Why would he do this to me?

The anguish Poet felt had nothing to do with the fact that she was trapped in a dank cellar, bound and blindfolded, her eyes still burning from the mace powder that had been thrown into her eyes. No, it had everything to do with the fact that the man she had so stupidly allowed into her life had turned on her.

She was a trusting fool. She knew what he was, and she had still allowed herself to be steered away from the inevitable by her raging arousal. And now she was going to die for it.

It seemed so hard to believe that Max had faked everything she had felt between them, but what other explanation was there? Why had he even bothered with the theatrics of a kidnapping?

He could have killed me anytime, she thought, and yet he didn’t. Why? Is he having second thoughts? Maybe I can still talk him out of it if so.

Nearby, Poet heard the scrape of a chair against concrete.

“I can hear you there,” she choked, her voice raspy and dry. “Just kill me and get it over with! Don’t be such a coward!” She instantly regretted the feisty words, anticipating the sudden death she faced.

To her surprise, though, Max did not answer.

There was a slight tittering, and Poet suddenly realized there was more than one other person with her. Where had Max brought her? Who else was in the room? Her heartache was suddenly overcome by panic, and she lifted her head to listen more closely to the voices whispering at her side.

“I can hear you!” she bellowed with as much ferocity as she could manage, despite the fact that her heart hammered harder than she had ever known it to do.

My God, I’m going to have a coronary right here, she thought, willing herself to be calm.

She heard footsteps approaching, and a hand reached out to caress her face. No one said a word to her directly. There was more whispering, and Poet was filled with insurmountable terror. Why weren’t they speaking to her?

“Just let me go,” she told her kidnappers, trying to keep the pleading from her voice. “I haven’t seen you, nor do I know who you are or why you’ve taken me.”

She hoped they believed her.

Is one of Max’s brothers here? she asked herself. Is there more than one of them? What are they going to do with me?

Poet strained her ears to make out the murmuring, closing her eyes behind the blindfold as if to strengthen her hearing.

“… tomorrow… the tube…”

What is happening tomorrow in the underground? Poet wondered, trying to make sense of the whispers.

“Please,” she tried again softly. “There’s no need for any of this. It’s not too late.”

“… something to shut her up…”

“… gag, but…”

Poet realized what was coming and quickly clamped her mouth together in anticipation.

God dammit, Max, why did you need to do this? she wanted to scream. I would never have told anyone about you or your family. I thought we had a connection. Help me! Don’t let me die here!

But she said none of her thoughts aloud, her pride forbidding her from begging for her life. She would go down strong, not sniveling.

Poet waited for the gag to fall over her mouth. However, it did not come, and she suddenly noticed that the voices had faded away.

Straightening her lithe body, she cocked her head to the side, listening closely to ensure she was alone. For all she knew, someone was sitting nearby, watching her every move. Even so, Poet knew she had to at least try and get away.

She wrestled against the binds, twisting her wrists against the rope pinning her arms squarely behind her back. Whoever had tied them had known what they were doing.

So what if you bleed a little, she pep talked herself. It will be well worth it when you get the hell out of here.

As Poet fought against her binds, she tried to imagine where she had been taken. From the doorway of her flat, she had been whisked down the stairs and into the back alley, where her body had been jammed into the trunk of a vehicle. It couldn’t be Misty Woods—the car trip hadn’t been long enough. They were most likely still in London.

Poet breathed in, trying to get a whiff of something that could help her identify the building in which she was being housed. All she could smell was stale air and muskiness. Old London, perhaps.

Frustration built in her bones, her teeth grinding together as Poet struggled harder against her ties, which did not want to budge. It seemed like the more she fought, the tighter they became. After a few minutes, Poet’s arms were chaffed, and she could feel blood pouring through her slender fingers. She was no closer to being free than she had been when she started.

And when they come back, she thought, still not knowing who “they” were, they are going to see I’ve been trying to get loose. What will they do to me then?

Poet still could not fathom what the production was about. And where was the King’s Guard? How had they missed this?

Oh, if I live through this, Papa is getting such an earful! she thought hatefully. The big, bad King’s Guard of Luxe managed to allow me to be taken by a family of bloodthirsty dragons!

But mostly, she was furious with herself.

From the moment Poet had seen Max Williams, she had been inexplicably drawn to him, almost like she had known him in another life or like she had been searching for him. Not for a moment had she felt scared by him, not even when she had figured out what he was. If anything, she had found him more intriguing because of it, as if his strange heritage had been his appeal all along.

Max had appeared out of nowhere, basically claiming to have been stalking her, and Poet had still allowed him to remain in her life. Any sane woman would’ve run away screaming, especially after finding out he was also a man who could wipe out the planet with a single breath if he so desired… couldn’t he?

Poet admitted to herself that she was a little fuzzy on the details of what the modern-day dragons could or could not do. After all, Max was the first one she had ever met.

She settled back against the chair and tried to devise another plan. If only she could see what was around her, maybe she could find something she could use to cut herself loose or use as a weapon somehow. What kind of weapon could she even use against a dragon? She had never gotten that far in her research.

Poet sighed to herself. She should’ve heeded Professor Kincaid’s warning. She was in over her head.

This isn’t a fairy tale, she thought bitterly. Your prince is an evil dragon, and you are going to die.

The cold in her bare feet began to seep into her, sending chills through her body, and Poet fought the urge to yell out to someone for a blanket. She wouldn’t show them she was afraid, or they would use her fear against her.

If this was some ordinary kidnapping, Poet would have felt more relaxed, knowing the King’s Guard would eventually find her before anything went haywire. Now, though, she was starting to hope that everyone stayed far away from wherever she was. Because if anyone else did show up, there was no doubt in Poet’s mind that they would be as good as dead.

The dragons had held their secrets for thousands of years. They were not about to be upset by some small island royalty. They would take no prisoners.

And yet, here I am, she thought again. Alive and waiting for my fate.

Poet began to work at her binds again, feeling her skin peel as she tried to create lubrication against the ligations.

I am not just going to sit here and let myself die, she vowed. I am going to make Max fight me for it.

“HEY! STOP THAT!”

The voice boomed out at her, and Poet froze, her heart ceasing to beat for what seemed like an eternity.

“Keep your voice down!” someone else hissed from the same direction.

“Do you see what she’s doing?”

Footsteps approached her, and Poet heard a gasp.

“Tie her more tightly, you wanker! What were you thinking?”

“She can hear us now! We have to kill her.”

“Not until we get the money. Just shut the hell up and retie her wrists.”

Poet felt the blood draining from her face as she clearly recognized the voices of the two people fussing around her. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t before.

“No offense,” she heard the man say, touching her face. Poet flinched at the sensation, a shudder of revulsion passing through her. “We don’t want to hurt you, but you’re going to have to stay still, yeah?”

“Look at the princess,” the woman chortled. “Even now, she’s too good for you. Did you see the way she jumped when you touched her? It was like you burned a hole in her skin.”

“I’m not too good for you,” Poet whispered. “I have never been too good for you.”

“Sod off, Poet, before I gag you.” She closed her mouth as her wrists were doubly secured behind her.

“Take off my blindfold,” she told them, trying not to flinch in pain. “You can’t expect me not to know who you are. What difference does it make if I see you?”

There was a slight pause, and then the blind was suddenly pulled from her eyes.

Poet blinked, her eyes tearing from the mace powder and the abrupt light. She looked around the sub-basement of the warehouse where she sat tied to a metal chair. It was nowhere she had been before, the room windowless and dark, two single bulbs dangling from electrical wires. Aside from a steel table alongside a far wall, there was nothing else in the place.

Some abandoned building on South Bank, no doubt, she thought.

Poet sighed, staring at the duo before her. “What the hell are you doing, Nick? Conspiring with Mya?”

To his credit, the gangly Cockney looked at his shoes in shame while Mya scowled.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, huh? I’m not good enough to conspire with?”

“You are a waste of skin,” Poet shot back, “You’re not good enough to scrub the toilets in the tube.”

The punch came swiftly and without warning, although Poet had half anticipated it. Mya had always wanted to do that, probably, and now she had unbridled access to her.

“What are you doing, you dumb twat! If her father sees her bruised up, he won’t pay!” Nick yelled defiantly, his green eyes flashing with worry, but Poet suspected it had more to do with concern for her than her father’s money.

She remembered Nick had a crush on her, or he was in love with her, or something along those lines. She could work with that. She had to.

“He’ll pay,” Mya snarled back. “Or I’ll send him pieces of his princess in the post until he does.”

Poet’s heart began to beat again, and a strange warmth washed over her.

“What the hell are you smiling at?” Mya screeched.

Poet didn’t answer, her eyes dropping toward the cold, filthy floor. Her heart was filled with hope. It hadn’t been Max. Max hadn’t done this to her. She hadn’t been betrayed by the man she had fallen for so devastatingly.

And if Max isn’t the one keeping me here, he might just be the one to save me, Poet thought. It was a faint hope, but it was one that kept a serene smile on her face. Come and find me, Max, she begged silently. Come and take me home.