Page 13 of The Edge of Dawn

What could he do, anyway?

A lot, probably.

He was sure that Tarak and Ashrael would want to know about an undiscovered human female who possessed no small measure of the Talent. He could convince them to mobilize their considerable resources to go and seize her.

Very well.

First, he needed to find out where she was.

If she was in acute danger, he would have to do something about it.

But what could he do?

There was one possibility, but he’d never tried it before. He wasn’t even sure he could do it.

Only if necessary.

It would require her absolute surrender.

He followed the thread of her distress, and this time it was easy because, in their first meeting, they’d formed a tenuous psychic bond. Now, it was as if her presence was like a powerful magnetic field, drawing him toward her with irresistible force.

Not possible.

How could a mere human hold such sway over him?

She couldn’t influence him like that.

No. He chose to go to her.

Now that he was free from his Mistress’s clutches, his first act would be to seek out this human and determine whether she was in trouble.

Besides, she seemed convinced that he was just a figment of her imagination. The very notion was insulting.

How presumptuous of her.

He was almost looking forward to the moment when they’d meet face-to-face; when she would finally understand that he was, in fact, very real.

SIX

She had to be stuck in dreamland again. She knew this because all of a sudden, he was there.

The surroundings were the same—old abandoned mineshaft and all—but everything felt different.

Her body was lighter. Her mind was clearer. And yet somehow, she instinctively knew that her true body was lying on the dirt in a cloud of knockout gas, and she was well and truly screwed.

Who did those men work for? The MWA? Bloody Cameron?

Soon, they’d find her, and there was nothing she could do about it because she was trapped in unconsciousness, staring at the male whose memory had taunted her ever since she first encountered him.

Somewhere back in reality, her headlamp was on, sending a beam of light through the dimensions and into her dreamscape. It shone toward the ceiling, illuminating the pale, rough sandstone walls. It burnished his platinum-hued skin, making him look completely otherworldly.

That wasn’t hard. He was a total fantasy.

Luminous skin. Midnight hair. A face straight out of a dark elves’ storybook and pointed ears to match. A body forged into perfect muscular hardness; every single inch of him cut and honed.

He wore nothing but loose black trousers. He was barefoot and bare-chested again.

Why was he always shirtless?

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