South of Surrender (Hearts of the Anemoi) by Laura Kaye Page A

lips to ankles, and she was soft everywhere he was hard. And so warm.
    His hips settled into the cradle of her thighs and there, there she was on fire.
    He willed the clothing off her body, and the wet heat of her center might’ve scorched him if he didn’t find the sensation so life-giving.
    Shouting. From a distance.
    Chrysander frowned. He mentally shrugged, hanging on to her heat, her body. In her. Gods, he had to get in her.
    The shouting returned. Louder now. Urgent.
    He looked away from the woman writhing beneath him. Where the hell was he?
    He lifted himself off her. Agony tore through his shoulder…
    Chrys groaned as his eyes blinked open. Fucking hell, just a dream . How he thought otherwise, he didn’t know. He never lay with a woman in that position.
    He pushed upright. How long had he been asleep? And who in the name of Zeus was making all that racket?
    One thing was for sure, his shoulder didn’t feel any better than it had when he laid down, which argued that he hadn’t been asleep nearly long enough. He looked down at his chest and abdomen, still a minefield of fresh purple and older, sickly yellow bruises. Examining his left arm, he found the same grizzly slash.
    I’m gonna knock some fucking heads together .
    He pushed off the cushioned altar. His feet hit the ground and his knees went soft. Bracing against the marble, he steadied himself and willed the vertigo away. The room spun, making the enormous floor mosaic of the compass rose seem alive.
    Yeah, I’m gonna knock some heads together, all right. As soon as I’m sure I’m not gonna puke all over the place .
    As he concentrated on breathing away the nausea, the voices that had awakened him became clearer. Zeph. Aw, sonofabitch. Of all the fucking gods. Z couldn’t see these wounds or he’d know, immediately, what had made them. After all, it hadn’t been that long ago that Zeph had been on the receiving end of their father’s whip of leashed lightning. Only difference was, that power was Aeolus’s to wield. Eurus had no damn business possessing such a power, and when the others found out, all Hades would break loose.
    Chrys needed more time to work this mess out. But his head was too clouded by how drained he was to be able to think everything through right now. Which meant he needed to get rid of his brother.
    Clothing. He had to cover these wounds. He closed his eyes and willed on a long-sleeved shirt and pair of loose work-out pants. His vision went wiggly with the effort. And hell if the light pressure of the cotton wasn’t tormenting his injuries. Every small shift of the soft fabric felt like a cheese grater against his skin.
    Blowing out a long breath, Chrys summoned every bit of energy he possessed and crossed the room to the ornate, golden doors. He flung one open and glared at the melee. “What. The fuck. Does a god have to do. To get some sleep in his own. Damn. House?”
    Four sets of eyes turned on him. Their freeze-frame routine might’ve been comical if the door wasn’t all that was keeping him in a standing position.
    “Chrysander.” Boreas broke the silence.
    He dragged his gaze to his oldest brother. Deep concern poured from the winter god’s silver eyes. Above his long beard, his face was a ruddy red. Chrys sighed and pulled the door closed behind him, cutting off the flow of superheated air from the ceremonial hall. “You shouldn’t be here, B.”
    “We are concerned about you.”
    “I appreciate that. I do. But I just need to rest.”
    “Bullshit,” Zeph bit out, blue eyes flaring.
    Chrys glared at him. “While I appreciate the erudite assessment—”
    “I’m calling bullshit on this whole situation. What the hell happened last night?”
    Gods, he did not have the strength to deal with the agitation rolling off Zeph right now.
    When Chrys didn’t answer, his brother continued. “You know what? Aphel, what were you going to show us?”
    Chrys looked to the dark-haired god of the Southeast Wind. His