Chapter One
Pain. Heat. Burning.
She squirmed, trying to escape the agony. Her head was a fuzzy cloud of fog. Where was she? What had happened?
Who was she?
A shot of panic cut through the pain. She couldn’t remember her name. She thrashed on the bed. She hated not knowing.
“Shh. Easy.”
It was a voice she didn’t recognize. Female, soothing.
But it didn’t soothe her.
The agony ripped through her like claws raking her insides. She thrashed again.
“Help her,” a deep voice growled.
That voice. She turned her head, seeking the source, but she couldn’t see anything. Everything was just a blur of shadows.
She’d heard that growly voice, filled with power, before.
It should scare her, but instead, her pulse raced. She needed to hear that voice.
Flames erupted inside her, like her body was trying to turn itself inside out. An anguished cry ripped from her.
“I’ve given her as much medication as I can, sire. Her transformation is too different. It’s gone on too long.”
A fierce, masculine growl.
She sobbed through the pain. She just wanted it to end.
Big hands touched her. Heat poured off them.
“Easy, Poppy. You aren’t alone.”
Poppy. That seemed right. Yes. Her name was Poppy.
His voice was so low and growly. She turned toward the sound of it. A rough hand cupped her face, stroked.
“Hurts,” she pushed out.
The fingers paused. “I know, but you’re strong. You can make it.”
But it hurt so much.
“Her pain levels are through the ceiling,” the female voice said. “I don’t know how she’s even semiconscious.”
“Help her, Cassanra,” the voice said.
Poppy shifted her hand. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to feel linked to something and not so alone in the midst of all the pain.
“I’ve given her some aster,” the woman said.
The sounds faded. No. But the pain didn’t dull.
“I… Don’t leave me.” She didn’t want to be alone in the dark.
“I’m right here,” he said.
She held onto those words like a lifeline, as the pain-edged darkness swallowed her.
She had no idea how much time passed. When she stirred next, everything had that hushed feel of night. No sound, just a low flickering light.
He’d left her. Her chest clenched.
Then she heard slow, even breathing, and she knew it was him.
Poppy shoved against the sheet, and dragged in a breath. A harsh sound escaped her.
“Hey.” That deep rumble.
She finally managed to open eyelids that felt as though they were made of concrete. Her chest was tight, her belly on fire; it felt like poison was burning in her blood.
Her vision was still blurry, but in the low light, she could make out the rugged planes of his face.
A shot of primal fear ran through her. Some deep knowledge in her brain knew he wouldn’t hurt her, but that he was a man who was capable of it. He was a man who vibrated with danger and coiled power.
A man who’d killed.
Something pulled her to him. She was adrift, and he was solid.
She reached out and cupped his stubbled jaw. It was strong, stubborn. Even though he wasn’t old, his hair was a unique silver-gray color and long. He had it tied back, but there were a few tiny braids at his temples that made her think of Vikings. His blue eyes were a pure, jewel-blue, but when her fingers made contact with his skin, gold rolled over them.
She sucked in a breath. Some deep urge told her to look away, to drop her gaze. His eyes held pure, raw strength. Thankfully, the urge passed.
“Poppy,” he said.
“That’s my name?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I…can’t remember. Everything hurts.”
“We’re taking care of you.”
She stroked his cheeks—the dips and bold lines of them. She couldn’t remember much, but she knew she wasn’t normally this bold with men. From memory, men mostly annoyed her.
“So strong,” she whispered.
She saw confidence and authority stamped on that masculine face. A man who’d rule with pure strength.
But there were lines around his mouth. She stroked them and wondered what worries had put them there.
His heavy brows drew together. He stared at her face like she was some mystery he couldn’t solve.
She stroked across the dark stubble, then touched his lips. He sucked in a breath and Poppy felt something unfurl inside.
But then, in a sudden rush, red-hot pain speared through her.
She arched her back, and her hand dropped.
“Poppy!”
“It hurts.” She cried out, her body shuddering.
She felt like she was being torn apart.
“Cassanra,” her man bellowed. “Get in here. Now!”
Poppy’s vision blurred again. The man gripped her hand and she held on to it like an anchor. She couldn’t see anymore.
“Hold on, Poppy,” he urged.
“I…” It took too much strength to talk. She bit her lip and tasted blood. “Why?”
“Because I said so. You won’t die.”
She heard running footsteps, curses.
“Step back, sire. Let us tend her.”
The fingers tightened on Poppy’s.
“No,” he growled.
Hands touched Poppy and she felt a warmth on her chest. For a second, the pain intensified, and she screamed.
“I think her transformation is in the final stages,” the woman said.
“By the wolves, stop her pain.”
“I’ve given her everything I can.”
Poppy sobbed. She wouldn’t live through this. She couldn’t.
Strong arms closed around her.
“Hold on.” Hot breath on her ear. It was an order. “You can get through this.”
“I don’t want to,” she whispered.
“Fight. I’m not letting you go.”
Who was this fierce man who fought for her?
No one ever had before. Poppy had always fought her own battles, forged her own path.
But now she was so tired, and she hurt so much.
“Poppy.”
That deep rumble moved through her.
She heard a dual thump-thump under her ear, and realized that he was holding her against his broad chest. His heartbeat was different, but strong and unyielding.
“Hold on,” he said.
“Don’t go.” Her words were a whisper.
“I won’t. I promise.”
The burning, clawing pain hit again, and then she felt and saw nothing at all.
“Brodin.”
Emperor Brodin Damar Sarkany opened his eyes. It took him only a second to get his bearings. He was in the infirmary—he recognized the scents of herbs and poultices, and the candles that the healers liked to burn. He’d woken up here numerous times after he’d been injured in a fight or on a hunt.
He was resting in a large armchair, with a small, sleeping woman in his arms.
Poppy Ellison was wrapped in a light blanket, her blonde hair resting against his chest.
She was still unconscious, and far too still.
But he’d take it, over the screaming and thrashing in pain.