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bloodstained wedding gown.
    He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped off his shoes. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not for one second.”

Chapter Three
    Everything gleamed in varying shades of brown, gold and cream aboard the luxurious Gulfstream jet. Curled in a puffy leather chair, she stared out the window at the indigo expanse of sky and ocean as they crossed the Atlantic. Cyrus sat across a table, watching her while drinking a cognac.
    Neither of them had spoken for hours.
    The amulet hung around her neck with the weight of a noose.
    A freakish nightmare she couldn’t escape through blood or tears. Only one thing could solve this particular problem contrived by an immortal—a visit to House Aten.
    The one place Cyrus couldn’t go without permission from his Triumvirate.
    She turned toward her kabashem and met his intense gaze.
    Fate, the universe, life had made it as clear as a slap in the face there’d be a great price for their love and their pleasure. And she was willing to pay the cost whatever it might be to have him. She extended a hand across the spotless, lacquered table.
    He slipped his fingers along her palm and clutched her wrist as he canted forward. “Nothing in this world will ever diminish our bond. Not even death.”
    Everything that mattered most was reflected in his eyes, those inhuman blue-black eyes. The same exotic color as a Black Dragon iris.
    When they touched down in Casablanca, the warm, dry air of early morning greeted them. Two chauffeurs waited in front of dark Suburbans. Serenity fingered through her hair, untangling long, rebellious curls as Cyrus spoke to the drivers in French. They seemed to have a well-established rapport. All of the warriors threw djellabas—long, loose-fitting robes—over their clothing, which provided the perfect concealment for their weapons.
    The vehicles were loaded and they were off.
    The sprawling metropolis bustled before nine in the morning. Casablanca was a peculiar mix of western modernization and old world Arabic tradition. She longed to explore this country where her kabashem had his Whitescape and knew for the first time that she existed.
    At a café nestled in the ochre walls of the Old Medina, they stopped for a breakfast of mint tea, strong Arabic coffee, a wide range of Moroccan breads with olive oil and exotic pastries. She passed on the sweets, sticking to the bread in the hopes it’d calm her upset stomach.
    Hand in hand, they strolled the crowded labyrinth streets of the Old Medina past vendors hawking goods of every variety. Warriors stayed close enough to act should the need arise, but unobtrusively at a distance. Cyrus arranged a private tour of the majestic Royal Palace, getting access to most areas off limits to the public. Having connections that spanned several human generations paid off.
    The brilliant white and soft green structure of the Hasan II Mosque was only seen from the car window on their way out of the city headed to the Atlas Mountains.
    “I wish we had more time.” Cyrus caressed her knee. “I wanted to show you the whitewashed town of Essaouira on the coast.”
    “Being with you is more than enough. I like this whirlwind approach, forces me to appreciate every second.”
    His smile did little to ease the regret in his eyes. As long as they were safe and together, they could be in a crappy motel in Timbuktu for all she cared. She clasped his hand and kissed the interlocking knots of his wedding ring.
    He stroked her hair, drawing her lips to his, and crushed her mouth in the sweetest kiss. “When things have settled—”
    “You mean when our lives are no longer in danger?”
    A slow nod brought wavy dark hair over half of his insanely gorgeous face.
    She brushed it behind his ear, suddenly filled with the urge to straddle his thick thighs and be as close as possible. Skin to skin, soul to soul, connected as one in every way.
    Then she thought about the cursed necklace around her throat and drew away.
    “I’ll bring