Mary Jeanne Wolmack stared at her apartment door and wept.

These were not tears of sweet longing, harbored hope, or romantic sorrow.

Her weeping was ugly, messy and loud. Sobs of complete, utter despair racked her body until she shuddered violently, feeling like Jell-O in an earthquake.

A door opened down the hallway. “Shaddap, will ya? Wives with Knives is on and I can’t hear who’s stabbing who!”

“S-s-sorry, Mrs. W-W-Wiesman.” Mary wiped her runny nose on the torn, muddied sleeve of her new black blazer.

The door slammed shut again.

Mary sucked in breaths, but couldn’t stop blubbering. Earlier, when her car had died—she’d coasted onto the gravel shoulder. No amount of cajoling, staring at the engine, or banging her head against the steering wheel could bring the old beast back to life again. She grabbed her purse and got out, kicking the hunk and stubbing her toe. Foot throbbing, she started walking the last mile home.

And that’s when the rain had started—if a torrential downpour could be classified as rain. The mud painting her body and dripping from her hair was courtesy of a Hummer that had veered too close to the curb and spun through a large puddle. The ripped shirt—her favorite purple and hunter green shift—was thanks to a chain-link fence she’d run into when she’d barely managed to dodge two laughing teenaged boys on bicycles playing “sidewalk chicken” with the wet, angry, thin-challenged woman.

Finally, Mary had trudged inside her building, up two flights of stairs, broke a heel off one of her sensible black pumps as she dragged her sorry self across the hall. Now, she stood forlornly in the hallway because her key had broken in the lock.

“Fuck!” She kicked at the door, and her pump with the broken heel flew off her foot. Her toes, the same she’d stubbed on the stupid car, throbbed in pain. Okay. Okay. Calm down. Breathe. She inhaled a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

“Mary?”

Her attempt to find some goddamned Zen turned into unfiltered horror. Oh, God. Not him. Not now. The Great and Gorgeous Trent Adams, the demigod of lust who’d moved across the hall two weeks ago, had arrived to witness her fall from grace—admittedly, a short trip. He was really tall, at least six and half feet, and really, really buff—his body reminded her of The Rock. He wore his black hair shoulder-length and loose. It was sexy as hell, but not exactly business-like—unless he was a gigolo.

She turned and offered him a quivering smile. He held out her shoe and she took it from him. “Thanks,” she said. “It’s been a really shitty day.”

“I am sorry to hear this. Do you need assistance?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I’m fine. Nothing to assist. You can…uh, go.” Shoo, demigod. Go on, shoo.

“I cannot leave you in distress.”

He had such an odd, formal way of speaking. She couldn’t place his accent—almost French, almost Scottish. They’d never conversed for long. Honestly, he gave her such complete attention, his stare almost unblinking, that his manner both thrilled her and freaked her out. Plus, hormones whirred like buzzing bees anytime she was near the man, and they drowned out her common sense. So, she always did the adult thing: ran away like a chicken on crack.

“Please go away,” she said. “I’m…I’m…thinking.” More like stinking, she thought, at life.

“This is how hu—er, women engage in cogitation?”

Startled by his geek-speak, she laughed. She looked at him. Her face felt swollen, her eyes ached, and her body felt beaten and bruised. “What are you, a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Scientist?”

“No.”

“Professor?”

“No, Mary.” Distress filled his gray-green eyes. “You are unwell?”

“Um, no. I’m tired, that’s all.” Mary sneezed as if to prove what a liar she was. Crap. The walk home in the rain had taken its toll, and she could feel a common cold creeping up on her by the second.

Trent’s gaze fell to her lips, and his gaze darkened. When he lifted his eyes to hers, she felt zapped by lust lightning. The air between them felt electrified and Trent stepped forward, his intent clear.

He wanted to kiss her! Nope. Nope. Nope.

Mary had had enough insanity today, thank you. She clutched her purse, keeping it between her and her hunky neighbor, waved good-bye, and squelched past his rock hard abs. She felt a light touch on her elbow. She looked at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“You are unable to get into your living quarters?”

“Key broke in the lock.”

“I offer my abode to you. You will rest there, and I will fix the door for you.” He grimaced. “This lord of the land does not respond quickly to such problems.”

“Lord of the land?” She grinned. The guy had a sense of humor, which was another point in his favor. Not that he needed points because she’d take him as is right now. He, on the other hand, was a nice guy who probably had a tall, skinny blonde girlfriend who was a Victoria’s Secret model. “Yeah, the landlord is a jerk. But I can take care of it. I just want to get inside, take a long, hot bath, and drink a gallon of merlot.”

“Please, Mary.” To her utter shock, he dropped to his knees and took her dirty, scraped hand into his warm grasp. “Allow me this kindness. I have wanted to spend time with you and have been unable to gain your attention long enough to ask.” He stared at her, yearning in his gaze. “Is it too much too hope that you might find me worthy?”

Wait. What? The most handsome man she’d ever met was on his knees in front of her begging to know if he was worthy of her.

Her mouth gaped open. “Are you serious, dude?”

“The most serious I have ever been.” He frowned. “What is a dude?” His brow arched. “Is this a compliment?”

“Uh…it’s just a generic name for a guy.”

“Generic.” He snorted. “I am not generic. And I am not a dude.”

“Oooooookay.” Wow. He was one taco short of a combo platter. Mary offered him the same kind of smile she would an escaped mental patient. “I’m gonna go now.”

Trent stood up, his hands still cupping hers. “If—if you wish to call me dude, you may do so.” He glared. “But only you. If anyone else dares to say I am a generic dude, I will rip off their arms.”

“That seems rather extreme. What would happen if someone actually insulted you?”

His lips thinned, and he crossed his massively muscular arms. “Impalement.”

“Oh. Yeah. Seems reasonable.” Not. Time to get off this crazy train. Toot. Toot. Mary pulled her hand from his grasp. Then she turned and ran—okay hobbled thanks to wearing one shoe—for the stairs.

The minute her rain-slicked sole hit that first step, she immediately lost her balance and pitched forward.

Tek, crown prince of Kratania, also known as Trent Adams, watched his prophesied mate scuttle away from him as though he were a smelly garnard. Granted, all garnards were smelly. Their gnarled gray skin emitted a toxic stench to keep away predators.

He wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never been around a woman so determined to stay away from him. At home, he had many women who wanted him, but none of them were his true mate.

Mary Wolmack of Earth was meant to be his wife.

But claiming her had turned out to be quite difficult.

“Aaaaah!”

Tek snapped out of his thoughts, and saw Mary flail her arms as she tried to retain her balance. He broke into a run, but he arrived too late to prevent his bride-to-be from tumbling down the stairs.

“Mary!”

Though the Oracle warned him that displaying any of his superior abilities or warrior prowess could lead to trouble with Earth’s authorities, he still launched himself from the top stair and easily made the landing where Mary lay unmoving.

He crouched beside her, heart drumming a fearful beat, and put his hand to her mouth. He felt her breath against his palm and heaved a sigh of relief.

Healers on this planet were barbaric. He knew that from watching what was called “trauma emergency” shows on the television. Humans were wheeled into strange white rooms where other humans pounded on their chests and stuffed tubes down their throats.

He shuddered. He would not submit Mary to such atrocities.

Tek touched the green jewel at the base of his neck and murmured, “Shema.” Open.

A swirl of green light appeared. The rippling shine grew larger and larger until it was as tall and wide as Tek.

He scooped up his mate and stepped through the portal.

“She cannot stay,” said the Oracle as she swept glowing crystals over Mary’s prone form. “She must come to Kratania of her own accord.”

As soon as he stepped into his opulent bedroom on Kratania, he put Mary on his bed and called for the Oracle’s aid. Now, as the elderly woman muttered healing spells to enact the power of the crystals, he wondered if he’d made the wrong choice. Worry crowded into Tek’s heart. Mary looked so pale. He clutched her hand, which felt cold and clammy. “I don’t wish to return her,” said Tek.

The elderly woman chuckled. “Do you want her to respect you?”

“Yes.”

“And, perhaps, love you?”

Tek nodded. He very much wanted Mary’s love.

“Then you have to take her back and woo her.”

“I’m not good at the wooing,” he admitted. “She wouldn’t talk to me no matter how many times I tried to engage her.”

“Well, try again,” said the Oracle. She put the crystals into the carved wooden box and shut the lid. “She is healed. Take her back, Prince Tek. Have faith Geru has chosen well for you.”

Tek venerated the god-goddess that created his world and all that lived upon it. It had long been tradition for Geru to choose mates for the royals. And yet, he’d had to travel to Earth to find his harataya.

“Faith, my prince.” The Oracle patted his shoulder. “Faith.”