Marked by Elisabeth Naughton

and still they didn’t touch. A malevolent, knowing smile cut across his lips. One that seriously made her want to step back.
    She fought the urge.
    “Tell me, Princess . Do I frighten you?”
    Perspiration slid down her skin and pooled at the base of her spine. “I’m not afraid of you.”
    He leaned down so his lips were a breath from her ear. And for a moment, she wanted him to touch her. Just once. So she could have the connection and see into his future and what he was planning, as she’d been able to do so often in the past.
    The only problem was, she wasn’t sure her powers would work this time.
    “You should be,” he whispered in a chilling tone. “You would be wise to be very afraid.”
    “Demetrius. Enough.”
    They both turned at the harsh command and looked toward the doorway. Theron stood just inside the room, every bit as dark and brooding and dangerous as the commander he was.
    Relief swept through Isadora’s frail body. She braced a hand on the mattress to steady herself as Demetrius stepped away. One quick glance up confirmed what shesuspected. Contempt slid across Demetrius’s features before he masked it quickly with indifference.
    The kinsmen shared quiet words at the door that Isadora couldn’t hear. Demetrius cast her one last withering glare before stalking out of the room.
    All her energy flagged. She wanted to flop back onto the bed she detested, but she still hated to show weakness.
    Theron walked toward the bed as if he owned the room, those massive boots clomping across the tile floor, the sound echoing in her head. And for a moment it struck her as odd he was wearing denim jeans—something she’d never seen him wear before—but then she looked back up at his face, saw the harsh, disapproving lines there, and her interest in his state of dress left her. “You’re pale again, Isadora.”
    His voice was direct and firm. Not the voice of a concerned fiancé but of a general, commanding his troops. Without meaning to, she backed up until her legs hit the mattress.
    Good gods, this was the ándras who would soon be her husband. There was no reason for her to be afraid of him. She’d just been reminded her father could have chosen any of the other Argonauts—much more to her distaste—and all of them would have been ten times worse than Theron. So why did the thought suddenly terrify her?
    Stop looking at him like he’s a leper, and buck up.
    She drew in a calming breath and shored up her courage. The situation sucked, but she needed to make the best of it. For both their sakes. “Your kinsmen have been worried. I think they were afraid something had happened to you.”
    “Did Demetrius hurt you?”
    His big body seemed to suck up all the air around him as he drew close. She craned her neck back to look up at his face and was struck by the harsh lines and unfriendly features. “Heavens, no. Why would you think that?”
    “Because you look like you’re about ready to mop the floor with that gown of yours.”
    “Gown? I—”
    He swept her off her feet before the protest reached her lips, then laid her back in her godforsaken bed. “Hades, Isadora. You look no better than when I saw you last.”
    His touch was warm against her clothing. Warm, and gone so fast she barely had time to register the sensation. He drew the thick, oppressive covers over her again and tugged them up to her chin.
    She immediately pushed them down to her waist. What was that smell? She drew a deep breath. Lavender. Had he been injured?
    She quickly pushed the question aside because it didn’t matter. He was here, and he was healthy, and he’d never liked females worrying over him.
    “Theron, I’m fine.”
    If he heard her, he didn’t respond. Instead, he strode across the room, jerked the door open and barked orders at Saphira in the sitting room. Isadora heard Saphira’s shocked response, then gynaíka footsteps scattering away.
    He closed the door and strode back to her, his dark hair swaying as