Susan Grant - The Last Warrior

SUREBLOOD

“Grant’s skill at rounding out all her characters always makes her story sing!”

—RT Book Reviews

THE WARLORD’S DAUGHTER

“Her latest Tale of the Borderlands…is passion and adventure as only Grant can provide.”

—RT Book Reviews

MOONSTRUCK

“A gripping, sexy new series! I could not put it down!”

—New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter

“This is a can’t-put-down read that draws you in from the first page and doesn’t let go until the tension-filled final chapters. Moonstruck is terrific. I highly recommend it.”

—Linnea Sinclair, RITA® Award-winning author of The Down Home Zombie Blues

HOW TO LOSE AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL IN 10 DAYS

“For readers who want strong heroines and sexy alien hunks, [Susan Grant] is definitely still the go-to author.”

—The Romance Reader

MY FAVORITE EARTHLING

“Susan Grant writes heroes to die for!”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Susan Kearney

“I loved this book! I can’t rave about this novel enough. From an arranged marriage to royal espionage to saving Earth, this is not a book to be missed!”

—Sylvia Day, bestselling author of Pleasures of the Night

YOUR PLANET OR MINE?

“One of the best books of the year!”

—New York Times bestselling author MaryJanice Davidson

“Wow! This book just has everything and I found myself laughing out loud; [Susan Grant has] a real gift for comedy.”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Lindsay McKenna

“The pacing is so effortless and the humor awesome! But most of all? [Susan Grant] has the romance totally nailed. I love their chemistry, and there’s something very sweet about them, even though it’s totally hot, too.”

—Deidre Knight, bestselling author of Parallel Heat

THE SCARLET EMPRESS

“Exhilarating…adrenaline-filled…shocking twists and turns keep readers enthralled.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The Scarlet Empress offers a thrillingly pointed reminder of the cost of freedom and the continuing sacrifices required of those who value liberty.”

—Booklist (boxed, starred review)

THE STAR PRINCESS

“Witty dialog, well-developed characters, and insightful explorations of cultural and class differences and political intricacies abound in this funny, sexy story.”

—Library Journal

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I couldn’t create my stories without the help

of all the wonderful and generous people in my life.

Big thanks to Caro, aka Midnight Line Editor, Corey Collins

for the horse help, Donna-Marie for early reads

and the use of her lovely mountain home,

my editor Tracy Martin, my agent Ethan Ellenberg,

George Meyer for all the brainstorming and loving support,

and, as always, my two wonderful kids, Connor and Courtney.

For Caroline Phipps,

with gratitude, for helping guide me back to the joy of writing.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

SHEER TERROR PROPELLED Elsabeth through a gauntlet of reaching, sympathetic hands as the people of the Kurel ghetto spilled out of their houses, into the alleys and streets. “The king sent soldiers,” someone called out to her. “Talking sense into them, your mother and father are.”

No. A moan of fear rose up in her throat. No one could talk sense into Tassagon soldiers, thickheaded ax-wielding thugs. Not even her parents, the shining stars of Kurel Town.

Her famous-physician father turned no one away from his clinic, not even Tassagons desperate enough for cures to risk setting foot inside the ghetto walls. Her beautiful mother, “the healer’s angel,” ably assisted him. Elsabeth feared they’d be confident enough, and crazy enough, to try talking peace to a people who did not know the meaning of the word.

“Are soldiers inside the gates?” Elsabeth cried to those she passed. Sweat and frightened tears streamed down her cheeks as she gulped air, breath after breath, step after step.

“Yes,” came the answers, with hands upturned, helpless.

Soldiers, here. It had never happened before. Superstitious beliefs kept Tassagons from venturing inside Kurel Town, an overcrowded but orderly warren of row houses and shops. Most were certain they’d fall victim to the wizardry and charlatanry that allegedly occurred inside the walls, and left them alone. Both peoples had shared the capital peacefully, until King Xim had ascended to the throne. A few short months after being crowned, his deep distrust of her people was culminating in this: soldiers inside the ghetto.

At the gates, a crowd had gathered. Between the bodies, she caught glimpses of bright blue-and-white military uniforms, but no sign of her mother’s shining blond curls or the tall, lean frame of her father, his long auburn hair always neatly tied at the back of his neck.

She knew now what she’d find. She knew.

“Beth, no. Don’t go closer.” Some tried to hold her back, but she broke free. No stopping her from her destination. A gut-deep dark knowledge of what she’d find had taken over many streets ago, driving her through the crowd to a scene she could not absorb, let alone believe.

Her boots scraped to a halt over the gravel in the road. For a moment the world went silent. Then a steady sound like a metronome arose as she took in the sight of her mother lying on her back in a pool of blood, her limbs flung crazily.

Like a discarded rag doll, stuck in paint. In those seconds, Elsabeth was oddly detached as she turned her disbelieving eyes to her father, who lay on his stomach, two arrows in his back, his outstretched arms forever frozen in the act of leaping to shield his wife from the arrow that had lodged in her throat.

The metronome was her heartbeat, and it surged in volume and speed until it was drowned out by a howl of unimaginable grief.

Hers.

“They’re dead,” the others were telling her, hands stroking, holding, trying to soothe what was utterly inconsolable. “Dead…”

The loss was incomprehensible—not only to her but to all in the ghetto. Her mother and father’s blazing personalities had eclipsed all who encountered them, including their own daughter. She’d grown up in their shadows, content with her place there, assisting by logging supplies and organizing shelves, working for hours. Tucked away in the hushed peace of the medical storage room, she’d wondered how two people whom everyone noticed could have had a child as invisible as she, whose only adventures were confined to the storybooks she read.

And now they were gone, taken suddenly and brutally, leaving her reeling in a world she’d never imagined facing on her own.

Beside the burning bonfires of their funeral pyres, she rocked on her knees, weeping. King Xim had done this, a madman sitting on a throne. The memory of his soldiers’ uniforms danced like flames behind her eyes. Could the wearing of those uniforms legitimize crimes committed in the king’s name? Never. She’d not let the slaughter of her parents be forgotten. She’d not let their deaths be in vain.