Wicked Lord of Thessaly (Halcyon Romance Series Book 3) Read online

  Her arrow pierced his centaur heart

  When Eione, daughter of the Lapith Lord Macareus, accidentally shoots the centaur Agrius, she must choose between saving his life and finishing him off. Their races might not be at war anymore, but for her family, the hostility never ended. Yet she can’t kill the male with gentle eyes, whose touch ignites her with so much more than a desire for peace.

  But captured his human one

  Lord Agrius risked his life in venturing to Lapith lands, trespassing through enemy territory to retrieve the sacred water that could cure his brother’s grief. The lovely huntress who shot him yet saved his life entices him to risk far more. But claiming her as his mate means he’ll have to steal her hand—and hazard a war.

  On the run for their lives and their hearts

  After her family arranges a betrothal to another, Eione convinces Agrius to flee with her. As dark times drive a chasm between their races, they’ll have to choose—blood or love—and which one is worth dying, and killing, for.

  Table of Contents

  Free Read!

  Huntress of the Bow

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue Part 1

  Epilogue Part 2

  Epilogue Part 3

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Rachael Slate

  Preview of Brutish Lord of Thessaly

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Rachael Slate

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  First Edition July 2016

  Edited by Kelley Heckart

  Cover design by NovelArt Designs

  Formatting by NovelArt Designs

  Epub: ISBN 978-1-988396-00-2

  Kindle: ISBN 978-0-9948764-9-2

  Indeed, you bleed just as we do

  When the Olympian gods overthrew the Titans, they divided the rule of the world. Zeus proclaimed himself Supreme Ruler and governed the skies. Poseidon claimed the oceans. The Underworld, and the souls of the dead, fell to Hades. All were content with the arrangement.

  Until Hades met Persephone.

  Their forbidden love blasted through Mt. Olympus, initiating a cataclysmic rift between the gods. The imbalance in the heavens nearly shattered the fragile human world below. In punishment, Zeus cursed Persephone. Nine months of each year, she would remain by her mother’s side, tending to the human harvests. The other three months were hers to spend with her husband, Hades, in the Underworld.

  The arrangement pleased none.

  Centuries have passed. As humans turn their devotion to Science, the powers of the Olympian gods diminish. In an attempt to regenerate their divinity, the gods have procreated, breeding new species of being—such as centaurs, winged ones, and mermaydes. With the unique strengths of their individual godly parents, these descendants have thrived in their own worlds, alongside humans but hidden from view.

  The rift in Olympus widens as each god gains new strength. When the Fates intervene with a damning wager, these descendants become the answer to Persephone’s curse. Hades and Persephone’s quest to reclaim their love will pit god against god, in a tournament unmatched since time began. Victory will lie in the union of warriors—exceptional females who control the elements and the males whose love makes them strong.

  If they succeed, love will be theirs to claim.

  But if they fail, their love will fall to ruin.

  It is the eve of war, and the battle for the power of the Huntress of the Bow begins now.

  Lapith lands, southeastern Thessaly

  Year 57 of the reign of King Pirithous III

  Or the human year, 1688

  Eione lowered the tip of her bow, aimed, and loosed the arrow straight into the stag’s flank. At this distance, and in the dim morning light, most would have missed. But the silver spark of her gift flamed from her hands, and sure enough, the beast went down.

  Excellent. She plucked her sack from the ground next to her feet and rushed through the dense forest, sprinting toward her kill. If she worked quickly, she could butcher the animal and deliver the meat to the villagers before her eldest brothers—the twins—had even rolled out of bed. She’d tossed a few coins at the castle nymphs to ensure they kept her twin brothers entertained.

  She snorted and dashed around a tree, slipping her blade from her side to finish off the stag should it still be breathing. Hunting offered her little pleasure, other than being able to feed those in her village that her brothers Myron and Nileas would turn away. Men, women, and children starved while her family feasted on extravagant platters and cast the remnants to the castle dogs. Brutes.

  There. She slowed her pace, murmuring a prayer to Artemis, goddess of the hunt, that her kill would be swift. Hunting on her family’s land was forbidden to the villagers, but no one had banned consuming the results of Eione’s pastimes. Indeed, her family encouraged her archery, and never questioned whether she left her spoils for the scavengers.

  She didn’t dare risk the villagers setting foot inside the forest, so she would use the sled she’d fashioned to transport the meat to them. The limited time she had to work before her brothers would charge into the woods—hunting for sport—meant she’d honed her butchering skills to an art.

  A wheezing grunt echoed off the trees ahead, followed by shuffling and a twig snapping. Damn. She flattened her spine against a willow tree, chest heaving.

  I’m not alone. Had someone else discovered her kill?

  Gripping the blade tighter, she steeled her shoulders, preparing to face whoever dared interrupt her. If it was someone within the castle, she’d have no choice but to abandon the carcass. Eione peered around the tree’s trunk. A low, deep cursing grumbled from a male sprawled across the forest floor. What in Hades was he doing?

  Already taking apart her kill?

  Never.

  She slid her blade back into place and strung her bow instead, stepping from the tree’s shadow as she aimed the arrow at the intruder’s chest. “Ho, there. What are you—” No. Her threat stuck in her throat and the strength drained from her arms, the string of her bow limp.

  This man wasn’t stealing her kill.

  He was her kill.

  ***

  Agrius choked on the dozen curses resting upon the tip of his tongue. Framed by the dawn’s gilded rays, this beauty stepping from out of the woods struck him silent. As ethereal as Artemis, goddess of the hunt. He blinked. Perhaps she was the goddess.

  Agrotere. Huntr
ess.

  No. Her lower lip trembled as she tightened the string of her bow, panic flickering in her rounded violet eyes. Flares from the dawn glinted across her golden locks, casting her in an unearthly glow that stole his breath.

  Not that he had much breath left. Her arrow had struck him, sure and fierce, piercing his centaur heart. Each winced pant seared through the horse half of his body. If he didn’t morphos, he’d find his end, bleeding out on this earthen floor.

  Slowly, and forcing his features not to grimace and provoke her fear further, he held up one placating hand. “Please, Agrotere, I mean you no harm.” Though he could well assume why she would believe he did. He was deep in Lapith country, far from his family’s lands. Far enough away that many had never encountered one of his kind. And sheltered enough to give credit to the old tales.

  Centuries ago, Lapiths and centaurs had been at war. A devastating series of battles had decimated both of their races.

  For some, the conflict had never ended.

  He swallowed hard, pressing his hand to the wound, trying to halt the flow of blood. The arrow must come out, and he must morphos, or die.

  This delicate female before him seemed intent on driving yet another arrow into his flesh.

  “You are trespassing on Lapith lands, centaur. My father, Lord Macareus, is cousin to the King.”

  Oh, hell. A noblewoman? A relative of King Pirithous III also, who didn’t care whether his subjects upheld the treaties of peace between their races.

  A pang shot through his flank and he clenched his fist, debating his best route to survival. “Forgive me the offense, Agrotere. I had no intention of trespassing, nor any knowledge I had done so.” He raised his gaze to hers, peering into those shining depths. “But if we’re disclosing lineage, I must inform you I am the son of King Cheiron and my death at your hands would not—” Her sharp intake of breath was the response he’d sought. “Permit me to morphos and heal myself. After, I give you my word I will quit these lands.”

  Damn. He’d not ventured so far, or risked so much, only to scurry home with his tail between his legs.

  Wariness flickered in her drawn features, but she waved the tip of her arrow at his chest. “Very well. Morphos, but you must go, or I will cry for my brothers, and rest assured, they will shoot for your true heart. And not miss.”

  Such steel in her voice. He bit down on a grin. Had they not been born from opposing families, he would have followed her home and requested to court her. His father had long hinted that Agrius wed, yet no female had tempted him.

  Until her.

  Bloody cursed weaving of the Fates. To place such forbidden temptation in front of him.

  “Aye.” He nodded, then focused on not dying. Gritting his teeth, he cut into the wound with his dagger and plucked the arrow, tossing it aside. The morphos stretched his limbs, breaking and reforming muscle and bone, until he rested before her, a human male only in form.

  His heart would always beat with the vigor of his centaur blood.

  Agrius remained on the ground, lifting his chin to study the female clad in a male’s breeches and hunting cloak. He might have mistaken her for a commoner, if not for the regal bearing of her shoulders. “Thank you.” He extended his hand. “My name is Lord Agrius. Second son of King Cheiron.”

  Her stare narrowed on his hand. “Lady Eione. Second daughter of Lord Macareus.” She lifted her chin to glare at him. “Now, leave.”

  Though the morphos helped to mend him, he’d never taken a direct hit in the heart before. He lowered his hand to his middle and grimaced at his crimson-stained fingers. The wound bled, seeping through his ivory tunic. “I would, but…”

  Sudden faintness claimed him, spinning the trees to his left. He blinked at the dazzling female and slunk to the ground as she faded from his view.

  Eione’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her arm pained from clutching the string of her bow taut, yet she didn’t dare ease her grip. Lord Agrius blinked at her once before collapsing on the forest floor.

  A trick?

  She inched forward and kicked at his leg with the toe of her boot. Just enough to test his response.

  None.

  Is he dead? She bit the inside of her cheek. Oh gods. She’d never killed a man before.

  Though he was half beast.

  Stepping closer, she hovered above him, arrow still aimed at his human heart. His chest rose and fell evenly. Not dead, then.

  Her chest tightened. She was only partly relieved. What was she to do with him? If she revealed his presence to her father and the twins, they would surely hang him.

  She’d never met a centaur before, but the tapestries hanging from their Great Hall proclaimed her family’s stance on the treaties. Each lavishly woven tapestry depicted the barbaric centaur race raping, pillaging, and murdering her people. And after, the Lapiths struck back, beheading the vile savages and brandishing their heads like trophies.

  This male, however, hadn’t spoken in a slurred, crude language. He’d communicated in Olympian, the refined dialect of the gods and their descendants. As beautiful as a god himself, his square jaw and etched features had been carved with an exotic artistry. His equally seductive pewter eyes had shone with intelligence and kindness. She’d anticipated feeling less intimidated now that he’d transformed from his massive centaur form, yet the male below her was fashioned of pure brawn. A raw virility shaped his thick muscles. Even as he lay on the ground, she perceived he was tall and solid, his frame so differently hewn than the burly statures of her brothers.

  This male was decadent.

  Which also meant dangerous.

  She drew her brows together. If her family executed this male, his family would retaliate. How much blood would be shed before vengeance was served?

  If she healed him, would he indeed quit her family’s lands? What had tempted a centaur to traipse about in hostile territory anyway?

  She huffed and lowered her bow. There was no choice to be made. The Fates had strewn this male across her path and she must do whatever she could to aid him.

  Eione rushed to her sled and dragged it through the forest toward the male. She snagged her hands beneath his arms and, grunting, hoisted him onto it. Gods, but the male was solid.

  Wrapping the straps around her upper body, she trudged forward, tugging the sled toward her childhood play den. Carved beneath an ancient oak, the hollow was her secret hideaway where she sought sanctuary. No one would come across the centaur here, so it was much safer than transporting him into the village.

  At the entrance, she untangled herself from the straps, rolled her sore shoulders, and clasped her arms around the male once more, hauling him into the shelter.

  At least he’d transformed. Had he remained in centaur form, she wouldn’t have been able to heft his weight.

  After towing the male inside, she propped him against the earthen wall. Though sunlight streamed in from the entry, the chamber proved too dim to tend to his wound, so she retrieved an oil lamp from the shelf and lit it, then returned the lamp to the ledge.

  After withdrawing a box of healing supplies from the shelf above them, Eione stole a deep breath and peeled aside the male’s coat and ivory shirt, squinting at him through the flickering illumination.

  Crimson liquid dribbled from a gash in his middle. Indeed, you bleed just as we do. Hmm.

  Doubtful the arrow had pierced any other organ, she pressed a clean cloth to the wound and slowed the bleeding. She snagged a bottle of rum from the shelf and uncorked it with her teeth, then lifted the cloth and poured a generous dose across the laceration.

  The male groaned and his eyes fluttered behind their lids, but he didn’t wake.

  Probably for the best.

  She wiped away the blood, drew out a needle and thread from the box, and sewed the wound shut. This male had ruined her entire morning. Now, she had no stag to offer the villagers. The twins would be out of bed soon and Eione couldn’t risk them stumbling upon the centaur.

&
nbsp; Yet she couldn’t direct her ire at Agrius. In his peaceful slumber, he was simply too beautiful to hate.

  ***

  Agrius dragged a hand across his face, opening his eyes and blinking into the darkness. Where the hell am I?

  A damp, earthy scent filled his nostrils. He clambered to sit and winced at the sharp stabbing ache in his gut.

  Right. Arrow.

  Where was the seductive beauty who’d shot him?

  He jolted, whipping his head around, scanning into the dim chamber. His centaur sense of smell told him no other person was present, although a faint, floral scent permeated the space.

  Her.

  His horse reared, itching to sprint from his place and seek her out. The Lady Eione must have hauled him here, but why?

  Why save my life?

  He pressed a hand to his side. Why stitch my wound?

  He’d given her no just cause for aiding him.

  A padding echo thumped from outside. He tensed at having no weapon in his hands.

  “Are you awake, centaur?” a feminine voice called.

  The anxiety departed his body on a heaved sigh. “Aye, Agrotere.”

  First, a glinting blade pressed forward, followed by the maiden. He squinted into this damned dim chamber. He must have been half out of his mind and on the brink of death earlier, because his horse jolted inside him as she neared.

  Agrius sniffed, and aye, no mistaking her scent. Or how the fragrance affected his horse. The poor beast thrashed against its reins, squealing and demanding one thing.

  Claim her.

  He swallowed thickly, clearing his throat. Mayhap the maiden had cast a spell upon him, because the only other explanation was…

  No.

  Clenching his fists, he tore his appreciation off her lovely form and slowed his breaths, staring at the earthen wall.

  What a cruel twist of the Fates that would be.

  For both of them.

  “Why did you save me?” he rasped, his throat dry from lack of water.

  She slid one foot forward and knocked a flask off the shelf above him with the tip of her blade.