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Her tears ceased flowing at long last, a glint of hope flaring in the goddess’s innocent baby blues. “I know. You’re too strong and cunning to fail.”
“I am.”
Hmm. Was she sincere, or pandering to an alpha male’s ego?
With an unsteady hand, Rathbone reached out, mimicking the motions to wipe the moisture from his wife’s cheeks. He was just so gentle with her. So reverent. And the contact, though intangible, rocked Neeka’s world. Her longing magnified, overshadowed only by envy. Never, in all her days, had a man touched her with such tender concern.
“Never forget you are my one and only.” The goddess began to fade, and he stiffened, clearly not ready to let her go.
One and only. Rathbone the Only. Had Lore given him his moniker?
“Where are you going?” he demanded. “Stay with me.”
“I can’t stop this,” Lore told him, tearing up again. “I’ll strengthen as fast as I can and return. Nothing will keep me from you, my....” A second later, she was gone.
Denial exploded from the royal. He dropped to his knees and yanked at hanks of his hair, a mate pushed past his limit. Even Neeka teared up. His devastation hurt her on a gut-level, and sympathy welled. The day she’d admitted nothing she said or did would ever win her mother’s approval, she’d exhibited a similar reaction.
As a tendril of weakness coiled around her spine, signaling the end of their connection, she moaned.Not ready to leave him.
The weakness paid no attention to her desires, spreading quickly and escalating. Her vision of the throne room dulled...
Her eyelids popped open, and she scanned her surroundings. Rathbone’s bedroom. She stood halfway to the exit, the same spot as before. Though darkness was falling over her mind, she took a step forward. If she could just make it to headquarters—the room where she’d set up shop, storing everything she’d confiscated from other chambers—she could sleep off this feebleness and return to the king refreshed.
But her knees buckled with her second step, and she toppled, out cold before she hit the floor.
Rathbone exploded to his feet and drove his fist into a wall, gemstones raining to the floor. Dust plumed the air. Seeing Lore after all this time...hearing her lyrical voice, being unable to hold her...
Bellowing a curse, he punched the wall again. And again. Her presence—and subsequent disappearance—triggered an avalanche of sensations. From the burn of fury to the icy cold born of unshakable determination, to the sharp ache of unquenchable lust his goddess always inspired. The need to hunt her down and drag her back proved fiercest. But even he, with his incredible power, couldn’t extract a spirit from an unseen realm.
There must be something he could do.
The oracle! Yes. She would know.
Rathbone teleported to his bedroom, where he’d left her. “Neeka,” he shouted, ready to tear the palace apart if she’d wandered off. He scanned the room, jerking the second he spotted her. She sprawled on the floor, unconscious, her cheek cushioned by a pair of his underwear. Blood trickled from a cut in her lips.
Flash. He crouched at her side, his heart thudding as he checked her vitals. Not great, but not terrible, either. He gathered her close, an action guaranteed to wake an unmated harpy from slumber. But it didn’t rouse her. She remained as limp as a noodle.
His stomach knotted. Was she worse off than suspected? What happened? He carried her to his bed, gently placed her over the comforter. The cut on her lip hadn’t mended in the slightest bit. She wasn’t healing.
Why wasn’t she healing?
He couldn’t stand by and do nothing when blood—harpy medicine—flowed through his veins. Rathbone raked a claw through his palm, uncaring of the sting. A nice pool of crimson welled. He pried open her mouth with his uninjured hand and poured the liquid down her throat.
Yes, in his research he’d learned harpies were particular about who they fed from. He didn’t care about that either. She might not even realize he’d gone this route.
The cut on her lip healed in a matter of seconds.
He heaved a relieved breath. See? Worth it. “Neeka. Oracle. Harpy.” As gently as possible, he clasped her shoulder and shook. “Wake up.”
She didn’t. Because when did she ever do what he asked? But she did smack her lips and mutter “Five more minutes, T-bone.”
Relief bombarded him. Whatever had happened, she was on the mend. But who was T-bone?
He looked over the rest of her. More shoulder length black curls had escaped the bun, tendrils curling over the pillow. She wore the T-shirt he’d provided. The hem had ridden up, revealing a circle of rubies around her navel. She wore the sweatpants, too, but she’d hacked off most of the fabric, leaving her glorious legs on display. Chocolate chip cookie dust stuck to her fingertips. Had she searched his room and eaten his snacks during his absence? Well of course she had. What harpy wouldn’t?
He tried to walk away, but more and more mátia zoomed to her navel, ensnared. The fact that his blood now flowed through her body...
Muscles turned to tempered steel, and he rumbled with undeniable desire. She wasn’t responsible for his reaction of course. Lore was. Being in the goddess’s presence always left him ravenous for physical release. A reason he’d agreed to open the stable in the first place.
