Warriors of Poseidon 01 - Atlantis Rising

rest?"
     
    Christophe grinned. "Yeah, catch a chill wave, dude. Don't go all 'power of the gods' on us."
     
    Brennan's lack of any emotion, combined with Christophe's irreverence, returned a measure of calm to Alaric. The green glow receded from his vision. He stared at each of the Warriors in turn, and each bowed to him.
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    All but Ven, who simply quirked a smile. "Yeah, yeah, you're the big bad—you're the dark bogeyman. But we still haven't figured out what we're going to do about this female. Plus, Barrabas is going to get his panties in a serious twist once he finds out we sliced and diced his general."
     
    Alaric released Denal, who thumped to the floor.
     
    "We'll take the female to Atlantis, to the Temple. We will study her and find out if she truly is aknasha. Moreover, we will research the ancient scrolls for talk of the soul-meld,"
    Alaric replied, suddenly touched by the icy fingers of fear.
     
    "The what?" Bastien asked, brows drawing together.
     
    Alaric studied them, weighing how much to disclose. If Conlan had found soul-melding—last written of more than ten thousand years ago—with a human, Atlantean tradition would be rocked to its very foundation.
     
    Everything would change.
     
    Everything.
     
    He fought off the premonition, squared his shoulders. "It is nothing to worry about at this juncture. As to the vamps, we will continue to defeat them, as we have done for millennia."
     
    He paused, then slowly nodded his head. "And the female? If she poses any threat to Conlan, we will kill her."
     
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    Riley woke from an uneasy sleep in which harsh-faced men with glowing eyes tried to murder her. She twisted to look at her alarm clock to see how long she'd managed to rest this time. Except her alarm clock wasn't on her nightstand.
     
    Come to think of it, that wasn't her nightstand.
     
    She jerked up, suddenly entirely awake, and wrestled with the quilt that pinned her to the bed.
     
    Not her quilt. Not her bed.
     
    Where the hell am I?
     
    When the door started to open, she let out a little cry and rolled off the bed, quilt and all, immediately raising her head to stare across the bed at the intruder.
     
    "It's you," she gasped, as Conlan filled the doorway. Every muscled inch of him, standing there in nothing but his pants and his unbuttoned shirt. She couldn't help it; she stared. The man was pure muscle from the vicious-looking scar at his throat, to his chest, all the way to his chiseled abdomen, and further down to his…
     
    She jerked her gaze back to his face, her cheeks burning, and tried for a little "I wasn't checking you out" bravado. "This stalking thing has got to stop."
     
    His lips quirked in a half smile, then his face arranged itself back into seriousness. "I'm here to offer my thanks, my lady."
     
    Completely aware of how ridiculous she looked, sitting on the floor trapped in a quilt, Riley tried for dignity. "What's with the Camelot speech? One minute you sound normal, and the next you sound like Sir Lancelot or something."
     
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    She pushed her hair back away from her face, wondering just how bad she looked. Not that this was exactly the time to go all girly, but she was feeling a little insecure in front of Adonis or whoever the hell he was.
     
    He laughed a little, and the sound of it stilled her whirling thoughts—stole inside her, wrapping itself around empty spaces.
     
    It didn't make sense—none of it made sense.
     
    How could someone she'd just met fit like a puzzle piece matched to her own jagged edges? She'd never believed in love at first sight, or destiny, or pretty much anything to do with romance.
     
    She saw the results of so-called love every day at her job. Saw, and tried to pick up the pieces. It was enough to send Cupid to the gin bottle.
     
    But there was something about this man…
     
    "You're right," he said, walking farther into the room, pushing the door shut behind him.
    "We forget, sometimes, the modern speech we've learned over the years. Especially in times of duress, when we revert to formality as a matter of protocol."
     
    He bowed his head. "I offer my apologies, nonetheless. You deserve more from me than I have words to give."
     
    She could feel a torrent of emotion from him, as if a door opened and his feelings poured through. Remorse.