through the swimming zone,” she complained, outraged. “Didn’t even stop after she hit me.” Incensed, Verity sat back up and traced the dark outline of the bruise, marveling that her hip and leg hadn’t been broken by the force of the watercraft. She’d been lucky. Damn lucky. “I know she had to have felt something, but she never even slowed down. Did you see her, Drago?” Drago didn’t reply, and she turned, curious. His face was set, grim. He avoided her gaze, staring out at the incoming surf. The Jet Ski with its reckless rider was nowhere to be seen. They were alone on their section of the beach with only the mewling cries of the gulls and the hiss of the waves upon the sand. “It was not an accident,” he growled. “It was the Morrigan.” That name. Again. “All right,” Verity said slowly. “I’ll bite. Who’s the Morrigan? Didn’t you mention that name before?” Her leg ached abominably, and she pressed her damp towel against the bruise, hoping to keep the swelling down. An ice pack and a long nap would be better, but something told her that Drago’s explanation was more important. Drago shifted uneasily upon the towel, dark sprinklings of hair upon his chest and arms beaded with seawater. His hair was wet and the slight curl was even more noticeable against his forehead and at the base of his neck. Without thinking, Verity reached out and smoothed one errant lock back into place behind his ear. He jerked away like her touch was pure acid. “Do not touch me!” he growled, voice low and tense. “Do not…” His voice died away and a look of utter despair flooded his face. He closed his luminous eyes, muscles clenching as he struggled to control his feelings. When he again opened them, his countenance was carefully composed, emotionless, much like their first meeting. 39
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Verity hated it. Quite suddenly, she realized that Drago’s happiness was becoming important to her. Taking a steadying breath, he began. “I was the prime pilus, or senior centurion, for our legion. I oversaw the ten cohorts that made up a legion of six thousand soldiers and noncombatants.” His lips twisted, sardonically. “I thought I had reached the pinnacle of my career as a soldier; leading my legion and acting as advisor to Pilas Plautius, the legion’s new legate.” One tanned hand scooped up a fistful of white sand and he began letting it sift through his fingers. “During the reign of Emperor Claudius, in approximately 43 before the Christ, four legions were sent to invade Britain. Our legion landed in the southeast of that great country and we began our campaign. “There was little resistance to our invasion, and the Celts who did fight were easily overcome by our superior fighting tactics and weaponry.” He sighed and dug his fingers deeper into the sand, tracing the hummocks and hills made by his sifting. “Perhaps we were overconfident, or just arrogant, for we finally met with a large, fierce tribe who ambushed and slaughtered two hundred of my men. It angered our young legate, and he retaliated by ordering that we raze their land, rape the women while their husbands and fathers watched, then execute every adult in the village. The children were chained hand and foot, bound as slaves and branded with the legate’s mark upon their faces.” Verity bit her lip, sickened, but she kept quiet, intent upon Drago’s gruesome tale. “I and my two other staff officers counseled him strongly against it, but he was infuriated by the Celts’ resistance, and would not be swayed.” Drago looked at Verity with anguish etched across his face. “We tried, Verity Reed, we tried to dissuade him. We even argued with him, but it was too late. “The legate promised the centurions they would be showered with glory by the emperor for this misdeed, and they listened to him, not to 40
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us.” He punched his fist deep into the sand. “Not to us! Their officers! And instead of fighting him, sacrificing ourselves for the honor of our legion and our souls…we turned away and allowed our troops to follow their orders.” A gull swooped down over their blanket, screaming and looking for food, and Drago flinched. Verity gestured at him to continue, totally absorbed in his fantastic tale. “The Celts cried out to their gods for mercy, but none was to be had,” he whispered. “When it was over, the dead were left where they fell for the carrion birds to pick clean. And that is when the Morrigan came.” He shuddered slightly. “The legate rose before the dawn the next day to find a young woman with long hair the color of blood standing in the nearby stream washing out his battle clothing. Incensed, he shouted at her to return his garb, but she only laughed and kept washing. “He fetched us from our tent, and we three officers stood beside our foolish, young legate as he strode naked and arrogant along the river bank. He ordered us to draw our weapons, overcome the woman and retrieve his clothes before one of the legionnaires spotted him and he became a laughingstock. Reluctantly, we did, and that is when she became three women…each one beautiful, each one with long, red hair.” “She became three women,” repeated Verity. He gave her a bleak look. “They approached us as we stood in the water, weapons drawn, and we could not move. Each woman drifted over the water like a wraith, making no shape in the water, no splash or ripple. They spoke as one: ‘Thou and thou and thou, cursed to live outside time for an eternity at our pleasure. Your misdeeds are not worthy of warriors, and thus you shall not be treated as such. For now, you shall be slaves, slaves to the whim of whosoever holds your key, bound to serve until you succumb to truth, so say we three.’” “The curse,” whispered Verity, her aching leg forgotten. 41
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“The curse,” agreed Drago. “And with that, the three women bled back together, taking the shape of a large, hooded crow. It swooped up and over the battlefield, shrieking its war cry, and then dove at the legate, talons extended. He tried to run, to hide, but the beast drove him to the earth with her talons. There, she plucked out his eyes and tongue, swallowing them whole before driving her huge beak deep into his heart and kidneys.” “My God,” Verity gasped. “This creature was the Morrigan?” After seeing a slashed wrist heal itself in the space of a minute, the thought of an ancient Celtic goddess seemed almost reasonable. Drago nodded. “The moment the legate died, we three centurions were…” He hesitated. “Bonded with our weapons, our corporeal selves contained by the goddess’ dark magic. As the camp awoke, the Celt slave children were herded down to the river for water. They saw the legate’s body and began to whisper, ‘The Morrigan! The Morrigan.’ “When I heard that name, I knew who and what she was. The Morrigan is the Celts’ battle goddess, their great queen of death and revenge. We had permitted the dishonorable slaughter of her children, and she would get her revenge upon us all.” “You mean that woman on the Jet Ski was the Morrigan as well?” Verity asked, frightened. “Here? In the twenty-first century? She can do that?” “Yes.” Drago nodded. “And there is more.” He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, then reached a decision. “You see, Verity Reed, my particular curse has an extra, added torment. I am completely bound to serve the wielder of the Roman dagger, and my hatred at my plight has served me well these many millennium. I struggle to maintain my fury, to rage against my master, for I have learned that once I succumb to a gentle hand, a loving touch, or a tender heart, the Morrigan will rip me away, only to give me to another, crueler master or mistress.” Verity felt confused. “But what would she gain by injuring me?” 42
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“My emotions, Verity. You see, I didn’t have to save you. I could have let your body sink into the ocean’s depths and waited for another person to find the dagger within your apartment—my new master. But I did not. When I saw her swoop upon you…I could not. The Morrigan was taunting me.” He reached over to Verity and caressed her face with one large hand. “I am falling in love with you, Verity Reed, and the moment I do, she will steal me away through time and space, and revel in my torment.”
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CHAPTER 6
The late afternoon walk back to the apartment was a silent one. Verity limped slightly, but made no effort to ask Drago for assistance, nor did he offer any. The bright sunshine and growing numbers of happy beachgoers seemed incompatible with the dark cloud that hung between them. They turned up a flagstone path to the old, Victorian-style house where Verity rented. Coronado Island was beautiful, but expensive, and the only way she could afford to live in this tiny island community was as a boarder on the top floor of a private residence. She’d rented the cozy apartment two months ago from a grandmother-mother-daughter trio who owned the home and lived in the lower two floors. Verity got on well enough with the daughter and the mother, but rarely saw the elder matriarch of the family. Today, the old woman was sitting on the long, wooden porch swing, shelling a bowl of peas from the garden. Her fingers were gnarled and arthritic, but her black eyes sparkled with vigor. 44
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“Been to the beach, have you?” she croaked cheerfully, fingers moving easily at her task. “I’d say you caught a big one.” She pointed a peapod at Drago. “In fact, I think you’d better land this one, child. He’s a keeper!” Laughing uproariously at her own humor, she waited, smiling, for introductions. Inwardly cringing with embarrassment at bringing a large, halfnaked man into her apartment, Verity politely responded. “Good morning, Mrs. Corvus. This is my friend, Drago.” She was pleased the words came out without any hesitation or stuttering. The elderly lady nodded and watched Drago expectantly, smiling slightly. To Verity’s surprise, his face was drawn tight in a look of loathing. “Corvus…” he hissed. “Crow. So, hag-queen, you follow me even here.” He took a threatening step toward the woman, held in place only by Verity’s desperate grasp on his arm. Straining to hold the furious man, Verity looked around him to stare at Mrs. Corvus, but the old lady was no longer alone on the swing. Her daughter and granddaughter sat to either side, both holding identical bowls of peas, both shelling with identical, synchronized twists of their wrists. They smiled sweetly at Verity, who eyed them with dawning horror. “You…you’re her! The Morrigan!” Verity managed. “Oh, yes, child.” Mrs. Corvus nodded. Her daughter and granddaughter nodded with her and kept shelling. “Just for the moment,” the old woman added. “Because it’s convenient.” Verity paled and glanced at Drago. The tendons on his neck were tight and his eyes had a flat, focused look. She wrapped her arms more firmly around his bicep, mentally urging calm. “What do you want?” “Revenge, child,” she replied. “Revenge, child,” the other two women echoed, nodding. A surge of anger. “That’s inhuman!” Verity spat. “He’s suffered enough.” “We’re not human, dear,” Mrs. Corvus reminded her. 45
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“You don’t have much time left, child,” spoke the daughter. “He’s awfully close to it, you know.” She popped a pea into her mouth. “Love, I mean.” The third avatar of the Morrigan grinned, a fiercely predatory smile. “I would take him myself, if I could, but you need to have your chance.” She sighed and resumed shelling. “Ah, well. Perhaps next time around.” She laughed, and Verity realized it was the red-haired rider’s laughter, high and wild. “You leave Drago alone, you bitch!” she spat. The Morrigan only smiled her threefold smile and continued shelling her peas. Frightened and angry, Verity turned away from the trio of women and dragged the enraged Drago on into the house. The wooden stairs creaked as he stomped his anger into each tread. At the third landing, she unlocked her door and beckoned the silent centurion inside. Locking the door behind him, she suddenly laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. “I don’t know why I’m bothering to lock the door if I’m renting from a Celtic goddess.” The laughter turned hysterical, and she sank down onto her sofa, crying and rubbing at her running nose. “How long is she going to keep this up?” she demanded. “What do you have to do to get away from her?” Drago sat beside her and gathered Verity into his arms, stroking her head. “I committed an act of stupidity that garnered terrible repercussions.” His rich voice dropped to a whisper. “I do not know how long their curse will last, but I am tired, Verity Reed. Tired of living a life that is no life at all. I think of the masters and mistresses I have known and the terrible desires they have inflicted upon me…” He shuddered, clutching her tighter. Verity was struck by a sudden realization. “You mean you’ve had male as well as female masters? You’ve had to—” “Become a plaything to anyone who held the dagger?” His voice roughened with anger. “The Morrigan is also the goddess of revenge, 46
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Verity. What better revenge to have upon the conqueror of your people than to give him away—as anyone’s meat?” He released her arms and moved away stiffly. “I am sorry that you are repulsed by me and my actions, mistress.” “Oh, no, Drago,” she protested. “Never! You’ve paid a million times over for what you did. I would never hold your servitude against you.” Sliding over, she tentatively slid her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against the broad warmth of his chest. My God, she realized. I’m falling in love with him. I don’t care about the curse or the Morrigan. I only care for this man. Her lips pressed gently against his skin. She had but one gift to give him. Drago froze. “No,” he protested. “We cannot be together like this. It is what she wants—to dangle happiness before us and then rip it away, heedless of our wishes.” Verity decided. “I don’t care what the Morrigan might do, Drago. You’ve spent an eternity as a sexual plaything,” she whispered, “but in all that time have you ever been pleasured?” Verity slid her hand along his pectoral muscle, watching the flat, male nipple tighten and bead. A feeling of triumph rose within her and she knew he could not resist her offer. As much as Drago tried to pretend otherwise, his longdenied passions were powerful, unquenched. Not for much longer. She traced the outline of his collarbone with two fingertips, gliding over the web of tiny scars, remnants from his life as a warrior. He shifted beneath her touch, breath quickening. Verity loved the look of his muscular thighs, his powerful hands. Even his scent aroused her. It was exotic and masculine, sandalwood overlaid with salt from the sea. Sliding her hand upward, she caressed his neck and jaw line, stroking the taut tendons and bone. “Verity,” he breathed in a plea for sanity. “This is madness.” She ignored him, intent upon her conquest. If this overwhelming urge to please him was madness, then send her to Bedlam. For now, Drago would be the master, and she the slave. It would be her gift to 47
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him…before the Morrigan snatched him away to continue her cruel game. Taking his hand, Verity slid off of the couch and tugged him gently toward her favorite place in the third floor suite, a whimsical space jutting out above the slanting eaves of the house. He opened his mouth to protest, but she shushed him with two fingers across his mouth. Silenced, he followed her through the doorway and stood inside the cozy space, looming like a great, dark shadow. The tiny room was a cupola. Jutting off the top corner of the house like a witch’s hat, it was mostly rounded, save for one wall. The ceiling arched upwards in a gorgeous display of dark, wooden beams that joined in a point at the top, some thirty feet above. The room’s polished wooden floor was partially covered by a queen-sized extra-thick futon in shades of red and gold. Atop the futon Verity had placed huge, red floor pillows, perfect for lounging on or leaning against. All around the room were windows that beckoned in the sunshine and provided a stunning view of the ocean blocks away. These panes were long and rectangular, encircling the room like crystalline doorways to the sky. This was Verity’s reading room, her thinking room, her place for dreaming. Today, for the first time, she would share it with a man. Trying to show a confidence and sensuality she had never before displayed, Verity closed the door and walked into the center of the room. Golden shafts of sunlight streamed in through the cupola windows, tiny motes of dust dancing along their length. The room smelled of beeswax and warm cedar wood. Sitting on the edge of the futon, she beckoned to Drago, who reluctantly approached, tense and wary. Sliding to the floor, Verity knelt next to Drago’s feet, her hand lightly drifting down the back of one muscular calf. He started to protest and she shook her head. “Let me do this, Drago.” She smiled, putting her heart and desire into that one action. “If our fate is to be 48
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together at this moment, then let me do this for you. I want to. So very much.” Reaching up, she unfastened the drawstring of his swimming trunks. Already, she could clearly see his cock growing hard beneath the soft material. Running her nails up the backs of his thighs, she slid her hands beneath the loose shorts and found the firm muscles of his buttocks. Grabbing them in her hands, she squeezed softly, nudging until he shifted his weight, spreading his legs slightly. Verity looked up, questioning. After this, there would be no turning back, for either of them. Drago’s eyes were black with desire, his pupils huge and dilated. Arousal flushed his face, giving him a heavy-lidded look of sensuality. “Tell me what you want,” she whispered. He turned his head away from her, toward the door. “I do not trust myself with you.” She blinked, confused. “I don’t understand.” Those hot, dark eyes looked down at her crouching body. “I want to take you, Verity Reed. I do not want to be gentle, I want to…” He grimaced with frustration. “Fuck me?” she finished for him. “What?” “You don’t want to play the sex games you’ve been forced into for these many years. You just want to fuck, is that it?” He nodded, flushing. “Then do it,” she told him. “Any way you want to.” It was as if an invisible restraint had been loosened. Drago grabbed Verity’s wrists. “Off,” he ordered. “Take this ridiculous clothing off.” Nodding, she grabbed the bottom edge of his trunks and pulled, trying to slide them down his legs. The jutting size of his erection caught on the front of the trunks. He growled with frustration and tugged at the clinging material. Verity managed to tilt his cock downward by pushing at the base 49
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where it rose rampant from his dark curls. The swim trunks dropped down to the floor, forgotten, and Verity was left kneeling before an aroused Roman centurion, the hot silk of his penis gripped firmly in her right hand. Drago’s breathing quickened, his forehead and chest breaking into a fine sweat. “Tell me what you want,” she echoed his own words, stroking the underside of his shaft with her thumb. He tensed, jerking beneath her hand. “I want you to pleasure me, Verity,” Drago rasped, the richness of his voice dipping low, sending shivers up her spine. “I want you to pleasure me and then I am going to fuck you.” Reaching beneath his throbbing manroot, Verity cupped the delicate sack and began to stroke him softly. Her fingers drifted slowly around each fragile globe, caressing and rubbing. The taut line of skin that drifted up and back toward his anus beckoned, and she ran one fingertip firmly along that sensitive path. He gasped, head tipping back, knees flexing. Verity began a slow, stroking rhythm with her hands; the left cupping his heavy balls, the right sliding firmly up and down his turgid phallus. The foreskin slid back to reveal an engorged, swollen head, smooth and perfect. A tiny drop of his juice hung from the tip. Without thinking, Verity leaned forward and, with the tip of her tongue, lightly lapped it off the head of his cock. A short, Latin expletive burst from his lips. “Shall I continue, Drago?” she purred, reveling in her power. With a start, Verity realized that her woman’s wiles gave her as much power over him as he had over her. He nodded, helplessly. Continuing her stroking caresses, Verity bent forward and gently took his warmth into her mouth. He was like satin over steel, burning hot against her lips and tongue. Delicately, she began the age-old 50
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rhythm of fellatio, the back and forth rocking of hips and shoulders, the laving of the tongue. Drago moaned, his eyes half-shut, hands splayed at his sides. Beneath her ministrations, Verity felt Drago’s rod arc to a trembling length. Her mouth slid up and down his shaft, catching gently upon the small depression just beneath his bulbous tip. Faster and faster she rocked, sucking and stroking to her own, private rhythm. The large vein running the length of the underside of his phallus gave a throb and he pulled back, panting. “Enough!” He visibly tried to control his need. Standing erect before her, Drago was magnificent. Cock straining up high against his stomach, he stood before her, the warrior of her dreams. Verity gazed at him with awe and appreciation. “Get onto the pallet,” he ordered her, gesturing at the lush futon. Running her tongue over suddenly dry lips, Verity complied. “Remove your clothing and kneel before me, Verity Reed,” he ordered. Trembling with excitement and a little nervousness, she slid the thin straps of her suit down over her body and with one wriggling movement, shimmied out of the Lycra. Drago looked down on her body with a hot, predatory stare. “Kneel,” he repeated. Crawling onto the center of the futon, Verity knelt on all fours, her body positioned directly in the center of a shaft of sunlight. The warmth poured over her body, blinding her to the man who stood just outside the light. Experimentally, she wriggled her bottom, arching her back invitingly. Suddenly, Drago loomed behind her, powerful hands reaching down to firmly grab either side of her hips. Without preamble, he positioned himself at the correct angle and drove his swollen rod deep into her moist folds. “Oh, God,” Verity gasped. 51
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Drago didn’t reply, only shifted slightly on the mattress as if to gain a better position, withdrew almost to the point of entry, then thrust again. Harder, this time. The length of him was fearsome, yet somehow she managed. His tip plunged so deeply, she could feel it against her cervix, a not unpleasant sensation. Each time he sank himself inside her pussy, it was with a gentle squeeze against her hips with his hands and a bunching of his thigh muscles against her legs and buttocks. The rhythm built, a pounding dance of flesh and muscle punctuated only by Verity’s small moans of pleasure and Drago’s sharp gasps for breath. Sweat slicked their bodies, creating a sensual slide to their rocking motions. He did not offer to pleasure her in any way. Verity completely understood. This was his experience. He had been subservient for two thousand years. This time, his needs were paramount. Lowering slightly, Verity balanced most of her weight upon her left hand and reached beneath with her right to find and cup his balls. She felt the tension in his legs increase as she wrapped her fingers around the sac and found the thin line of flesh just behind. With palm and thumb, she caressed and rolled the soft, precious globes; with her index finger, she pressed firmly upon that sensitive spot. Drago gasped, another string of Latin expletives pouring from his mouth. His pounding rhythm faltered, then picked up speed. Verity rubbed faster, feeling sweat building between their bodies. She arched her back and ass to meet his thrusts, feeling his cock slide over her engorged clit. The friction was delightful…unbearable. She felt herself tightening, spiraling upward, reaching… “Ah, Verity,” whispered Drago. “You are so very wet. So very tight. I will come very soon…help me, sweet Verity.” “Yesss…” It was drawn out on a hissing sigh. Verity gave herself up to the experience, to Drago. She was close now. Drago gave one hoarse shout and a final, penetrating thrust, then 52
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pumped his seed deep within her body, trembling and shuddering as he spent himself. Gasping for air, he dropped down over her, exhausted. At the same time, Verity felt herself clench and, with a cry, fell over that precipice of feeling into the bliss of orgasm. Her hand fell from his emptied testicles and she knelt on all fours, shaking. A red haze of ecstasy filling her vision. They remained like that for a moment, Drago deep inside Verity, both savoring the glow of their mutual rapture. Verity struggled to sit up, a quiet Drago wrapping his arms around her from behind. At last, Drago sighed and hugged Verity softly. “Thank you, Verity Reed,” he whispered low in her ear. “You have given me a most precious gift this night.” He kissed her lightly beneath her ear. “For the rest of my days of servitude, I shall never forget your kindness.” “It wasn’t kindness, Drago,” she replied, turning her head to look upward at his beloved face. “It was love…” Verity realized that the red haze she had attributed to her mindblowing orgasm was real…and it was coming from the Roman dagger driven into the hardwood floor five feet away. The pommel’s ruby glowed like a torch, even in the fading sunlight. The lurid red lit the inside of the room like the entrance to Hell itself. “How did that get there…?” she began. Drago sprang to his feet, naked and defiant. “Show yourself, witch!” he shouted. “May the gods damn you, stand before me and do your worst!” Verity rose to stand beside her lover, eyes intent upon the glowing weapon. Oh, shit…it’s getting brighter. She raised one hand to shield her eyes from the suddenly piercing crimson glow. When the blazing light dimmed behind her protective hand, she lowered her arm and cautiously looked for the pugio. It was gone. In its place, Drago knelt, his face frozen in a rictus of hatred. Beside 53
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him stood a tall, muscular woman with hair the color of spun rubies. Her glowing skin was white and flawless, like the finest marble. She wore a cloak made of crow’s feathers over a soot-colored linen gown, and her feet were bare and grass stained. Her face was both beautiful and terrible, a cold magnificence that knew no compassion. Verity knew she looked upon the Morrigan’s truest form. “I will do my worst, Drago,” purred the goddess. Her voice was frightening, honey laced with steel. “In truth, it is time for you to leave.” She made an elegant gesture and suddenly the dagger was in her hand. “Make your goodbyes, Drago. You will never see your beloved again in her lifetime. Not in another thousand lifetimes.” She began to make another arcane movement with her hand. Verity leapt for the Morrigan’s arm, knowing only that she had to stop the pale goddess from making that final, catastrophic motion. At the same instant, with an inarticulate cry of rage and loss, Drago grabbed the gleaming white wrist and drove the dagger toward his own heart. It never reached his heart. Instead, it found Verity.
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ROMAN DAGGER
CHAPTER 7
The world slowed down to a soundless flicker in time. Horrified, Drago felt the Roman dagger slip into his beloved Verity’s body, piercing flesh, sinew, and bone. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to stop, to reverse his killing thrust, but it was too late. The deed was done…his desperate attempt at death gone horribly awry. Like a child’s rag-doll, Verity slumped to the polished wood floor, the dagger deep within her ribs, piercing her heart. Wide hazel eyes stared into Drago’s own, their bright light slowly fading… Drago dropped to his knees, scooped up the limp body and cradled his lover against his breast. Agonized, he grasped the dagger’s handle and pulled it from her body, throwing the bloody blade as far across the room as he could. He checked her pulse, desperately looking for any sign of life. There was none. Verity Reed was dead. For a moment, he could not speak, his grief was so intense. The grass-stained white feet moved a step closer to Verity’s body. “Is your revenge complete, great queen?” he whispered, voice bitter 55
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and broken. “I assure you, I am destroyed. I no longer wish to live, not without this woman.” He brushed one trembling hand over the soft curve of Verity’s cheek, tracing the outline of her jaw. “I thought I could end my torment and hers by forcing you to kill me…” The Morrigan did not reply, only stood looking down at Verity’s pale face and sightless eyes. He continued. “I have fought your curse for two millennia, believing I could never lose my heart, my will, to a woman who possessed your dagger.” He looked up into that beautiful and terrible face. “Had I earlier understood the joy of submitting to my beloved Verity, I would gladly have remained her servant—for all eternity.” Gathering the small, still body close to his own, Drago allowed himself the first tears he had shed in over two thousand years. “Perhaps you have escaped my curse after all, Dragus Lucius Valerus.” The metallic voice was subdued. “I care not. Go back to your realm, Morrigan. Leave us alone.” Blinded by rivulets of tears, Drago did not notice when the Morrigan joined him, lowering herself to kneel next to Verity’s body as casually as she would lop off a man’s head with her sword in battle. “Give her to me.” It was a command. “Never.” He tightened his grip. “Never is a very long time, Dragus Lucius Valerus. Almost as long as an eternity.” The carmine lips curved upwards in a slight, terrifying smile. “Are you her slave, Drago? Truth. Does Verity Reed hold the key to your heart?” The pitiless eyes bored into his own, reminding him of each offense in his life, each master scorned. He nodded, mute with grief. “So be it. Give her to me.” Imperiously, the Morrigan beckoned and against his will, Drago released Verity’s body into the warrior-queen’s white arms. She bent, and those red, red lips pressed delicately over Verity’s colorless ones. 56
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Verity’s body gave a huge, startled wrench. Hazel eyes flew wideopen and her mouth dragged in a startled gasp of air. With a heave, her chest rose and fell, picking up life’s rhythm. “What…?” A tiny sound, but to Drago, it was as beautiful as a nightingale’s song. The Morrigan held him motionless with a glance. She bent again, this time her lips skimmed the blood-smeared wound. When she rose, her lips were slick with Verity’s blood, yet the terrible gash was closed, the skin perfectly smooth with no trace of a scar. With tears in his eyes for the second time in two thousand years, Drago clasped his beloved to his breast and wept. Verity nestled against him, stroking the smooth warmth of his skin and whispering his name over and over. A rustle of feathers brought Drago’s head up. The Morrigan stood above them in all her terrible glory and yet…he was not afraid. One pale hand held out the Roman dagger to Drago. The ruby inset shaped like a crow was gone. In its place was a faceted diamond, polished to mirror-like brilliance. He could see himself and Verity reflected in the exquisite adornment, tiny perfect miniatures huddled together for strength and comfort. He took the dagger from the Morrigan’s hand. “Good-bye, Dragus Lucius Valerus. I am pleased you have finally embraced the truth. I will not see you again during your lifetime.” Suddenly, the Morrigan smiled, a frightening display. “Perhaps after?” And with that, she was gone, only a single black feather drifting down to lie on the polished wood floor marked her passage. Disbelieving, Drago looked down at the woman held in his arms. Verity smiled up at him, the dimple on her left cheek deepening. “You’re free, Drago,” she said simply. Drago felt a surge of exultation, love, and pride for her. “I will never be free of you, Verity Reed. You have snared my soul, and I will 57
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be your willing servant for the rest of my days. All I have—all I am—is yours.” Verity laughed, a joyous peal of sound that rang out in the small cupola. “Right now, what I’d like most of all is your pugio,” she said grinning impishly. “Of course.” He turned the dagger around and offered her the handle. “I know that you require this for your exhibit…” “Not that dagger.” She shook her head and stretched out one hand to caress his hip and groin. “This one.” Drago savored the feeling of her fingers tracing the span of his quickly lengthening cock. He shifted slightly to give her better access. “Can we make it to the futon?” Verity asked, eyes heavy-lidded. “We can but try,” he said, smiling. Verity paused in her fondling. “Drago, that is the first time I’ve ever seen you truly smile.” A light kiss was brushed along his chest. “I like it. Makes you look less forbidding.” “This is the first time I have had any occasion to smile in recent memory,” he replied. Verity’s forehead wrinkled as a thought struck her. “Do you think she’s really gone? Are you free for good?” She chewed her bottom lip, eyes anxious. “The Morrigan will never go against her own word,” he reassured her. “She cannot. It would render her powerless.” “Good riddance, then,” Verity agreed. Her eyes widened. “What do you think happened to the other two centurions who were cursed with you?” Drago shook his head. “I know not. I can only pray they have escaped their own curses as I have my own. Epona help them.” By mutual, unspoken agreement, they moved back to the futon, a pale rectangle in the darkened room. Laying Verity back against the soft sheet, Drago whispered. “I want to make love with you, Verity. Not to you, but with you.” 58
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She nodded, drawing him down so he fit snugly against her body. Her soft, welcoming curves accepted and cradled his hard, muscular angles. Drago bent and caressed her lips with his own. His tongue teased, flickering against her teeth until she opened her mouth, allowing him within. They began slowly, a lazy duel, but restraint dropped away as the realization of Drago’s freedom to love sank in to their consciousnesses. Verity moaned softly, digging her fingers into the small curls of hair at the nape of Drago’s neck. She rubbed her thumb along the line of his jaw and over the delicate lobe of flesh beneath his ear. Lowering his head, Drago began to kiss down Verity’s chin, over the soft sweep of her neck and in between the soft globes of her breasts. He lingered over the spot where the dagger had pierced her heart, but not for long. Looking up long enough to catch her eye and give another, wicked smile, Drago set his sights upon his next target, her nipples. He lowered his mouth to her first rosy-tipped areola, drawing it deep into his mouth and rolling his tongue around the bumpy surface. The feel of it was soft, yet resistant, and he could feel how it tautened beneath his ministrations. Closing his lips over the sensitive tip, he tugged—gently at first, then with more force. Verity made a throaty sound and dug her fingernails into his shoulders. “More, my love?” he asked. “Tell me what you need.” Another moist tug. “I need you,” she said, voice tight. “I need you inside me, right now.” She was right. Drago cupped his turgid rod in one hand and gently nudged her legs apart with his knee. Verity’s moist, pink folds beckoned with the soft dew of passion. Gently, he placed the purple-red head of his throbbing cock against the edge of her clitoris. She jumped, watching wide-eyed. 59
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With slow concentration, Drago traced the outline of the erect nubbin until Verity writhed and gasped with pleasure. Then, moving with equal care, he glided his now- glistening tip around each swollen lip, paying especial attention to the delicate, fragile skin between her vagina and her anus. Verity was panting now, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused. “Hurry…” she urged. Enough. With a firm thrust, he buried himself within the lush warmth of her body, feeling feminine muscles clamp firmly around his shaft and milk his pleasure. Building his rhythm, he moved in and out, exulting in the freedom to love, to find and give pleasure as he would. Drago intended to thrust slowly, bringing them both to a long climax, but Verity would have none of it. “Finish it, Drago!” she ordered, hazel eyes bright and unfocused. “Make me melt, my warrior. I need to feel you come inside me.” With that, he lost his control, bucking and plunging into her hot pussy, feeling the skin of his cock pulse with the rhythm of their lovemaking. With a shout, his hot juices spurted into her body, long, arcing pulses of hot jism. As his body arced against hers, Verity convulsed beneath him, screaming her pleasure and writhing with the force of her own release. Drago and Verity collapsed together, trembling and laughing with pleasure. They lay wrapped in each other’s arms, breathing hard, until the sweat had begun to dry on their bodies and their hearts resumed a more measured pace. “Epona help me,” murmured Drago. “If this is how a modern woman makes love, I may not survive another week.” Verity laughed and brushed a series of light kisses against his chest. “If you have survived this long, my beloved, I think you have nothing to fear.” He cupped her cheek with one strong hand. “With you by my side, I am complete. My curse is lifted and I am mortal once again.” He kissed 60
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her forehead gently. “What will become of us?” “The modern world has nothing to compare with the Morrigan,” Verity replied seriously. Then she gave him a smile that eclipsed the rising sun with its radiance. “In truth, we have no worries, Drago, because we have each other.”
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CHERRY SLOE
Cherry Sloe is the sizzling pseudonym for award-winning author Bryndis Rubin. “Cherry” decided that it was time to answer her readers’ demands and give them stories that really steamed—erotic fantasies where love has no limits. Caress the Dragon was her first erotica released in the Amber Kisses imprint from Amber Quill Press. You can email Cherry Sloe at:
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Don’t miss Caress The Dragon, by Charry Sloe available now from Amber Quill Press, LLC
Kira is the sensual, yet devoted Protector of the powerful Dragon Throne. By law, she must choose a Consort, or lose her kingdom. Each candidate is worse than the last until Bladen Tor arrives and sets her blood on fire. Insulting, arrogant, utterly male, he demands a private interview for the position of Consort. What he gets is something else altogether… Will Bladen be man enough to caress the dragon?
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