What are you doing? Anya can well take care of herself. She doesn't need a man to protect her.
Perhaps she was alone on the beach, as needy and confused as he was. The thought softened the edges of his anger, even as it made his body incredibly hard. But as much as he wished to believe it, he knew a woman like her would not crave a scarred man like him. Not truly. No matter how hot her kisses. How many had turned away from him over the centuries? How many had cringed when he neared?
Countless.
And that had been—was—just the way he liked it.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. "How is Torin?" he asked, changing the subject as he stalked to the bed. "I do not like how slowly he is healing."
Ashlyn shoved Maddox aside, and the big warrior scowled, but let her. "I think I figured out why he hasn't bounced back as quickly as the rest of you do. He's Disease, right? Well, I think his cells are affected by that sickness. They have to fight the virus as well as the wound. Anyway, he is healing. He's eating on his own now."
"Good. That's good." Lucien still felt guilty about the attack Torin had endured. He should have been here. Should have sensed Torin's pain.
If the Hunters who had sneaked inside hadn't touched Torin's skin, infecting themselves with disease and weakening their forces, Torin would have died. Lucien had thought he'd taken the necessary precautions to prevent such an event, for he would rather his neck be sliced than one of the others. Yet his necessary precautions had failed.
"And how is Aeron?"
"Well." Ashlyn faltered, sighed. She bit her lip. "He's not so good."
"The bloodlust is so great he's taken to clawing himself," Maddox said, his voice grave. "Nothing I say penetrates his dark thoughts."
Lucien massaged the back of his neck. "Are you two going to be all right on your own?"
"Yes." Maddox wrapped his arm around Ashlyn's waist. "Torin is able to monitor the grounds on his computers and now that my death-curse is broken," he said, hugging his woman close, "I can leave at any time to defend us or procure items we might need."
Lucien nodded. "Good. I'll let you know what we find." He swiped up his bag and said over his shoulder, "Thank you for the flowers, Ashlyn." Without another word, he flashed to the Cyclades Islands in Greece.
Silver stone walls gave way to white stucco. The home he had already purchased and furnished was open and airy, with towering white columns and gauzy white material draping the windows.
He dropped his bag and stepped to the nearest balcony, an airy terrace that looked out onto the clearest water he'd ever seen. Smooth, no waves. Not even a ripple. The sun glowed lovingly—it was already midday—and lush green bushes with bright red blooms framed the edges of the building.
Perhaps he and the other warriors should have stayed in Athens or Crete to be closer to the ancient temple they meant to search, but there was more anonymity on the islands. Fewer tourists and even fewer locals.
"The fewer the better," he muttered.
He did not remember much of his time here, all those thousands of years ago, so he could not compare then with now. Those days had been dark, filled with screams and pain and acts so evil he didn't want to remember them.
I am a different man now.
And yet, he felt as if he would soon commit his most evil act yet. Slaying Anya. Do not think about her death. Not now.
What should he think about, then? he wondered, refocusing on the crystal water. Whether or not she would like the view? He rubbed his jaw with a sigh—and found that he was truly curious. Would she?
Doesn't matter. You can't let it matter. He forced his attention to the left—do not think about Anya—and marveled at the newest sight: emerald mountains laced with white and violet. Surely this was the gods' greatest creation.
No, that would be Anya.
His teeth gnashed together. What must he do to wipe her from his mind? He knew what he wanted to do. Strip her right here on the balcony and push her naked body against the iron railing, sunlight caressing her as he meant to do. He would touch her so exquisitely she wouldn't care about his scarred face. He would make her climax, over and over again, shouting his name. Desperate for more of him. So desperate she would forget every other man she'd slept with and think only of Lucien. Crave only Lucien.
The chances of that happening were as slim as those of Lucien's face returning to its former glory. Not that he wanted it to. He'd earned every one of his scars. They were a part of him now, a permanent reminder that loving a woman equaled pain and suffering.
He had never needed the reminder more.
He could not put off thinking of Anya's death, he decided. She would haunt him until he figured this out. Get it over with. How should he kill her? He didn't want to hurt her, so it would have to be quick. When should he do it? At night, while she slept? His stomach churned with acid. What exactly would the Titans do if he failed? Like Aeron, would he be driven mad with bloodlust? Would his friends fall, one by one? Fury stabbed at him with the thought.
Lucien withdrew one of the candies he still carried in his pocket, discarded the wrapper and sniffed. Instant arousal obliterated his anger as strawberry fragrance filled his nose. Why had he done such a foolish thing? The anger returned, but now it was directed at himself.
Scowling, he pitched the lollipop over the railing. Heard a splash as it hit the water. Ripples disrupted that smooth tranquility.
Behind him, a door opened. Closed. Male voices and snickering laughter suddenly reverberated. Lucien turned, unconcerned. There was Paris, tall and pale and perfect, radiating sexual contentment. The warrior had just bedded a woman, that much was obvious.
Beside him was Amun, silent, dark and simmering with untold secrets.
Strider, whose ruthlessly handsome face glowed with amusement, was punching Gideon in the shoulder. "You know you're jealous," he was saying.
"Don't hate the player," Paris said, grin widening. "I can't help it if both flight attendants wanted to see to my needs midair."
Lucien strode inside the spacious home, warm air replaced by cool. "We paid for a private jet, not a private bedding for Paris."
All four men withdrew a weapon as his voice cut through their good-natured ribbing. As soon as they realized who had spoken, they relaxed. Even smiled.
"Private is the wrong word," Strider said, blue eyes twinkling. "They did it in front of everyone. And I'm not complaining. The movie was crap, so their performance kept me entertained."
Lucien rolled his eyes, doing his best not to appear envious. "Take a look around. Pick a bed." Because he could flash, he was the only one who had been here before. He hadn't yet picked a room because he'd wanted to give the others first choice. He was happy to take whatever was left.
Bags were suddenly thrown aside as the men toured their temporary new "digs," as Paris would say.
"Nice," Paris said after choosing the room in back. "Chicks will certainly love it."
"Sucks," Gideon said, but everyone ignored him as usual. Everything out of his mouth was a lie. He'd taken the room closest to the front door.
"How long have you been here?" Strider asked Lucien as he came back into the living room.
"Only a few minutes."
"How is that even possible?" Strider and Lucien had only been reunited a month ago, Strider part of the group who had remained in Greece to fight the Hunters after Lucien's men had departed for Budapest. Hundreds of years had since passed, and they were only now getting to know each other again. "You didn't fly out before us, and you damn sure didn't fly with us."