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He'll stop at nothing to get what he wants… With war looming on the horizon, Methusal and her kaavl teammates risk everything to infiltrate the enemy, undermine the insane Zindedi Presidente, and bring peace to their continent. But the challenge she faces from the enemy may pale in comparison to the challenge she faces from her own team. Fireworks erupt when Methusal and Mentŕll Solboshn must pose as newlyweds in Zindedi. Torn between her distrust and growing attraction for him, Methusal must set aside their differences to win the battle against the enemy. Even as she struggles to trust her kaavl leader, signs point to a spy within their midst. In the end, her determination and creativity must win out, or their homeland will face an army far more imposing than any that have come before. EXCERPT: Methusal's stomach twisted in sick knots as she waited in her father's office for the Dehrien Chief to arrive. She hadn't seen him in six months. Unfortunately, every time she did see him felt like a shock to her system. She struggled not to think about how he had left her that last time. Nor his veiled promise-or threat-to finish what he had begun. Petr Storst settled his large, paunchy frame into a wooden chair. It creaked alarmingly. Her father, the only other occupant in the room, sat at his desk, scratching words onto a parchment. He glanced at Methusal. "Remember what I said. 'Seen, but not heard.'" "I'll do my best, Papa." Erl smiled. "I showed him to the guest quarters. He should be here any moment." As if summoned by the words, a sharp knock came at the wooden door. Erl rose and welcomed in the giant, blond-haired Dehrien Chief. Methusal's heart lurched at the sight of her long-time enemy. He was a handsome man, if one liked angles and planes, and a harsh line of a mouth. His straight nose had a hump in it near the bridge, as if broken and never properly reset, and his cheekbones were wide. A glance told her nothing about him had changed in the last six months. Nothing from the short, white-blond hair that kicked up a bit at his temple, to the broad shoulders and powerful, sleek frame outlined by his bleached leather tunic and breeches. He must be just over thirty now. He strode with soundless, predatory grace, and although she made no sound to announce her presence, the shock of his ice blue eyes immediately focused upon her. She'd once likened their color to a glacier. Now they seared into her like blue fire.
