Not as long as a part of her--Selene’s sole heir--was trapped among the brutal offspring of Atlantis’s destroyers.
Selene wanted to believe her granddaughter was being held against her will, but it seemed it was much worse. Jordana had chosen to live with the Breed, to bind herself to one of them.
Chosen to,even after her true lineage had been revealed to her.
Selene couldn’t fathom the decision. She couldn’t curb her outrage, her utter shock and abhorrence, to imagine one of her kin spending a moment among the warring brethren of the Order, never mind being shackled to a Breed male through blood and bond.
Selene frowned. Memories filled her mind of a recent verbal confrontation with Lucan Thorne and his son, Darion, a male who seemed even more aggressive and warlike than his father.
Although they hadn’t said it outright, Selene had no doubt either one of those Breed males would see her dead--and possibly wipe out the rest of the Atlantean people too--before they ever willingly surrendered Jordana or the Atlantean crystal now in the Order’s possession.
They were no better than the Ancients who fathered their bloodthirsty race. Those same otherworldly monsters had used treachery to steal two other crystals from her court millennia ago and then used them to destroy the paradise of harmony and light she had built for her people.
She would never be so foolish or blindly trusting again.
Selene stared out at the tranquil cerulean sea in the distance. The misty veil that shrouded the island from unwanted eyes glittered like stardust against the water. That veil had held for many long centuries. Heavens help her, she would not let it crumble now.
No matter how much it cost her.
“I thought I might find you out here.”
The deep voice belonged to Sebathiel, a member of her court and long-time adviser. Selene pivoted toward the intrusion, still frowning from the weight of her thoughts.
The handsome blond official strode into the garden, his lean, muscled body garbed in the white-and-teal robes of his temple. When he saw her face, his brow knit.
“Is something wrong? I passed Nuranthia on my way in to see you. She didn’t even lift her head as she skulked by me.”
Selene waved her hand. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Sebathiel made a low sound of skepticism as he approached, concern still dimming his shrewd blue eyes. “I take it there was unpleasant news in the seer’s scrying bowl today?”
“Just more of the same, Seb.”
He nodded sagely. “If you’re distressed, I could call for a healer from the temple to come and assuage you.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
His chin rose at her crisp reply, but he didn’t cower like the rest of her court and subjects. He was too proud for that, a fact she both admired and resented. Especially at times like now, when Seb’s concerned gaze said he knew her better than anyone else in her court.
“If you’d rather tell me what’s troubling you, my attention--and my advice, should you wish it--is fully yours.” His voice took on a gentler tone. “‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’” he quoted softly. “If you’re weary, Selene, my shoulder is strong enough for you to rest against.”
He lifted his hand toward her and Selene glared at the gesture. Wisely, Seb cleared his throat and let his arm fall back to his side.
“Do I look weak or weary to you, High Chancellor?”
Her question felt as sharp as a razor on her tongue. It sounded defensive, even to her own ears. Too much so.
If Sebathiel thought so, his face gave nothing away. His gaze lingered on hers before he slowly lowered his head and stayed there. “No, My Queen. Never that. I beg your pardon.”
She scowled at the top of his golden hair in hot silence, her molars clenched. As loyal as he had proven to be over the years, she had half a mind to cut him loose from her court. With enemies just waiting for the opportunity to pounce, she couldn’t afford to let anyone question her strength or authority.
Selene could allow no one to doubt her power. Not even Sebathiel.
Against her will, her thoughts returned to her conversation with Darion Thorne and what the brash Breed warrior had said to her the day she had infiltrated the Order’s technology to warn them who they were dealing with.
The biggest fool is the one who thinks that he--or she--has no weaknesses.
She had been seething over that conversation ever since. He had more nerve than most, daring to challenge her the way he had. She could still see his fearless, dark eyes and his stubborn jaw that seemed carved of granite. He spoke as if he had never met an opponent he couldn’t best--either by brute force, or his sharp, reckless tongue.
