The Darkest Surrender (21 page)

“You look all innocent and shit, but you’re really a devil in disguise, aren’t you?”

Zacharel merely shrugged, his expression unchanging.

Win?

Yeah. We won that round.
The angel hadn’t made a play for Kaia, and that was all that mattered.

Defeat might have agreed, but there were no accompanying sparks of pleasure. Nor were there spurts of pain.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he grumbled.

“Bianka competes in the next game. Lysander wishes me to—”

“Lysander can speak for himself,” the warrior interjected. “I wished for a supporting arm to either hold me back or help me, should I be inclined to punish Bianka’s opponents.”

Aw. True love. How sickening.

Both Lysander and Zacharel could create swords of fire from nothing but air. A few Harpy heads would probably
roll by the time the second game ended if any harm came to Kaia’s twin.

“You do know you’ll embarrass Bianka if you—”

“Who are you talking to, Strider?” Though Haidee had closed most of the distance between them, she asked the question from behind her beer bottle, not daring to glance in his direction. He knew she didn’t fear Kaia, though she should, but merely thought to prevent another attack while the enemy was nearby.

And damn it. The angels had warned him. No one else could see them. Well, Sabin and Gwen could, he was sure, since they were smothering their laughter behind beers of their own.

“No one,” he muttered.
No one important.
He refocused on Kaia and Bianka, the Twin Troublemakers.

“—no better time,” Bianka was saying.

“Then let’s do it,” Kaia responded with an evil grin. “Juliette will never know what hit her.”

Shit. Do what? With those two, “it” always involved bloodshed, grand theft auto or a five-alarm blaze. Or, on special days, a combination of all three. He watched, dread coursing through him, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, as the girls moved forward.

Then the worst of his fears were confirmed when they climbed onto the dais.

To karaoke.

P
ARIS PRESSED INTO A SHADOWED
corner of the heavenly harem. Mindless chatter and the sound of playful splashing coasted on the over-warm air. The scent of jasmine oil and sandalwood drifted to his nose and he tried not to inhale. Ambrosia layered both, a waft of coconut that lured and seduced, and he couldn’t yet afford to get high. No matter how much his body shook, desperate for a fix.

After his back-alley brawl, he’d taken the first female he’d stumbled upon. Sex had ensured her willingness, despite Paris’s ragged appearance, and he’d healed quickly afterward.

Unfortunately, the vital encounter had made him an hour late to his meeting with Mina, the goddess of weaponry, and he’d had to pay extra for the crystal blades.

She liked her pleasure with a bit of bite, and he’d had to do things to her that might haunt him for years. But he had the daggers now and had crossed item one off his To Do list.

He rubbed the hilts as he scanned his surroundings, hating the cobalt wisps of fabric that fell from the ceiling and draped the entire enclosure. Hating the beaded lounge pillows, the naked, glistening bodies strolling this way and that.

Time to cross off item number two. Arca, the messenger goddess. Surely she would know where Sienna was being held, as one of his many partners had led him to
believe. Pillow talk—his best friend, and everyone else’s worst enemy.

If she wasn’t here, he had no idea where to go next. Or who to do.

Don’t think like that.
No one here had sensed him. Yet. That would change all too soon. Sex craved today’s dose. Already the scents of chocolate and champagne drifted from him. Soon mortals and immortals alike, all brought here to service Cronus, would find themselves consumed by hunger.

The god king had given up keeping a single mistress. Now he was keeping thirty…three. Yes, thirty-three, Paris counted. The twenty-seven others standing around the pool ledge were bodyguards, not sexual conquests.

Paris doubted Cronus had slept with everyone here, or that the bastard even planned to nail them all in the future. But Cronus would do anything to piss off Rhea, his traitor of a wife, and nothing hurt a woman’s pride quite like infidelity. A fact Paris knew very well.

He’d never been faithful. Could never be faithful. No matter how much he wanted to be. No matter how much his many conquests screamed and ranted at him, desperate for something he couldn’t give them. Something…more. His lovers were his demon’s food, that was all. He couldn’t let them be anything else. And really, he didn’t want them to be anything else.

He just wanted Sienna.

If he could find her, if he could touch her, if she no longer despised him—which didn’t seem likely, especially after the things,
people,
he’d done up here—would she give herself to him?

So many ifs.

He’d been up here off and on ever since her disappearance, and he’d kept his ear to the ground—aka he’d screwed the information out of anyone close to Cronus.
See? Unfaithful. He was here for one woman, but had slept with another. And another. And another.

Buck up.
Otherwise, he’d start wanting that ambrosia.

Hell, maybe he should just give in.

Or maybe he should leave. Cronus was going to pop a vessel when he discovered Paris’s whereabouts. Would definitely punish him. Because…to hide his activities, Paris had to wear a necklace—a manlace, as Torin called it—the god king had given him. A manlace he was only supposed to wear to hide himself from
Rhea.
Using it to conceal himself from Cronus as well was a small crime, sure, but couple that with Paris’s intentions…

You’re close. Closer than you’ve ever been.
No matter what happened, he wouldn’t give up. So, no ambrosia and no leaving.

“I’m so hot,” one woman said. She lay on a velvet recliner, naked and glistening, arching her back as she traced her fingertips between her large, tawny-tipped breasts. “So needy.”

“Me, too,” another said. She licked her lips as she searched for a partner.

Oh, yes. They had sensed Paris at last.

His friends were used to him, used to his scent and the need it caused, and were mostly immune. Plus, he’d over-indulged Sex, so the demon had rarely acted out like this. Paris wasn’t yet used to it.

“I’ve never been this aroused,” another female said.

Then, it was on. Moans of pleasure resounded as an orgy broke out. Multiple writhing bodies, hands stroking, legs spreading. The sight failed to arouse even the barest flicker of need. Been there, gotten tired of that.

They were distracted, at least. He studied them, searching for the telltale “long, braided white hair” he’d been told Arca possessed. Another tidbit he’d learned: she was responsible for the children’s story about Rapunzel.
Once, when she’d delivered a godly message to a human king, he’d become captivated by her beauty and thought to keep her. And he had very nearly succeeded. Not just because he’d used black magic, but because his timing had been impeccable. The Greeks had gained control of the heavens, locking the Titans away. Arca had been forgotten.

Paris didn’t know if the rest of the story held true. If she had been rescued by a mortal prince. If the mortal had been killed in front of her when the Greeks at last remembered her and dragged her up to the heavens, locking her in another, stronger prison. And he wouldn’t let himself care.

What he did know? Arca had been grabbed right off a golden street and tossed here. Paris could work that to his advantage. She had to despise the king, had to crave revenge.

Also, she wasn’t in this section of the palace.
Please be in another.

He slinked along the wall. He could have stripped and presented himself as a slave, or a new addition to the harem, but he refused to relinquish his new weapons. No doubt he’d need them.

He reached a corner, paused, listened, looked. Heard no footsteps. Saw no shadows moving along the marble floor. He inched forward, leaving the bathing area completely. Curtained doorway after curtained doorway greeted him, and he gnashed his teeth. If he had to screw someone just to find out which room belonged to Arca—

A slave strode from the room at the far end of the hallway, a silver tray balanced in his hands. He spotted Paris, but didn’t issue an alarm. No, his tanned, naked body reacted instantly, his belly quivering. He set the tray on the floor and practically skipped over, as if in a trance.

He probably was. Paris hadn’t fed his demon for twenty-
three hours. He wouldn’t start weakening for another hour, yet Sex’s pheromones—or whatever it was the bastard released from Paris’s pores—would continue to strengthen until they’d come inside someone.

A few times, Paris had let himself become so weak he couldn’t move. Yet those pheromones had drifted from him, so damn potent that humans had fallen on him, unable to help themselves, lost to lust. A few times, before Paris had reached the point of total weakness, he had lost control of
himself
and fallen on
humans.

The slave reached him. “Who are you, beautiful?” Callused, overworked hands whisked along his chest, caressing.

Maybe he wasn’t as close to finding Sienna as he’d thought. First time he’d neared her, his demon had begun
repelling
others. This slave was far from repelled. But he wouldn’t change course, Paris thought. He couldn’t. If not here, he had no idea where to go.

“Do you know where Arca is?” he asked, ignoring the question asked of him.

A pink tongue emerged, tracing over already moistened lips. “Yes.”

Relief flooded him. “Tell me. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

Those questing hands slid lower…lower still… “For you, anything.”

He waited, forcing himself to remain still. When no other response was forthcoming, he said, “Tell me.”

“Yes, yes, of course, but first I must…have to…please…” Every word caused the slave’s voice to dip lower, huskier, absolute yearning in the undertones.

Lost, Paris thought. The slave was already lost to his body’s needs. Paris would get no answers until that need was assuaged. He leaned against the wall and stared up at the domed ceiling.

“Drop to your knees,” he commanded, pulling Sienna’s delicate face, dark hair and adorably freckled skin to the forefront of his mind.

W
ILLIAM PACED THE CONFINES
of his prison cell. After the blonde bitch had dropped her bombshell about Kane, he had erupted, shouting and fighting for freedom. She’d soon realized there would be no calming him down and had had his gurney wheeled here.

About an hour ago, he’d regained enough of his strength to break out of the metal restraints. Not so with the cage. Four walls, all bars, and he couldn’t bend or manipulate a single one.

The prison had been built for immortals.

He had to get out of here. Had to get to Kane. Had to stop the warrior from reaching hell. The horsemen. The danger…

“So. You’ve calmed down.”

The blonde. Fury rising inside him, William turned on his heel, following the sound of her voice. And there she was. Ponytail, wire rims, delicate features, lab coat.

“Are you ready to chat now?” she asked.

Don’t erupt again.
Much as he currently wanted to rip her throat out, he needed her.

He was at a disadvantage, though. Patches of his skin were still charred, his pants—the only article of clothing currently remaining on his body—were bloodstained and ripped, and his hair was sticking out in spikes.

He was still a babe, though. Surely.

He pasted a seductive smile on his face. “Absolutely I’m ready. What’s your name, darling?”

She arched a brow two shades darker than her hair. “I thought you didn’t care about my name.”

Great. She was one of
those.
Stubborn and determined not to let a man soften her. Otherwise she would have
melted already. And yes, he usually worked
that
quickly. “That was the pain talking, I promise.”

“Okay. I’ll pretend that I believe you. My name is Skye.”

“I’ll call you Dr. Love Button.”

“And I’ll have you castrated.” There was no heat in her tone.

“Kinky. So you work for Galen, do you?” Gods, William hated the bastard. Not for the sake of the Lords, though that didn’t help the keeper of Hope’s cause, but because William simply couldn’t stand people who were deceitful about their evil. Reminded him too much of his brother. And they didn’t get more deceitful than Galen, who masqueraded as an angel so he could manipulate a bunch of feeble-minded humans into doing his dark bidding.

Skye, if that was her real name, laughed. “Kinda sorta, though mostly no.”

Of all the nonanswers she could have given, that topped the list. “Mind explaining that a little better, pet?”

“Not really, but I’ll give it a shot.” She shook her head and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “I’m not a Hunter. Or a doctor, for that matter. I never finished med school.”

“Then why did you bomb me, nearly kill me, help heal me and what? Lock me away as if you despise me. Oh, yeah. And I can’t forget that you also carted my demon-possessed friend into hell.” Something humans wouldn’t have known how to do—or how to navigate through if by some miracle they did manage to reach it. Which meant a god—or a goddess—had to be involved. And the only divine pain in the ass currently helping mortals was Rhea, the heavenly queen. “Also, how do you know about Galen and Hunters if you’re not part of their brainwashed masses?”

A rosy flush colored her cheeks. “First, I didn’t bomb
you. Hunters did, yes. And, okay, so my husband is a Hunter, and that’s why I’m so knowledgeable, but I’m working with him on that, trying to get him out. As for the other, I only locked you away because you were a danger to yourself and everyone around you.”

He placed a hand over his heart, as if she’d mortally wounded him. “As if I’d ever hurt you.”

“Whatever.”

What would it take to charm her? “Let’s backtrack just a bit. Hunters decided to take me out, your husband among them, and you thought you’d try to save little ole me, even though you don’t yet have your medical degree and even though saving me might piss off your man? I’m touched, truly.”

She fiddled with something plastic in her pocket. “They brought you here, asked me to help.”

“And even though you want your man out of their ranks, you decided to aid them yourself.” He edged toward her, so minutely she wouldn’t realize he was close enough to reach through the bars until it was too late.

“I decided to aid
you.
”

Another inch. “But you’re not working for them.”

“No.”

“Shall I tell you all my secrets, then?” Another inch.

Her eyes narrowed, obscuring her pretty irises. “Keep your secrets. I’m not interested.” She withdrew a sucker from her pocket, the wrapper gone, and stuffed the thing in her mouth.

Well, he was definitely interested in hers. “If you don’t work for Hunters, who
do
you work for? How did you know how to save me? And why don’t you set me free now? As you can see, I’m not a danger to anyone.”

Out popped the candy. “First, I’m currently unemployed. And as for my saving know-how, trial and error. Some races can regenerate limbs, some can’t. Some have
wings, most don’t. Some respond to human medicine positively, some negatively. As for the Hunters and your release, I’m sad to say they get you back the moment I decide you’re well enough.”

Yet another inch. Almost there… “But you still claim not to work for them.”

She shrugged. “My husband made the agreement with them. He decides.”

“And you won’t defy him? Or change his mind?” he asked, using his huskiest tone.

“No.” Softly spoken, yet firm, unbending. “I can’t. I wish, but I can’t.”

Finally William reached her. He grinned. “Too bad.” His arm shot through the bars, his fingers wrapping around her fragile neck.