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begged him for more.
    And now he could not remove her image from his head. She was tall, the perfect height, with a perfect pixie face and perfect sun-kissed-and-cream skin, smooth and shimmering, mouthwateringly erotic. He imagined laving every inch with his tongue.
    Her breasts had nearly spilled from the cerulean half corset she’d worn, and mile after mile of delectable thigh had been visible thanks to her black miniskirt and high-heeled black boots.
    Her hair was so pale it was like a snowstorm as it tumbled in waves down her back. Her eyes were wide and the same cerulean shade as her top. Uptilted nose. Full and red, made-for-sucking lips. Straight white teeth. She’d radiated wickedness and pleasure, every male fantasy come to glittery life.
    Actually, he had not been able to remove her from his head since she’d entered their lives weeks ago and saved Ashlyn. She had not revealed her luscious beauty then, but her strawberry scent had branded him all the way to the bone.
    Now, having tasted her, Lucien felt his heart pound in his chest and breath burn in his throat, blistering, sizzling. He experienced the same sensation when he glimpsed his friends Maddox and Ashlyn together, cooing, snuggling close, almost as if they were afraid to let go of each other.
    Unexpectedly the fog lifted, at last freeing his mind and body, and he saw that he was still outside. Anya was gone, and his friends were seemingly frozen around him. His eyes narrowed as he reached up and wrapped his fingers around one of the daggers sheathed at his back. What was going on?
    â€œReyes?” No response. Not even the flicker of an eyelid. “Gideon? Paris?”
    Nothing.
    There was a movement in the shadows. Lucien withdrew the weapon slowly, waiting…prepared to do what was necessary…even as a thought slid into his mind. Anya could have taken his blades and used them on him, and he wouldn’t have known. Wouldn’t have cared. He’d been too consumed by her. But she hadn’t taken them. Which meant she truly hadn’t wanted to harm him.
    Why had she approached him? he wondered again.
    â€œHello, Death,” a grave-sounding male said. No one appeared, but the weapon was jerked from Lucien’s grip and sent flying to the ground. “Do you know who I am?”
    Though Lucien gave no outward reaction, dread slithered through him, devouring everything in its path. He had not heard the voice before, but he knew who it belonged to. Deep down, he knew. “Lord Titan,” he said. Not so long ago Lucien would have welcomed acknowledgment from this god. Now he knew better.
    Aeron, keeper of Wrath, had received such acknowledgment a month ago. He’d been ordered to kill four human women. Why, the Titans refused to reveal. Aeron had declined the assignment and was now the unwilling guest of the Lords’ dungeon, a menace to himself and the world. Bloodlust consumed the warrior every minute of every day.
    Lucien hated seeing his friend reduced to such an animal state. Worse, he hated the growing sense of helplessness inside himself, knowing that, as strong as he was, there was nothing he could do. All because of the being materializing before him now.
    â€œTo what do I owe this…honor?” he asked.
    Fluid as water, Cronus stepped into a beam of amber moonlight. He had thick silver hair and a matching beard. A long linen chimation swathed his tall, thin body, so well-woven it could have been silk. His eyes were dark, fathomless pools.
    In his left hand he held the black Scythe of Death, a weapon Lucien would have loved to seize and use on the cruel god, for it could cleave the head from an immortal in only an instant. As Death incarnate, the Scythe should have belonged to him, anyway, but it had disappeared when Cronus was imprisoned. Lucien wondered how Cronus had managed to find it—and if he could find Pandora’s box so easily.
    â€œI do not like your tone,” the king