LITMIR.BIZ

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lips thinned, but he didn’t reply. Thankfully, he didn’t move farther away, either.

      “Are you?”

      “You have no idea at what game you play, woman.”

      “Oh, but I think I do.” Her gaze swept over him, and she stilled in renewed amazement. He was utterly magnificent. Rainbow-colored strobe lights rained down his face and body, a body so finely sculpted it could have been chiseled from stone. He wore a black tee and stone-washed jeans, and both hugged rope after rope of hand-over-your-panties muscle. Mine.

      “I said no touching,” he barked.

      Her gaze snapped back to his and she held up her hands, palms out. “I’m not touching you, sweetcakes.” But I want to…I plan to…I will.

      “Your gaze suggests otherwise,” he said tightly.

      “That’s because—”

      “I’ll dance with you,” another warrior said, cutting her off. Paris again.

      “No.” Anya didn’t switch her attention. She wanted Lucien and only Lucien. No one else would do.

      “Could be Bait,” a different Lord piped in, probably eyeing her with suspicion. She recognized the deep timbre of his voice. Sabin, keeper of Doubt.

      Please. Bait? As if she would try to lure anyone anywhere for reasons that weren’t completely selfish. Bait, stupid girls that they were, were all about self-sacrifice; their job was to seduce a Lord to distraction so Hunters could sneak in and slay him. And really, what kind of moron wanted to kill the Lords rather than make out with them a little?

      “I doubt Hunters were able to assemble so quickly after the plague,” Reyes said.

      Oh, yes. The plague. One of the Lords was possessed by the demon of Disease. If he touched any mortal skin-to-skin,

      he infected that person with a terrible sickness that spread and killed with amazing swiftness.

      Knowing this, Torin always wore gloves and rarely left the fortress, willingly keeping to himself to protect humans from his curse. Not his fault a group of Hunters had sneaked inside the fortress a few weeks ago and cut his throat.

      Torin had survived; the Hunters had not.

      Unfortunately, there were many, many more Hunters out there. Seriously, they were like flies. Swat one away, and two more soon took its place. Even now, they were out there somewhere, waiting for a chance to strike. The Lords had to remain cautious.

      “Besides, there’s no way they could have figured out a way to bypass our security,” Reyes added, his harsh voice drawing Anya from her thoughts.

      “Just like there’s no way they could get into the fortress and nearly behead Torin?” Sabin replied.

      “Damn this! Paris, stay here and watch her while I check the perimeter. Sabin, come with me.” Footsteps, muttered curses.

      Well, shit. If the warriors found any trace of Hunters out there, there’d be no convincing them of her innocence. Of that crime, at least. Lucien would never trust her, never relax around her. Never touch her except in anger.

      She didn’t allow her trepidation to play over her face. “Maybe I saw the crowd and snuck in,” she told Paris and another Lord who was studying her, adding tightly, “And maybe the big guy and I can go the next few minutes without an interruption. In private.”

      They might have gotten the hint, but they didn’t leave.

      Fine. She’d work around them.

      As she began to once again rock softly to the beat, she kept her gaze on Lucien and caressed her fingers down the planes of her stomach. Replace my hands with yours, she projected.

      Of course, he didn’t. But his nostrils did that delicious flare as his eyes followed every movement of her palms. He swallowed.

      “Dance with me.” This time, she said the words aloud, hoping he would not so easily ignore her. She licked her lips, moistening them.

      “No.” Hoarse, barely audible.

      “Pretty please, with a cherry on top of me.”

      His eyes flickered with fiery provocation. Not her imagination, she realized. Hope flooded her. But when several seconds ticked by and he failed to reach out for her, that hope turned to frustration. Time really was her enemy. The longer she stayed here, the greater her chance of being caught.

      “Do you not find me desirable, Flowers?”

      A muscle ticked below his eye. “That is not my name.”

      “Fine, then. Do you not find me desirable, muffin?”

      The ticking spread to his jaw. “What I find you matters little.”

      “That doesn’t really answer my question,” she said, close to pouting again.

      “Nor was it meant to.”

      Grrr! What an infuriating man. Try something else. Something blatant.

      As if I haven’t been blatant already.

      Alrightie, then. She turned and bent down to the floor. Her skirt rode up her thighs and gave him another, better, glimpse of her blue thong and the wings stretching from the center. As she pushed to a stand, mimicking the motions of sex as she did so, she slowly circled, offering a lingering full-body shot.

      He sucked in a breath, every muscle in his powerful body tense. “You smell like strawberries and cream.” As he spoke, he looked like a predator about to pounce.

      Please, please, please, she thought. “Bet I taste like it, too,”

      she said, batting her lashes despite the fact that he’d made the fragrance seem like a horrendous affront.

      He growled low in his throat and took a menacing step toward her. He raised his hand to—grab her? Hit her? Whoa, what was that about?—before stopping himself and fisting his fingers. Before remarking on her scent, he’d been distant but maybe-kinda-sorta interested. Now he only seemed interested in throttling her.

      “You’re lucky I do not strike you down here and now,” he said, proving her thoughts. Still, his hand lowered to his side.

      Anya ceased moving, staring up at him in open mouthed astonishment. Because she smelled like fruit, he wanted to hurt her? That was—that was supremely…disappointing. Her mind had tried to supply the word devastating, but she’d cut it off. She barely knew the man; he couldn’t devastate her.

      Wasn’t like she’d expected him to fall at her feet, but she had expected him to respond favorably. At least a little.

      Men liked women who threw themselves at them. Right? She’d observed mortals for too many years to count, and that had always seemed to be the case. Key word, chica—mortals. Lucien wasn’t, and had never been, mortal.

       Why doesn’t he want me?

      In all the days she’d watched him, he hadn’t favored a single woman. Ashlyn, his friend’s lover, he treated with kindness and respect. Cameo, the only female warrior in residence here, he treated with gentleness and almost parental concern. Not desire.

      He didn’t prefer men. His gaze didn’t linger on males with hunger or any hint of softer emotion. Was he in love with a specific woman, then, and no other would do? If so, the bitch was going down!

      Anya ran her tongue over her teeth, and her hands clenched at her sides. Smoke continued to billow through the building,

      hazy, dreamlike. The human females began to crowd the dance floor again, trying to lure the Lords back to their sides. But the warriors continued to observe Anya, waiting for the final verdict of just who and what she was.

      Lucien hadn’t moved an inch; it was as

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