Now, in the silence, all she could do was think, one sentence echoing over and over again. Defeat had called him Amun. Was he Amun, a Lord? Or was he Micah, a Hunter?
He’d known her, shouted for her help. That had to mean he was Micah. But, on the flip side, he hadn’t known anything else about her. Not their history, not their purpose. That had to mean he was Amun.
Argh! The back-and-forth, was he or wasn’t he, was driving her as crazy as her confinement. Could he be a mix of both? Amun’s demon stuffed into Micah’s body? Because really, two men couldn’t look that much alike. Could they?
No matter the answers, she wasn’t leaving without him. Even though, deep down, a part of her suspected the worst. That two men could easily look alike—especially if powers beyond a human’s comprehension were involved. That he was Amun, that he’d always been Amun. That Micah was someone else completely, out there somewhere, still searching for her, and she was simply trying to convince herself otherwise so she wouldn’t feel guilty.
That kiss…something else she couldn’t get out of her mind. Micah had never kissed her like that. Fiery, consuming. Necessary.
Despite the danger they had been in—were in—she would have allowed him to strip and penetrate her. She would have met him thrust for wild thrust, taking, giving, claiming. She would have clung to him, desperate for more, for everything.
Hell, she would have crawled inside him if she could have. She’d wanted them fused, never able to part. How crazy was that? A kiss had never affected her like that. Never. A man had never affected her like that.
Always before, she had remained detached. From everyone. Maybe because she’d known the people around her would die, while she would continue on, eternally brought back from the grave. Maybe because there was darkness inside her. So much darkness. A living entity, as real as the ice that flowed through her veins, a presence in the back of her mind, muted but always there, urging her to despise people, places, life, death. Anything, everything.
For the first time, she hadn’t had to fight to feel or garner affection. She had looked at Amun—
That’s how you think of him now? Amun?
Yes, she realized. Somehow he was Amun to her now. Micah didn’t fit those fuller lips and wider shoulders. So, she had looked at Amun, and sensual awareness had sizzled inside her. Connecting them. She had heard his voice inside her head, and that sensual awareness had deepened.
And if he really was Amun, not Micah, she should feel guilty about what had happened between them. She should be horrified that she’d succumbed to her enemy. Should be devastated that she’d let him give her more than an explosive kiss; she’d let him lick between her legs, and she had loved it. Had been begging for more.
Guilt and horror were not what she felt, however. Well, not completely. She felt them, but she was still consumed by desire.
Forgetting the fact that Amun was the enemy, she wasn’t a cheater. And yet, had he walked through her cell, she felt pretty certain she would have thrown herself into his arms.
She scrubbed a shaky hand down her face. What was happening to her common sense? Her well-honed self-preservation instincts?
Micah was the first boyfriend she’d allowed herself in centuries, and only because she had dreamed of him first. But she hadn’t needed him, hadn’t been lost without him. She paused and peered down at her tattooed arm. At his name, branded so deeply into her flesh. M-i-c-a-h. She traced the letters with a scabbed fingertip. There was no leap in her pulse, no hum of desire.
She thought the name Amun.
Goose bumps broke out over every inch of her skin. She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly flooded with moisture. See? Reaction. Always. And that wasn’t good. Not good at all.
What if…what if she hadn’t dreamed of Micah? What if she’d dreamed of Amun? Did that mean Amun was a bad memory trying to surface? Or, like the visions he had showed her of her past, was he something good?
Neither made sense, really. One, in the visions, she knew the man she saw was her key to happiness, to freedom. Two, how could a demon-possessed immortal, responsible for the travesty that was her life—and her parents’ and sister’s deaths—be something good?
She kicked back into motion, her sure strides eating up the distance from one cell wall to the other. A better question: How could a demon-possessed warrior be the one thing she craved? The one thing she didn’t think she could live without?
Live. Without. The words echoed through her mind, and she stumbled to another halt. Her stomach twisted, sharp little knots forming, cutting. No. No, no, no. She purposely kept her home and belongings sparse, her friendships casual. That way, she could pick up and leave without a moment’s notice or regret.
She could live without him. She could. He was a mystery right now. A mystery she needed to solve. That was all.
Another complication sprouted. If the warrior she craved was Amun, he wouldn’t want her when he discovered the truth about her. The fact that he’d kissed her meant he hadn’t realized who she was and what she’d done to his friend, Baden. When he did, he would want to kill her, not pleasure her.
But he knew you were a Hunter. You told him. Still. Easier to forgive a run-of-the-mill Hunter, she thought, than the Hunter who had helped behead his friend—and planned to do the same to all the others.
Footsteps suddenly resounded. Haidee swung around, facing the cell door. She tensed, waiting, dreading. A few seconds later, the blond, blue-eyed keeper of Defeat rounded the corner and approached her prison. Bile burned a path up her throat. His pretty features were devoid of emotion, but his skin was pale, the tracery of his veins evident.
Though her heartbeat sped up, thumping erratically, she didn’t back away, wouldn’t act the coward.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, just to taunt him. “Have a tummy ache?”
Both of his sandy brows arched into his hairline, his eyes glittering dangerously. His gaze perused her from top to bottom, purposely lingering at her breasts, between her legs. “I’m feeling like I can do anything I want with you.” Calmly yet brutally uttered, his threat clear. “Anything.”
That wasn’t the answer she’d expected, and she scowled at him. But then, she should have known he wouldn’t simply endure her snide remarks. He always had to one-up her. So. Enough pleasantries.
“Where’s the warrior?” she demanded. “The one I was with?”
“You mean Amun, keeper of the demon of Secrets?” So calm, so certain. “Or your boyfriend?”
Secrets, he’d said. Just as she’d suspected. The confirmation explained so much. The knots in her stomach twisted into themselves, sharpening further. Still, she wouldn’t confirm or deny what she knew. “Maybe that’s what you want me to believe. That he’s masquerading as a Hunter, while in reality, he’s really your friend.” The words croaked from her. “Or maybe you just want me to hate my own boyfriend. Maybe you want me to hurt him and afterward, you’ll taunt me, laugh at me.”
“Now why would I want that, huh? If he’s my friend, demon-possessed like me, yet I told you he wasn’t, that he was your man, you would do your best to watch over him. And I would want my friend watched over, wouldn’t I?” Strider propped his shoulder against the bar, and though his head was turned, his hard gaze remained fixed on her. “But if he isn’t, if he is your boyfriend, why would I give the pleasure of killing him to you, even for a joke?”
Her chin lifted a notch, her stubborn core refusing to be cowed. Despite his sound reasoning. “Why would you admit he was your friend, then? Thereby placing him in danger?”