.

person on the other side decided to take things to the next level. Wood split from the hinges as the door was savagely kicked, the vanity in front of it skidding to the middle of the room.

      A scowling Strider strode inside, knives in both hands. All the demons inside of Amun danced into a sudden frenzy, Haidee forgotten, rushing back to the surface. Torment … punish … pain … blood … suffering … must have. Needed.

      Something else struck him. Something that had nothing to do with the demons, but everything to do with a long-buried instinct. Safeguard. He would safeguard the girl. Her taste was still in his mouth, and he needed more. Still had to have more. If she were hurt, he couldn’t have more.

      Wrong, that thought was wrong, but he couldn’t banish it. Instinct demanded; he heeded. Go! he mentally screamed at the warrior, but Strider didn’t hear him. Or didn’t care.

      When Strider spotted Amun and Haidee on the bed, lower bodies still twined around each other, he blinked. His jaw even dropped. And if Amun wasn’t mistaken, there was a flicker of fury over his expression.

      Will safeguard, Amun thought, scowling at his friend. No matter what.

      “You bitch,” the warrior growled to Haidee. “What the hell did you do to him?”

       CHAPTER SIX

      HAIDEE JUMPED TO SHAKY LEGS, breath sawing in and out of her mouth. As she’d predicted, the glass shard she held had already sliced through skin, blood dripping to the floor. She barely noticed the sting or the loss.

      Without her there to cushion him, Micah hit the mattress face-first and grunted, but she paid him no heed. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to get him out of this fortress alive.

      And shit! This showdown couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Desire still pumped through her veins, thick and heavy, dulling her reactions and making her limbs feel weighted with rocks. Her chest felt hollowed out, and her muscles ached. Perhaps she could have dealt with those things, but her mind was as clouded as if she’d popped a dozen different pills, a mix of sedatives, stimulants and aphrodisiacs.

      She could only blame Micah. His kisses had been CPR to her soul. He’d made her come alive. Split apart. Forget everything and every one. Common sense had abandoned her. So had survival instinct. She’d never ignored her survival instinct before. All she’d been able to think about was him. His touch, his taste. His tongue lapping between her legs. God, she could fly apart simply thinking about that heady caress. In seconds, he’d reduced her to an animal state, where nothing had mattered but sensation.

      Now isn’t the time, remember? The doorway was open, offering a straight shot into the hallway. Either she or Micah could run, but not both. One of them had to deal with the demon.

      Hopefully Micah would understand what she wanted him to do.

      “Not smart, coming in here on your own,” she said to taunt the Lord into an emotional response. What she’d learned about him during their time together? He was always quick to anger, and that anger made him easily distractible. “You ready to die?”

      For once, he didn’t react. His gaze darted from her to Micah, Micah to her. He radiated a mix of rage, concern and disbelief.

      Micah didn’t move.

      Why wasn’t Micah moving? Damn it. If he would move, she could attack. Defeat would have to fight her. Micah was simply too weak to see to the battle himself.

      She opened her mouth to challenge Defeat but closed it with a snap. She’d challenged him a few times during their trek. Bet you can’t catch me if you let me go. He’d let her go. And he’d caught her, pissed beyond imagination. Bet you can’t just stand there while I stab you. He’d let her stab him. And rather than pass out from blood loss, as she’d hoped, he had then returned the favor. He’d stabbed her thigh to keep her from bolting while he healed.

      He’d then stitched her up, shocking her. Still. His determination to win every challenge gave him strength, more so than usual, and she couldn’t have him stronger than usual right now. Not while she battled the fog. So, as they stood there facing each other, both deliberating how to handle the coming fight—and there would be a fight—she was very careful not to issue another challenge. Not even a challenge to lose the fight.

      She’d made that mistake only once.

      Bet you can’t lose a fistfight to a girl.

      He had allowed her to punch him, and he hadn’t fought back. Therefore in his mind, he had just lost a fistfight with a girl. She’d run off while he’d struggled to breathe—’cause yeah, she’d gone for his trachea—and he’d had to track her down. When he finally caught her, he’d trussed her up like a Thanksgiving turkey, gagged her and started drugging her.

      And if she had tried to speak past her gag, he would have removed her voice box. No question.

      “What the hell did you do to him?” Defeat repeated, dark, deadly.

      “What did I do to him?” She assumed attack position: legs apart, knees slightly bent and ready for her leap. The cold, already so much a part of her, seeped out, sheened her skin. With every exhalation, mist created a cloud in front of her face. All the while, she mourned the loss of Micah’s heat.

      She still didn’t know why she froze like this. Still didn’t know how. All she knew was that the ability manifested with her emotions, sometimes strengthening her, something weakening her. Today, she felt empowered.

      “Me?” she went on. “What the fuck did you do to him?”

      “If you hurt him …” A muscle ticked below his dark blue eyes, and he finally kicked into motion.

      If she hurt him? What a joke! “This is gonna be fun. I’ve been craving a go at you.” One step, two, she moved toward him, determined to meet him in the middle.

       No!

      In a sudden blur of motion, Micah sprang from the bed and flew past her, tackling the demon-possessed warrior and sending both men toppling to the floor. Grunts and groans soon echoed. Slashing arms and vicious kicks ensued. They rolled, they struggled, they assaulted each other ferociously.

      She’d never seen Micah fight so dirty. He went for the eyes, the throat and the groin, biting and ripping flesh, fists hammering. Defeat, though, merely deflected each of her man’s blows. He never tried to cause harm. Why? Something else she’d never seen—a Lord of the Underworld backing down. And this one, Defeat … Something was wrong. Had to be.

      Haidee stood there, numb, watching the bloodbath, sick to her stomach and unsure what to do. Apparently, he’s not too weak after all. Like him, she didn’t run from the room. God help her, she wasn’t leaving without him.

      What should she do? If she threw herself into the fray, she might cut Micah instead of the Lord. They were moving so quickly … twisting and turning, flying apart, springing back together. And if she accidentally delivered Micah’s death-blow.

      Damn it. What the hell should she do? she wondered again, no closer to an answer.

      “What the fuck is going on?” Defeat demanded between punches. “Stop. Amun, you have to stop.”

      Amun?

      She’d heard the name before, knew it belonged to one of the Lords, but she couldn’t connect the name with a face. And because she had memorized all the names and faces of her enemy, she knew that could only mean one thing.

      There was one immortal warrior the Hunters had never been able to photograph or even sketch throughout the years. Not that they hadn’t tried. They’d snapped pictures, but those pictures had never turned out, had always been blurry. And when they’d drawn what they’d thought was his face, they’d later realized they’d done nothing but scribble on the page.

      Amun was also the