Warriors of Poseidon 03 - Atlantis Unleashed

through waves of sleep to full alertness in the space of a couple of seconds. There had been no unguarded rest in the Void, and even less during his brief time with Anubisa. Her rage when he‟d been unwilling—and, truth be told, unable —to consummate their relationship had been monumental. She was a goddess and possessed a dark beauty more exquisite than mortal eyes could even comprehend. But it was beauty rooted in evil and steeped in murder and damnation.
    A wave of self-disgust washed through him. After all, it‟s not like he was all that particular.
    Over the centuries, he‟d been with plenty of women, whenever he pleased. Unfortunately, nothing and no one had actually pleased him in several decades. There had always been something missing in his brief encounters. Something he hadn‟t wanted to recognize.
    Until he saw her face. Keely . The thought of her jolted him into full memory of where they were and what he‟d done. He leapt up from the pile of quilts and blankets that he‟d fashioned into bedding the night before. The cavern had been a refuge for those of troubled mind before the rockfall and subsequent instability of the tunnels, and several trunks filled with blankets and random bits of clothing were stacked in a corner. He suddenly remembered making a similar bed for her, but where? Either the fog of his memory wasn‟t cooperating, or else she was gone. What if she‟d escaped? What if he never found her again?
    Panic raced through him at the thought. Panic and something deeper. Something darker.
    Something originating in the Nereid half of his soul. He was growing to recognize that side of himself, as it fought harder and harder to be released. Fought his Atlantean half for control.
    He whirled around, searching the darkened cavern for a sign of her, and then sighed in relief, his muscles unclenching from the adrenaline-based fight-or-flight mechanism they‟d shot into when he thought she‟d gone. She was still there, asleep on the pile of bedding he‟d created for her near one gemstone-encrusted wall.
    He already knew her well enough to realize she‟d be furious with him for daring to meddle with her mind. But she‟d needed to sleep, and he‟d been close to dropping from exhaustion, entirely unable to respond to her determination that had bordered on terror.
    Right. He‟d done it for her sake, he silently mocked himself. Of course. Villains always demonstrated exquisite talent at self-justification. Remorse washed through him again, but he dismissed it and tried to focus on his physical realities. A bath. He needed another bath.
    Though he‟d bathed in the hot spring-fed pool before he‟d fallen asleep, simple joy in cleanliness after so long in the Void drew him to it again. He refused to consider that the filth touched him on a far deeper level than his skin.
    He would bathe and then, properly attired in some of the clothing from the trunks, he would wake her. They had much to discuss. He wanted to know everything about her. Every single detail of her life. Also, he needed to convince her to give him time.
    Time to prove that he wasn‟t a monster. Time to persuade her that she belonged with him.
    Time to figure out for himself how he knew it to be true.
    He didn‟t bother to dress, except for his sword. It was as much a part of him as his arm or his eye, in spite of the terrible death it had inflicted. It was what it was, and it was his. He quietly crossed the small space between them and, crouching down beside her, he was content merely to watch her sleep.
    Keely‟s lustrous red hair was exactly the shade he‟d seen in his original vision of her. It was flame melded with sunlight, and it was a perfect complement to the flawless golden glow of her lightly tanned skin. Her closed eyelids blocked his view of the almost-iridescent emerald green of her eyes, but his memory was happy to provide the exact shade.
    She lay on her side, and one hand rested on top of the blankets. He‟d removed her gloves after she‟d fallen asleep, wondering why she wore them, and placed them near her. Her hand was slender, with long fingers that somehow looked sturdy and competent. Nicks and scrapes marred her skin, as though she‟d done rough work quite recently. Perhaps that‟s why she wore the gloves.
    Archaeology. She‟d said she was an archaeologist. A student of the past. He almost laughed, but trapped the sound in his throat so as not to wake her. She was a student of the past, and he was