Wasn't like she'd expected him to fall at her feet, but she had expected him to respond favorably. At least a little.

Men liked women who threw themselves at them. Right? She'd observed mortals for too many years to count, and that had always seemed to be the case. Key word, chica—mortals. Lucien wasn't, and had never been, mortal.

Why doesn't he want me?

In all the days she'd watched him, he hadn't favored a single woman. Ashlyn, his friend's lover, he treated with kindness and respect. Cameo, the only female warrior in residence here, he treated with gentleness and almost parental concern. Not desire.

He didn't prefer men. His gaze didn't linger on males with hunger or any hint of softer emotion. Was he in love with a specific woman, then, and no other would do? If so, the bitch was going down!

Anya ran her tongue over her teeth, and her hands clenched at her sides. Smoke continued to billow through the building, hazy, dreamlike. The human females began to crowd the dance floor again, trying to lure the Lords back to their sides. But the warriors continued to observe Anya, waiting for the final verdict of just who and what she was.

Lucien hadn't moved an inch; it was as if his entire body were rooted in place. She should give up, walk away, cut her losses before Cronus found her. Only the weak give up. True. Determined, she raised her chin. With only a thought, she changed the song blasting through the speakers. The beat instantly slowed, softened.

Forcing her expression to follow suit, she sauntered the rest of the way to him, closing that hated distance between them. She trekked her fingers up his strong, hard chest and shivered. No touching—ha! He would learn. Anarchy was hardly an obedient lapdog.