Sherrilyn Kenyon - Dance With The Devil

So Astrid had been called multiple times over the centuries to find some reason to allow a Dark-Hunter to live.

She never had. Not once. Every one she had judged had been dangerous and raw. A menace who threatened mankind more than the Daimons they pursued.

Olympian justice didn't operate quite the way human justice did. There was no assumption of innocence. On Olympus, once accused, the defendant must prove himself worthy of mercy.

No one ever had.

The closest Astrid had ever come to clemency had been Miles, and look how that had turned out. It terrified her to think of how close she had come to judging him innocent and then having him set loose on the world again.

That experience had been the last straw for her. Since then, she had pulled herself away from everyone.

She wouldn't let a man's beauty or charm trick her again. Her job now was to get to the heart of this man on her bed.

Artemis had said Zarek had no heart whatsoever. Acheron had said nothing. He had only given her a piercing look that told her he was depending on her to do the right thing.

But what was right?

"Wake up, Zarek," she whispered. "You only have ten days left to save yourself."

Zarek came awake to a pain that was indescribable, which given his brutal background as a whipping boy and slave was hard to believe. Especially since as a human being, pain had been the only certainty in his life.

His head throbbing, he shifted, expecting to feel cold snow and ground underneath him. Instead, he was struck by how warm he felt.

I'm dead, he thought wryly.

Not even his dreams had ever left him this warm.

Yet as he blinked open his eyes to find a fire blazing in a hearth and a mountain of quilts over him, he realized he was very much alive and lying in someone else's bedroom.

He looked around the room, which was decorated in earth tones: pale pinks, tans, browns, and dark green. The log-cabin walls were the upper-crust kind that denoted someone who wanted the look and feel of a rustic cabin, but who had enough money to make sure it was well insulated and cozy, and not drafty and cold.

His bed was an expensive iron reproduction of the large beds from the end of the nineteenth century. To his left stood a small nightstand where an old-fashioned pitcher and washbowl rested.

Whoever owned this place was loaded.

Zarek hated wealthy people.

"Sasha?"

Zarek frowned at the soft, melodic voice. A woman's voice. She was down the hall in another room, but he couldn't quite pinpoint her location through the pain in his skull.

He heard a soft canine whine.

"Oh, stop that," the woman chided with a gentle tone. "I didn't really hurt your feelings, did I?"

Zarek's frown deepened as he tried to make sense of what had happened to him. Jess and the others were hunting him and he remembered falling down in front of a house.

Someone from the house must have found him and dragged him inside, though why anyone would bother he couldn't imagine.

Not that it mattered. Jess and Thanatos would be after him, and it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where he was, especially given how much blood he'd been losing as he ran. No doubt, there was a trail that led straight to this cabin's door.

Which meant he had to get out of here ASAP. Jess wouldn't do anything to hurt those who'd helped him, but there was no telling what Thanatos was capable of.

His mind flashed to a burning village. To the horrid sight of people lying dead…

Zarek flinched at the memory, wondering why it would haunt him now.

It was a reminder of what he was capable of, he decided, and a reminder of why he had to get away from here. He didn't want to hurt someone who had been nice to him.

Not again.

Forcing himself to forget the pain of his body, he sat up slowly.

The dog instantly came running into his room.

Only it wasn't a dog, he realized as it stopped by his bed and growled at him. It was a large, white timber wolf. One that appeared to hate him.

"Back off, Scooby," he snapped. "I've made boots from bigger and badder wolves than you."

The wolf bared more teeth as if it understood his words and was daring him to prove them.

"Sasha?"

Zarek froze as the woman appeared in his doorway.

Damn me…

She was incredible. Her long blond hair was the color of honey, and it fell in soft waves around her thin shoulders. Her skin was pale, with rosy cheeks and lips that had obviously been protected very carefully from the harsh Alaskan climate. She stood close to six feet in height and wore a white cable-knit sweater and jeans.

Her eyes were a pale, pale blue. So light that at first glance, they were almost colorless. And as she came into the room with her hands stretched out as she moved slowly and methodically, trying to locate the wolf, he realized she was completely blind.

The wolf barked at him twice, then turned and went to his owner.

"There you are," she whispered, kneeling to pet it. "You shouldn't bark, Sasha. You'll wake our guest."

"I'm awake and I'm sure that's why he's barking."

She turned her head toward him as if she were trying to see him. "I'm sorry. We don't get much company and Sasha tends to be a little antisocial with strangers."

"Believe me, I know the feeling."

She walked toward the bed, again with her hand outstretched. "How do you feel?" she asked, patting his shoulder as she located him.

Zarek cringed at the sensation of her warm hand on his flesh. It was gentle. Searing. And it made a foreign part of him ache. But worst of all, it made his groin hard. Tight.

He'd never been able to stand anyone touching him.

"I'd rather you not do that."

"Do what?" she asked.

"Touch me."

She pulled back slowly and blinked methodically as if it were more habit than reflex. "I see by touch," she said softly. "If I don't touch you, I'm completely blind."

"Yeah, well, we all have problems." He scooted to the opposite side of the bed and rose to his feet. He was bare except for his leather pants and a few bandages. She must have undressed him and treated his wounds. That thought made him feel rather strange. No one had ever bothered caring for him before when he'd been wounded.

Why would she?

Even Acheron and Nick had left him to his own devices after he'd been hurt in New Orleans. The best they'd offered was a ride home so that he could heal in solitude.

Of course, they might have offered him more had he been a little less hostile toward them, but hostility was what he did best.

Zarek found his clothes folded on a rocking chair by the window. In spite of the painful protests of his muscles, he started pulling them on. His Dark-Hunter powers had allowed him to heal for the most part while he slept, but he wasn't in as good a shape as he would have been had the Dream-Hunters helped him. They often came to injured Dark-Hunters to heal them during their sleep, but not Zarek.

He scared them as much as he scared everyone else.

So, he'd learned to take his hits and deal with the pain. Which was fine by him. He didn't like people, immortal or otherwise, anywhere nearby.

Life was better alone.

He grimaced as he caught sight of the hole in the back of his shirt where the shotgun blast had struck him.

Yup, life was definitely better alone. Unlike his "friend," he couldn't shoot himself in the back even if he wanted to.

"Are you up?" the unknown woman asked, her voice surprised. "Dressing?"

"No," he said irritably. "I'm pissing on your rag. What do you think I'm doing?"

"I'm blind. For all I know you really are peeing on my rag, which is a very nice rag incidentally, so I hope you're kidding."

He felt a strange twinge of amusement at her comeback. She was fast and smart. He liked that.