That said, he scraped his personal symbol into the stone. A circle with two smaller circles inside it, the pair divided by a jagged line. The same symbol was branded into his nape, though it contained marks added by Chaos and the other Astra. Their symbols. This allowed them to telepathically communicate with each other. Usually.
Now on to part two of his oath. Roux sliced his finger with a claw and sealed the vow with a bead of his blood.
The compulsion took root inside him in an instant, and he nodded. “It is done.”
His challengers celebrated with increased vigor, thinking they’d won some great prize. Think again. They should ask his concubine about his idea of romance. He usually polished his weapons while she cleaned his room or mended and washed his clothes. Sometimes, when they were both feeling particularly social, she complained about the difficulty of removing bloodstains and dried viscera, and he grunted a response.
Ready for what came next, he summoned his discarded backpack. The straps appeared in his hand. Excellent. He might not be able to teleport things from other worlds, but he could still call for what he’d brought with him.
Hanging the weight of it from his shoulder, he strode over, picked up the crystal crown, and hooked it to the side of the pack. He returned to the women. Many reached out, intending to trace their fingers over his chest. A fierce glare and low growl stopped them.
“Move,” he commanded, and they reluctantly backed up.
He crouched before the slumbering Blythe. The heat had never truly died and revived in seconds, reminding him of a low-grade fever. He swallowed a curse. No woman should be this lovely.
Scowling, he removed her shackles with a single tug, then tossed the metal aside. He had no need of such a restraint. Not when he had a better one in the pack.
As gently as possible, Roux gathered the beautiful harphantom in his arms and clutched her to his chest. Her slight weight barely registered, yet every inch of his body zeroed in on her. Her soft cheek pressed against his shoulder, her warm breath fanned his flesh, and her floral scent filled his nose.
The heat intensified until he felt engulfed by flames.
Teeth gritted, he commanded, “Lead the way.”
8
THE SHIFT
Hazy lights flipped on inside Blythe’s head, illuminating a cluster of waiting memories she couldn’t quite reach. Confused, she blinked open her eyes.Where am I? Where’s Isla? What happened?
Too-bright sunlight seared her eyes, leaving her blinking rapidly. As heavy lids slid shut for good, other details made themselves known. Warmth and power enveloped her. Magnificent power. Fierce and strong. Incredible! The fact that her wings were pinned? Who cared?
Tension seeped from her. This felt oh, so right. Perfect, actually. This was everything she’d been missing.
Did her consort carry her to bed?
Her consort... There’d been a battle. An injury. A harpy only rested and recovered with a fated mate, death the only exception. Blythe was very much alive, rested and recovered. Right? Or did she not have a consort?
She had a child. That much she knew. A precious little girl she longed to enfold in her arms. But...Why can’t I remember anything else?
Noises intruded upon her thoughts, coming from here, there, everywhere. Even in her head, where a haunting melody played without cease. A healing tune. That. That was what enveloped the cluster of memories. The vibration of sound created an impenetrable shield.
She wanted to work up a good mad about it...but mmm. The air smelled good. Really good. Really, really,reallygood. A shiver-inducing combination of cedarwood and spiced oranges.
Moaning, she burrowed into the source. How delightful. Both velvety soft and steel hard at once.
A hungry growl joined the outer clatter. A low-impact quake followed.
Threat? Her eyes sprang open, the act no longer a struggle. She took stock, cataloguing everything at once. Tattoos. Multiple silos, all windowed and as tall as skyscrapers. Dirt streets, not the cobblestone paths she was used to seeing. Groups of unfamiliar women of varying species wore primitive leather dresses and mingled about. Some stood near steaming pots and roasting game. Some trained with blades and spears. In a nearby pond, others washed clothes.
Whoever they were, whatever their task, they stopped to stare at her with expressions of awe. Hmm. What if they weren’t focused on her, but the male who constrained her?
The male. Her maybe, maybe not consort. But hemustbe. No way she was nestled against some strange man’s chest. But...
Something’s wrong.What wasn’t she remembering? What, what? She poked and prodded at the song barrier, desperate for answers, but the melody endured, unbroken.
Determined, Blythe fought inside and out, twisting and contorting, seeking freedom from both the song and the male.
He held tight. When a handful of observers rushed over, he tensed. Did the women intend to help her? Hope crested—every female reached out—and crashed. They merely sought to caress him.