Page 24 of Heir of the Beast

A flash of nerves courses through me like lightning.

Why am I so nervous?!

I barely glance up and see three men at the top of the stairs, and I stop breathing. They’re swiftly heading our way, and I can tell you that I might need medical help myself.

The man in the middle is undoubtedly Apollo, walking as though he is a Greek god.

I always read that in romance books—you know, the dashing hero being compared to Greek gods. Now I completely understand.

He is all that is power and beauty, garbed in all-black armor save for the midnight blue cape with silver clasps at his broad shoulders. A slow shiver licks its way down my spine.

The two men with him also wear the same color and cape. I faintly wonder if it’s a sign of royalty. He looks like Thor, but with an extra dash of sexy and darkness.

I feel my face flush with hot lava as he nears.

His arresting dark gaze homes in on me and me alone. I’m not used to this intensity—my ovaries, I think, explode.

His skin is beautifully bronzed, with perfect high cheekbones and the most delicious law line my hungry eyes have ever beheld.

I desperately want to put my face in his neck and inhale, and maybe a little tongue action. I bet he smells and tastes glorious.

He has beautiful golden hair. Some pieces look white-bleached, probably due to the adoring sun making sweet love to his hair. You think I’m being dramatic? I assure you I’m not!

I was never boy crazy as a girl, not being interested in anyone that I can recall. I might have been too picky. But now, I am reeling, entirely off-balance. I can’t even catch my breath.

Apollo’s almost-black, hot-as-hell gaze contrasts with his light hair and tanned skin. He should have sparkling blue eyes, but no, the glittering darkness of his eyes gives me hot flashes.

I feel Mort bump me.

I flush as I give myself a mental shake. I’m too busy in my fantasy to realize Apollo is asking me a question. Embarrassment stains my cheeks and chest.

Apollo arches a brow and glances at Ratman with the clipboard. “Does the slave speak? Is she mute?”

My eyes widen.

Oh, great first impression.

The ratty man swallows, then glares at me. “Yes, she does. Answer His Grace! How did you learn to shoot the arrow like that?! And where did you find such a fine weapon being just a slave?”

My heart is about to give out. I take a steady breath and glance at Prince Apollo, willing my voice to work. Apollo is quite tall, way over six feet, and I feel like a little girl being scolded.

“I was taught by someone well qualified. I’m a fast learner. I guess it is a gift I was born with, taking to archery quicker than others.”

I have no idea if that makes sense. I’m still killing Charming for no back story and for making me look like an idiot.

Apollo frowns, his dark gaze seeming to flicker as he crosses his arms over his muscular chest.

“Are you deliberately being vague? Because if you are,” he slowly looks me up and down, “a night with my men will make you talk.”

He is rude. My cheeks heat at his crudeness. “Yes, I’m being vague.”

I hear Mort groan.

Fail.

“Only because I suffer from amnesia. I fell off a horse a few years back and I have no recollection who I am or how I became good at archery. It sounds a little far-fetched, but that’s the truth.”

I want to slap my forehead. I told you I was a fan of Anastasia.

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