He spun away from her—but not before she saw the flicker of surprise in those magnificent violet eyes. He strode out of the tent, leaving her standing, stunned, and unsure. Should she follow him? Should she—He stomped back inside, holding two glasses of that amber liquid.

His hair was wetter, his clothes plastered to him. He demolished the distance between them, steps clipped, his expression blank. "Why do you want to know how to return?"

"I don't have to answer that." Besides, she didn't have an answer. "Explaining the reasons for my questions wasn't part of the deal."

A pause. Then, "When you want to return, say my name, the vows we spoke to each other.

Picture me. Your body will find me." He held out a glass. "Drink."

She shook her head and twined her swollen fingers behind her back, and oh, that hurt. "No way.

I'd rather fight you again than let you drug me."

"I hurt you; I'll make it better."

"And your liquor can heal me?" she asked dryly. "Rather than make me pass out?"

"Yes." Perfectly serious.

Was that why he'd been drinking it earlier? Had someone hurt him? That blood on his pants . . .

Her stomach clenched. In fear? At the thought of this man injured? What was wrong with her?

Angry—with him, with herself—she claimed the glass and drank. Unlike the red wine/blood of last time, this went down smooth and warm, little butterflies taking flight inside her and spreading fairy dust. "If you poisoned me, I'll. . ." Within seconds, cuts wove back together, bones realigned, and the threat died on her lips.

"There's my pretty girl," he said, and if she wasn't mistaken, there was affection in his tone.

Affection? No way. Her imagination, surely. Not once had he copped a feel or tried to kiss her.

The bastard.

Yes, something was definitely wrong with her.

"Rose, darling. You should know that next time, if you don't have the answers I want, I'm going to push you harder than you've ever been pushed. I'm going to make you bleed and beg for mercy I don't have. So I'd be careful about visiting unannounced, if I were you."

Chapter Three

Vasili remained in his war tent a long while after Rose disappeared. Twelve hours. That was as long as a resisting Walker remained before their world sucked them back—unless they were bonded to someone here and returned on their own. Then they could decide how long to stay.

Would Rose dare?

He breathed deeply. The scent of her lingered. Roses, like her name. Dewy, uncut. Unexpected.

Beautiful female. Foolish female. She had no idea of the danger she was in.

She should have died a spy's death that first night here, for that was what his army had assumed she was. A spy from one of the three kingdoms surrounding his. And as protective as they were of him, spies suffered. But Vasili had been in camp and they'd given the honor of killing her to him. One look, though, and he'd known. Not a spy. A Dimension Walker.

Had his men realized the truth, a spy's death would have felt like foreplay to her. But unlike Vasili, they hadn't spent most of their life hunting Walkers. Slaughtering them. Most Walkers were male, and that was what his people expected, but every so often, a female came. Rose had been far too timid to be a spy, and he'd recognized that wild, confused look in her eyes. Many a Walker had died by his sword wearing that same expression.

Foolish man. He should have killed Rose himself. Anyone else would have.

Walkers were born in her world, but bonded at least one day a year to this one, just as he'd told her. Why, he didn't know. What he did know: Walkers were the only ones capable of moving between the light—her world—and the dark—his.

Decades ago, his people had welcomed them. Given them food and shelter, protection. They had been taken to the royal palace, questioned by the king himself, for the king had hoped to find a way for his people to travel into the light. But though many Walkers had mated and decided to stay here, they'd never gotten over their fear of the Monstrea, the "monsters," and decided to destroy them.

Thus began the process of the Walkers finding one another, building their army, planning the perfect way to strike and cut down the royal family. Vasili's family. As a boy, he'd watched his father, mother, all three of his sisters, and one of his brothers fall to guns and grenades. He and Jasha, his youngest brother, had barely escaped alive.

The Walkers would have gotten away with their crimes, never to be punished, but like Rose, they had to return at least once a year. Though Vasili had been crowned king of the Northern Realm immediately after his father's death, he'd spent most of his time hunting—and slaying—

Walkers rather than leading his people.

And even though he'd already punished the ones who'd taken his family from him, others still came. Others he hunted. They'd learned how to hide, and hide well, but he always found them. Or so he'd thought.

Rose might not have hurt his family, but she was one of them. And if she was to be believed, she had found Walkers he had not. What if they did as before? What if they worked together to destroy him?

Yes, he should have killed her. But at that first meeting, he'd thought, I can use her to learn about the ones I cannot find. He could learn how many were out there, where they traveled, when they traveled, their strengths, their weaknesses. Yet at this second meeting, she'd given him nothing. And still he hadn't hurt her.

And he looked forward to their third meeting, not to learn from her but to see her.

"I'm more than a fool," he muttered.

He'd had his men prepare this tent in the woods surrounding his palace. On his way here, he'd been ambushed. A fight had broken out—damn King Greer and the Eastern Realm—and he almost hadn't reached the tent in time. Rose would have appeared wherever he was, out in the open and in front of his men. There would have been no denying her origins then.

She would have been put to death, and his questions wouldn't have been answered. Questions he'd had no business entertaining. Like, how had time changed her? Like, how would she react to him? Like, what would she say to him?

Like, would those liquid silver eyes of hers sparkle as her temper flared?

Time had indeed changed her, adding more curves to that slender body. She'd lashed out at him, dared him, defied him, and yes, those eyes had sparkled.

His neglected body had reacted. He'd wanted to touch and to taste. Too young, he'd had to remind himself. Over and over again. That hadn't stopped his mind from screaming, Mine. A hazard of the bonding, he knew, and not of a particular woman's appeal. Though she was.

Appealing. God, was she appealing. She'd been soft under his hands, her height making her a perfect fit to the hard line of his body.

Would she have welcomed a kiss?

He was thankful he hadn't found out. Sex with a Walker—he would never live it down.

Should have killed her, he thought again. Instead, he'd tested her strength, her endurance, her combat skills. He'd even instructed her on how to be better, wondering how her people would react to her origins if they ever found out. Thinking he wouldn't be there to protect her. Thinking if she ever decided to live here, she had to be prepared for his people.

What was wrong with him? Live here? She couldn't live here. His people hated her kind. And if Jasha ever found out . . . Vasili sighed. There'd be no living that down, either. Worse, his brother's disappointment and hurt would slay him.

As if his thoughts had summoned his brother, the tent flap rose, and Jasha strode inside. His right-hand man, Grigori, trailed behind. Both were dressed in the clothes of a warrior. Leather breastplates, pants, and dusters. Boots with daggers in the toes. Both men were dripping wet.

Jasha was a less . . . hardened version of Vasili. Wavy black hair cut haphazardly, violet eyes, tall, muscled. Though his first instinct wasn't always to kill—as Vasili's was—he was no less skilled with a sword. And no less savage when riled. Vasili had made sure of that. He loved his brother more than anyone or anything, and had wanted the boy well able to care for himself. He'd trained his brother exactly as he'd trained Rose: without mercy.

"There you are," Jasha said with a grin. He spoke in Drakish, their language, and Vasili made a mental note to do the same. No more of Rose's English for him. "Are we interrupting something?"

Clearly, he'd been hoping to do so. "Not at all," Vasili offered casually.

His brother's expression fell. "We heard female grunts and groans. Which means that after a yearlong abstinence, our king has finally shown interest in a woman. Who is she? More important, where is she?"

"Long gone," he answered truthfully. And was that . . . displeasure in his tone? That she hadn't stayed?

Well, he hadn't wanted her to stay. After he'd so stupidly told her how to return to him at will— after going to such lengths to keep her out of the palace and hidden—all he'd wanted was her absence. No question.

His hands fisted. What would he do if she appeared in front of his brother? What would he do if she appeared during a battle? Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought again. He'd known it then, yet still he'd told her.

And now he wondered if she would visit before her next birthday. If they'd spar and tease and touch . . . Blood . . . heating . . .

"You should be embarrassed to have finished so quickly." The picture of a confident male, Grigori crossed his arms over his chest. "Had I been here, she would still be shouting my name."

Twelve hours was finishing quickly? What the hell did Grigori do with his women? Like half the beings in this world, Grigori was of the Monstrea. He possessed sharp, poisoned horns along his hairless skull, black-diamond skin, claws, fangs, and glowing red eyes.

The other three kingdoms considered the Monstrea to be nothing more than expendable soldiers. Slaves. Unworthy. Vasili did not and never had. He respected strength and loyalty, and that was what he got with the Monstrea.

"You wear them out, so they never want to come back for more," Vasili told his favorite warrior.