A born warrior, archangel Michael is dedicated to the Fallen’s survival. But only one woman understands the seductive hunger that he cannot forsake. There comes a time in every angel ’ s life . . . Every little girl imagines, now and then, that she’s a princess held captive in a tower. But Victoria Bellona is almost twenty-five. And that whole fairy-tale scenario? That’s her real life. The drop-dead gorgeous man who rescues her is no Prince Charming. He’s the gruff archangel Michael, and he insists that Tory is the Fallen’s only hope for ending Uriel’s vicious rule. She insists he’s crazy. . . . to show his brethren what he ’ s made of. According to the prophecy, Michael must marry this frustrating, fascinating creature, bed her, and drink her blood. But their fate is a double-edged sword. If they give in to their urgently growing desires, Tory will die in battle. If they refuse, she will die anyway, and with her, all of mankind. Michael is determined to find another solution when a traitorous kidnapper forces him into a deadly confrontation. Even if he can save Tory from Uriel’s ruthless clutches, will they ever really be together? Or is her fatal destiny—and the world’s—written in stone? Kristina Douglas is the pseudonym for a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of over sixty novels, including the Fallen series. Warrior CHAPTER ONE MY MOTHER WAS GOING TO kill me. I looked out the window into the desolate countryside and I wanted to laugh at myself. How many teenagers had said that through the millennia? It should have been comical in a woman nearly twenty-five. Except that Contessa Carlotta di Montespan seemed to have every intention of ending the life she’d reluctantly given birth to, presumably with the help of Pedersen, the teacher, the trainer, the guard who had haunted nearly my entire existence. They were going to murder me before my twenty-fifth birthday, and there was no one I could turn to. There never had been. I pushed away from the window, looking around the lavish bedroom. The large bed was covered with the finest of Egyptian cotton; the rugs were ancient and beautiful, with soft, muted colors; the fresh roses were pale yellow, my favorite color. The walls were painted a soft cream, and the mullioned windows looked out over the mountainous countryside of what apparently was Italy. But the view was spoiled by the iron bars across the windows, and the door to my room was solid, ancient oak—and locked. I was a prisoner in a gilded cage, as I had been for almost my entire life, and now I’d been given a death sentence. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. My cold, exquisitely beautiful mother was a woman totally devoid of maternal feeling, or any feelings at all, as far as I could tell. Even Pedersen, who was most likely her bed partner as well as her partner in crime, merited not a sign of warmth. Pedersen had appeared, an enigma like everything else in my life, when I was about seven. He was a giant, six foot six at least, with heavy muscles, pale blue eyes, and the white-blond hair of his Scandinavian ancestors. I had no idea where he’d come from, and when I asked he wouldn’t tell me. But then, Pedersen wasn’t a man for talk except when he was instructing me. And those instructions had been endless. My mother hadn’t approved of schools. Even the most selective private academies held bad elements, she’d said, and I could learn everything I needed from Pedersen. She claimed he had a formidable intellect, and he was an expert in the physical training I would require. The rest of my education came from the movies. I never bothered to ask why the physical training was necessary. The contessa was even less inclined to answer questions than her henchman, and the time I spent in her presence was growing shorter. So I learned, and I trained. We started with gymnastics, and I loved it, spinning on the bars, flying through the air to land smoothly on the mats. I was the Karate Kid, I was Bruce Lee. I felt . . . free. Pedersen had moved on quickly. Tae kwon do, karate, and Shaolin kung fu came next, followed by more arcane forms of martial art. I had been an apt pupil, more for the love of movement than a need for approval. I was fast and strong, healing from Pedersen’s brutal methods of teaching with preternatural speed, and I already knew there was no approval to be found. Amazingly, they let me go when I was fourteen. I was small for my age, well before my ridiculous growth spurt, and my intense training had kept my period at bay, convincing me I’d never be a woman. The tiny private school in the Alps had been run by nuns, the half dozen students silent and cowed, but it had been human interaction, and I bloomed. For those three years I had no rigorous training, only the exercises I chose to do, and I’d made friends among the other exiles. And there’d been Johann. The nuns would let me out to train in the meadows surrounding the remote convent, havi