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The Morgon with black hair and black eyes at the bar had told her the restroom was this way. The only sound was the wafting crackle of the torches. The only sight was long shadows cast by flickering flame. An eerie tendril of fear snaked up her spine. Even half-drunk, something primitive warned her of danger, like the innate foreboding a deer senses when the tiger stalks unseen from the trees.
She shook it off, flipped her long hair over one shoulder, and walked on, knowing the restroom must be just around the bend up ahead.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
She stopped again and spun around, unable to tell from which direction the sound came.
“Bennett? Is that you?” A hollow echo of her voice reverberated down the empty corridor. “Stop it! You’re scaring me.” The last came out a faint whisper. A presence—corporeal, malevolent, and drawing closer—plunged her into icy fear. Her pulse quickened. A hiss of wind pressed the thin fabric of her mini-dress to her thighs. The flame on the wall guttered to nothing, then relit anew.
Tick.
Tick.
Directly behind her. She whirled and stared up at a massive Morgon man who stood only feet away. A behemoth silhouetted by the flambeau. His pointed wings, half-open and huge, kept the rest of him in shadow, as if the light itself repelled him. She could see nothing but his eyes—amber orbs with serpentine slits, bright as the torch-flame. Her breath hitched in her throat. She fell back against cold stone, scraping her bare shoulders against the rough cavern wall.
He passed near a sconce, the light illuminating hard, angular planes, the ancestral lines of the dragon sculpting his face in stark relief—more beast than man. Her heart thrashed against her ribcage.
“I—I lost my way, I think. I should go.” She gestured in the direction she had come, inching along the wall.
He moved with lethal grace, angling closer in slow, even steps.
Tick.
Her gaze dropped to his large hand. Claw-tipped fingers spread wide, the sharp nail of the index tapping the stone. She bolted left, only to find a wall of six Morgon men blocking her exit. They’d materialized out of the shadows in silent stealth. Unmoving, watching. Backing against the wall, she swiveled her head from those blocking her path to their master stalking closer.
“What—what do you want from me?” Her voice cracked, primal fear ripping through her gut.
By now, she’d reached the pinnacle of terror, petrified in place. Tangible evil seeped into her skin as the sinister creature loomed, enveloping her in his shadow. Something screamed for her to run, while a compelling power rolling from the beast kept her pinned in place. It was as if his very presence demanded obedience, subservience.
The beast braced one arm next to her head, her panic filling up the confines of their space. He inhaled a deep breath, drinking her fear in like the sweetest nectar.
“Will she serve, my lord?” A voice of authority from one of the Morgons in shadow—sultry but edged like a razor.
Her chest rose and fell, drawing the beast’s gaze. He leaned closer, trailing one claw lightly over her swelling breasts. Viper-swift, he clamped her mouth with his other hand, stifling her screams, and continued his exploration of her naked skin with the blade-like nail. Her rapid pulse beat frantically at the base of her neck.
“Perhaps.” One word, grating and broken. The voice of a monster.
He snaked his claw across the bottom of her throat, then down the line of her cleavage, pressing just enough to scrape the skin, a thin line of red rushing to the surface. Keeping her immobile with his crushing weight, he scraped a drop of blood from her breasts. He opened his mouth, revealing a row of sharpened teeth, the canines most prominent. Reeking of menace and power, he licked the tip of his claw.
“Perhaps.” His voice fell to a raspy whisper. A rumbling growl rattled her bones. A flash of flame and shadow and all was black.
Chapter One
Ipaused the image on the comm screen, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. Pale and naked, the mutilated woman was splayed spread-eagle on her back in the snow, her bloodless skin only a shade darker. Dirty-blond hair, matted and tangled, covered her face—all but one glassy, green eye. A slit made with precision and patience opened her entire cavity from throat to pubic bone, exposing internal organs. What seemed to be left of them, anyway.
“Did you get any close-ups?” I asked Macon.
“Yes. Your favorite smuggler is getting better at his illegal activities.”
“You know I love you, don’t you?”
“Stop sucking up. It doesn’t suit you, Moira.”
“But I do appreciate it,” I said, setting his comm device in my lap. “Seriously.”
