He stalked toward her, eyes locking on hersâ¦
Kyra tried not to stare at his bare chest. It was sculpted like an iron breastplate and gave her vivid memories of having run her hands all over him. âI knew youâd come. After all, we have unfinished business between us.â
His hand came to rest on the wall behind her and he leaned in, his closeness making her nervous and excited at the same time.
He caught her by the chin and lifted it, forcing her to look at him. âI know who you are. You donât have to pretend youâre demure now.â
The feel of his calloused fingers brought back such sharp memories of pleasure that Kyra felt weak at the knees, just like in all those mortal movies where the fair damsel swoons away. And it wasnât just arousal. She could have handled that. No, this feeling was something different from lust, and wholly unfamiliar. She felt as if she was being turned inside out and it was more than she could bear.
But nothing had changed. She hadnât fulfilled her destiny. She hadnât conquered the hydra within him. She hadnât killed him. She hadnât even convinced him to give up arms dealing.
But she knew he was going to kiss her. If she didnât stop him, he was definitely going to kiss her.
And gods help her, she wanted him toâ¦
Dear Reader,
I always thought that in Homerâs Odyssey, Calypso really got a raw deal! Having saved Odysseus from the sea, she was his lover for seven years before he broke her heart and sailed away without a backwards glance. Something about this always stuck in my craw.
Now, donât get me wrong. Iâve got nothing against a good mortal woman like Penelope, but I promised myself that if I ever invented a supernatural heroine who saved the hero from a dark fate, sheâd get to keep her man. Accordingly, Iâve written a much happier ending for my nymph and her wayward warrior!
Iâd be delighted to hear what you think, so please stop by www.stephaniedraven.com. And hereâs hoping that, like the heroine of this book, every single one of you blazes a path through the world.
Yours,
Stephanie Draven
STEPHANIE DRAVEN is currently a denizen of Baltimore, that city of ravens and purple night skies. She lives there with her favorite nocturnal creaturesâthree scheming cats and a deliciously wicked husband. And when she is not busy with dark domestic rituals, she writes her books.
A longtime lover of ancient lore, Stephanie enjoys reimagining myths for the modern age. She doesnât believe that true love is ever simple or without struggle, so her work tends to explore the sacred within the profane, the light under the loss and the virtue hidden in vice. She counts it amongst her greatest pleasures when, from her books, her readers learn something new about the world or about themselves.
To my husband, who is my light in every dark storm
and the man who carries me over all lifeâs thresholds.
Ares climbed over the rubble of his burned-out armory, his mood black as the soot-covered remains. So much waste, he thought, kicking aside scorched artillery crates. All harmless shrapnel now. So many mortars reduced to ashâ¦so many bullets warped from the heat, deprived of their savage destiny on the battlefield. Magnificent guns destroyed without ever finding their way into the hands of even one ferocious warrior. It was a travesty. And the broad-shouldered god decided that someone should have to pay.
âWho did this?â he roared, discovering one of his vultures hovering over a dead body. At his approach, she left off tearing at the corpseâs gory innards and flapped her wings. With a rush of wind that spiraled the dust and autumn leaves around her, she rose into the form of a willowy redhead and licked the blood from her scarlet lips.
âThe guards say it was a woman who blew up the armory,â his vulture explained, shoving the gutted corpse onto its back. The dead manâs belt was unfastened, his pants unzipped, as if heâd died while taking a piss. âThis one caught her and decided to have a little funâ¦â
âIt doesnât look as if he had a chance to enjoy himself.â Ares noted the dead manâs face, stiffened in shock, as if he couldnât fathom what had happened to him. But Ares knew what had happened.
Kyra had happened.
His daughter was lethal with a blade and knew how to defend herself. She was also a rebellious child with a knack for finding new and unique ways to annoy him. âWhat about the file on the hydra?â
His minion twitched. âItâs gone. Kyra must have taken it.â
Ares liked the look of fear in his vultureâs expression and was hungry to take out his frustrations on her. There could be pleasure in itâfor him, at least. He reached for that fiery hair, yanking his vultureâs head to the side so that her throat was exposed. âAnd where is my daughter now?â
âIâI donât know,â the vulture stammered. âThey shot her, but she escaped.â
Bullets wouldnât stop Kyra. As a nymph of the underworld, she crossed the thresholds of life and death at will. Whatâs more, she was immortal. Heâd seen to that. There wasnât a wound she could suffer that wouldnât heal. She could appear to mortals in her own guise, or fade into the mists like an apparition. The fact that sheâd let his guards