Jordana turned her attention away from him and took a step forward.
“Good morning.” The golden man from the terrace now stood directly in front of her.
A startled cry caught in her throat. Jordana threw a wild glance over her shoulder to the balcony outside, just to confirm what she was seeing.
He wasn’t there anymore.
No, he’d vanished from his position several dozen feet away and had materialized barely an inch from where she stood. Shoulder-length blond hair shot with burnished shades of copper haloed a face blessed with perfect angles, flawless bronzed skin, and arresting, tropical blue eyes.
So the psycho who kidnapped her was not only gentlemanly and an art connoisseur but gorgeous besides. That didn’t make him any less of a threat.
He reached for her, and Jordana screamed in earnest now. Fear and fury swelled inside her like a rising fire until it exploded out of her on a sharp, terrified yell. At the same time, she gave her abductor’s massive body a hard shove and tried to dodge left to get around him.
To her amazement, he stumbled backward half a pace before righting himself and catching her around her upper arms. He actually seemed pleased.
“Impressive. Your powers are still young, of course, but they’re already strong. They’re manifesting quickly now.”
Jordana’s hands tingled with the pricks of a thousand tiny needles. She’d felt the odd sensation before—most recently while making love with Nathan, a memory, and a longing, that made her heart ache sharply in her breast.
Now she glanced down at her palms and was astonished to find them imbued with warm, glowing light. Faint, but unmistakable.
And not a little disturbing.
“Oh, my God,” she gasped at her captor. “What’s going on? Who are you? What have you done to me?”
“Shit.” He let go of her and gave a mild shake of his head. “I’m scaring you. I’m sorry, Jordana.”
“How do you know my name?” Her panic climbed. “Where are we? What is this place? How the hell did you get me here? What did you do to my friend Carys?”
“So many questions,” he murmured. “It’s understandable. Your friend is fine, I didn’t harm her. I won’t harm you either. I only wish to help. That’s why your father called me—”
“My father?” She hardly dared hope he was telling her the truth, but it was all she had. “When did you talk to him? Did the Order let him go? I want to see him, right now. Please. You must take me to him.”
As her words spilled out of her, the golden man looked at her in sympathetic, gentle silence. “I wish there had been an easier way to explain all of this to you. There wasn’t time. If I hadn’t taken you out of Boston, they would’ve gotten to you first. They were already closing in on you, Jordana.”
“What are you talking about? Who was after me?”
“Your father’s enemies. The soldiers who once served under his command—as I did, a very long time ago. I was your father’s friend. My name is Ekizael.”
Jordana shook her head. This guy may look like a fallen angel, but he was obviously very disturbed. “Look, Eh-kee-zayel—”
“Zael,” he said, offering her a courtly bow of his head.
She stared at him. “Whoever you are, you don’t know my father. His name is Martin Gates. He’s a businessman. A Darkhaven leader. He was never a soldier and he doesn’t have any enemies.”
“No, Jordana,” he said quietly. “I’m not talking about the Breed male who raised you. Your true father was a royal guard. He was once the most decorated warrior in the queen’s legion.”
“The queen’s legion? Oh, right, of course.” She couldn’t bite back the small, nearly hysterical laugh that bubbled up from her throat. “And which one would that be—the Queen of England or the Queen of Sheba?” The golden man—Zael, she mentally amended—remained sober, utterly serious. “Her name is Selene. She’s been my people’s queen for many thousands of years. Your people, Jordana.”
She wanted to scoff at this insane statement too, but as her captor spoke, his hands began to emit the same soft light that hers had just a moment ago.
Even more unsettling, in the center of his broad palms glowed a symbol she recognized all too well: the teardrop-and-crescent-moon mark she bore on the underside of her left wrist.
“You have the Breedmate mark,” she murmured. “I don’t understand. How can you—”
“It is our symbol, Jordana. The symbol of the Atlantean race. The one on your wrist was put there as a decoy. Your father hoped the tattoo would help you fit in among the Breed and the halfling daughters of our kind born outside our realm.”
“I was born with this mark,” she argued. “The same as any other Breedmate.”