by Bianca D'Arc
Despite the massive heat from the glass-blowing furnace in front of her, an icy chill swept through Grace’s body. It faded into anger that coiled quickly through her limbs, tightening her muscles as disbelief pounded in her blood.
How? How had someone made it through without tripping any alarms? No average human could’ve done that.
Which is exactly why he’d succeeded. He wasn’t average. He wasn’t even fully human. Whoever was stalking her house was just like her. Their genetic abnormality meant they were part of a species that most of the world’s population was oblivious to—would be incapable of comprehending. It also made them highly elusive.
But she knew exactly what he was—this person on her property, and the knowledge that he was one of her own kind offered little comfort. Maybe once it might have, but not anymore.
He made no attempts to hide what he was, or his arrival at her isolated home a half hour outside of Seattle.
The son of a bitch. Her fury expanded, growing as hot and threatening as the fire she’d been using to create her glass sculptures.
For a moment she considered using the blowpipe in her hand as a weapon, but decided it might hinder more than help. With steady hands, she laid it down and turned off the furnace before rushing back to flick off the lights in the garage.
Whoever was approaching the building might want the element of surprise—like hell would she let him have it. He should know better than to think he’d have that advantage. Even if he’d deftly avoided all her little traps and alarms, she would never be a sitting duck.
Grace moved to the window, tugging the curtain aside just enough to peer out into the chilly autumn morning. The sunrise left streaks of pink in the sky and the fog outside curled its heavy fingers through dense evergreen trees and past the rotting wood of her fence some fifty feet away. It left patches of her property in shadow and gaping open areas where there was nowhere to hide.
And yet he did. Though she couldn’t immediately spot the intruder, she knew he was there. Watching. Waiting to make his next move. She could smell the scent of his confidence and determination.
Come any closer, you bastard, and I’ll shove that self-assurance so far up your ass…
How fucking dare he come onto her property? She would never again be a victim. Been there, done that, and had the nearly faded scars to prove it.
The dark memories, still so fresh, so raw, threatened to bubble to the front of her mind, but she ruthlessly shoved them back. They were better hidden away, not to be dwelled on or psychoanalyzed…
She almost missed the blur of movement as the person leapt stealthily above the silent alarm she had rigged at the far end of her yard.
Her heart thumped and her shoulders went rigid.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Grace dropped the curtain back into place. There were several more alarms and traps set to slow someone down, but she knew he’d avoid them just as deftly as the ones he’d already passed.
Who was he? The question raced through her mind as she went to the metal garbage can in the corner and jerked off the lid. Guns, knives, and perhaps the underestimated baseball bat, were all among her choices in weapons.
Though the idea of taking her Louisville Slugger to this shifter’s head had appeal, it was along the lines of the blowpipe. Not quite what she needed. Instead, Grace pulled out the Glock and removed the safety before slipping up against the wall beside the side door to the garage.
Whoever had snuck onto her ranch wasn’t looking to steal her Eclipse out front—they’d come for her. She knew it with a certainty that gave her the calm and determination to face this head-on.
The birds that had been chirping outside went ominously silent. Grace turned her head and stared at the door.
He’s here.
She waited for him to break in, for some kind of dramatic entrance so that she could pull the trigger. Seconds ticked by. Slow. Menacing. Making the clouds of fear she’d kept at bay threaten to seep back in.
Her training kept her completely still and kept every one of her heightened senses on the alert. She drew in slow, deep breaths to keep calm.
But it was hard. Because with each breath drawn in came the image of what could potentially happen. Soon he’d be inside, and if she didn’t successfully defend herself she’d be at his mercy.
Memories assailed her. Being grabbed. Held down.
She tried to shake the image from her head. But her throat closed up as she could almost feel the prick of the needle again. And then hell. Pure hell. The present vanished as she was completely sucked into her reality from two months ago.
You think you’ll be free when you leave here? I’ll find you again, Grace, and I’ll make you pay.
She always wondered if the threat from a shadowed male figure had been real, or a dream. Today it seemed she’d find out.
Bile rose in her throat, and her hands—a moment ago so steady—began to shake.
If she’d learned anything, it was that she had to focus. Had to fight.
There was the smallest thud outside the garage and Grace pulled the trigger. Four times. The bullets splintered the wood and pierced through the door, but there was no answering sound of pain or shock from outside.
Son of a bitch, how had she missed?
The door burst open and Grace lurched forward, desperate to shove him back out. Instinct screamed at her to keep him at bay. But he pushed back harder on the door, and her sneakered feet skidded on the cement floor as she was thrust back into the garage and toward the wall.
Grace let go of the door and struggled to regain her balance. Darkness hid his features, but she lifted her gun at the silhouette of the man who filled her doorway.
Her finger just brushed the trigger before the gun was knocked fiercely from her hands and clattered across the floor.
No.
“Stop shooting,” the male voice rasped.
Something registered. That the voice was familiar, but rational thought disappeared as her assailant grabbed her around the waist and dragged her against him, forcing her body against a solid wall of muscle and man. Her scream of rage started to morph into terror, and she increased her energy in fighting him.
Despite the strong fingers that manacled her wrists, she tried to use her elbows to drive into his ribs, but he quickly subdued her. He put her into a position that made her helpless to fight back.
“Stop fighting me, Masterson.”
Even as realization clicked into place at what he was—exactly who he was, she knew she’d failed. She’d completely choked. And this was so much worse than if he had been an intruder with a sinister purpose.
“Take a deep breath.” The rough, familiar voice of her fellow P.I.A. Agent confirmed his identity. Darrius Hilliard.
Oh God. Grace went limp against him and bit her lip, unable to hold back her sob of frustration. Of relief.
He held her for a just a moment, his arms closing around her almost in comfort, and she instinctively melted into him and clung to him. He was safe, not some bastard who’d come to hurt her.
“You’re okay.” His gruff voice soothed, and the hand moving down her back reassured. “Just…hang on a moment.”
And then he let her go so he could move away, and her legs could no longer support her.
Grace sank to her knees, burying her face in the palms of her hands. Her breathing was still erratic and shaky. The seconds ticked by and her pulse slowed once more, and she came fully back to reality as he turned the lights on.
Agent Hilliard’s footsteps approached once more, but she resisted the urge to look up. She couldn’t bear to see him staring down at her with pity and shock.
This was bad. This was really bad. Tears burned behind her closed lids and she drew in another ragged breath.
She’d always been so composed, so determined to prove herself as an agent and keep her shit together. Being new, and the only female on their team, she’d worked her ass off to earn their respect. And she’d had it, until she’d made one fateful ch
oice.
And now Agent Hilliard had seen her like this. Vulnerable. Paranoid. Weak. It had been a reaction left over from the emotional trauma of the experiments. Understandable, she could rationalize that, but humiliating all the same.
Dammit, why had he come here today? Why now?
Get yourself together, Grace.
She slowed her breathing and waited until the tears that threatened finally dissolved. Then, forcing her expression into complete indifference, she lifted her head from her hands.
Agent Hilliard’s expression was definitely not one of pity. He didn’t even look uncomfortable. Instead there was a gleam of amusement in his dark, coffee-brown eyes, and his mouth was curved into a smirk that had her blinking in dismay.
“Hey, Masterson, while you’re down there…”
Prince of Spies
Bianca D’Arc
Can the master of stealth master a maiden’s fragile heart?
Nico is known as the Prince of Spies for a reason. He’s a cunning shapeshifter able to take the form of a dragon at will—the gift of his royal heritage.
Riki lives in misery, chained up to serve a mad king’s perverted magic. Forced to use her draining healing skills to keep him alive, Riki is a shadow of the woman she should be.
Nico knows Riki is the woman he’s been searching for the moment he sees her sad, beautiful face. He wastes little time breaking them both out of the enemy palace, beginning an adventure that will take them across two countries, through peril and danger, and the discovery of an undeniable love and mutual respect.
With the help of an old friend and ally, Nico teaches her the many varied and exciting ways of pleasure. Riki teaches him a thing or two in return—including the fact that he should never underestimate her. Will Nico have the courage to let her fly free, trusting she’ll return to him, or will his love smother the fledgling beauty who is breathing free air for the first time in her tragic life?
Warning: Contains a princely scoundrel who enjoys a little exhibitionism when the mood strikes. He’s also not above asking a friend to help pleasure his lady. Be careful, lest the dragon’s fire singe your senses.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Prince of Spies
Copyright © 2012 by Bianca D’Arc
ISBN: 978-1-61921-397-5
Edited by Amy Sherwood
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: November 2012
www.samhainpublishing.com
