Into The Dark (Lords of the Underworld #5.5)(53)
Author: Gena Showalter

Practically in a trance, she stepped forward. She was reaching down…down…but her toe stubbed on—she tore her gaze away and glanced to the floor—her overnight bag. She and River had stored their belongings here early this morning, having moved from their previous location in preparation for the job.

In and out she breathed. Dress first, and get your silly compulsion under control. This need is ridiculous. Still eyeing the box, she dressed in a pink tank and matching sleep pants. Her desire to hear the voice was a little frightening. Adrenaline was rushing through her as if she was about to break into a heavily armed fortress.

While a gunfight played on the TV behind her, she reached out once more and clasped the velvet. Slowly she unwound the soft material, inch by agonizing inch. The dark wood finally came into view, and her mouth flooded with moisture.

Open it, woman. I have lost patience with you.

Hearing that, her nerve endings electrified. He hadn’t abandoned her. He was still here. But he was no longer seductive, he was now commanding. Wait, she thought, frowning. She was thinking of the voice as a real man now, not a figment of her long-ignored hormones.

Open it! Do not make me tell you again.

“The owner will—”

Not know. I promise you.

How tempting…irresistible. “Fine,” she found herself saying. God, she was having a conversation with a nonexistent person. Crazy did not begin to describe her. “I’ll open it, but the guy threatened to kill me and the only person in the world that I love. If he realizes what I’ve done, he’ll be pissed and might just try to kill us anyway.”

He will not touch you. I’ll make sure of it.

A shiver trekked along her spine. The voice was fierce, feral, deadly. And right. She would text the owner, let him know the box was safe and that she would mail it to him before disappearing. Even if he decided to come after her and River, he would never find them. They would be long gone, hidden.

With that thought, opening the box was no longer a question. It was a certainty.

Farrah eased onto the edge of the bed and gently placed the box on her lap. The wood was heavy, warm, just as she remembered. The beautiful male face seemed to stare up at her, into her. She untied the golden ribbon and placed her shaky hands over the center seam.

Open, open, open.

She slowly raised the lid. Before she’d raised it two inches, however, it was ripped from her fingers, springing open of its own accord. Something—a butterfly?—gusted from the hollowed center, its flowing cobalt wings flapping furiously.

Farrah watched, open mouthed. Yes, it was a butterfly. But…how? How long had it been inside? How had it survived? As the thoughts poured through her mind, the insect’s wings began to grow, expand.

Right in front of her eyes, the insect lengthened…lengthened…taking a solid shape. Bright blue wings became bronzed muscle and sinew, scars and tattoos. Piercings and skin. Skin!

Shock rolled through her. Shock and awe and disbelief. She rubbed her eyes, knowing the incredible sight would be gone by the time she refocused. Nope, still there. Shit. Shit! She scrambled backward, all the way to the other side of the bed. She hit the edge and tumbled to the floor, knocking the air from her lungs.

“Woman,” the seductive voice said, no longer in her mind but here, with her. Alone with her.

Dear God. She jumped to her feet, knees banging together. There was now a man in her room. A freaking man. Oxygen burned in her throat as she studied him. He was amazingly tall, shirtless and ripped with corded row after corded row of strength. He had hair as black and silky as the velvet on the bed. His eyes were the same color as the butterfly’s wings had been, a pulsing blue. Otherworldly. Surreal. They were fringed by spiky black lashes, a deliciously perfect frame.

His face…it was the face on the box. Savage, raw, elemental. Stripes of blue paint slashed his sharp cheekbones. His nose was slightly bent and his lips were too full, but he was exquisite nonetheless.

The rest of him, well…she gulped. Both of his ni**les were pierced, completely at odds with the butterfly tattooed on his chest, its wings stretching over his pectorals, his collarbone, and onto his shoulders. He wore crudely made black leather pants and well-worn boots that reached the middle of his calves. A silver cuff circled his left bicep.

He splayed his arms wide and roared. Roared with rage and frustration, relief and need. Her knees almost buckled. Never had she been faced with a more primal, erotic picture: terrifying, yet unbelievably arousing.

“You’re…you’re…” She didn’t know what to say, could hardly breathe. This wasn’t happening, couldn’t possibly be happening. Who was he? What was he? She would have liked to tell herself he was a dream, a hallucination, but couldn’t. Real, every cell in her body shouted.

“Violence,” he purred in that deep, wine-rich voice. There was rage in his eyes, such rage. “I am Violence, and I am hungry.”

As he spoke, his blue eyes locked on her face, intense, consuming, and she knew, knew, he wasn’t talking about food. He radiated heat. Scorching heat. Blistering heat. A hum of zinging energy traveled the length of her body. Her ni**les hardened painfully, and a delicious heat pooled between her legs.

She gulped. Who he was and what he was no longer seemed to matter. Slowly she inched backward, trying to reach the door without alerting him to the fact that she meant to bolt.

“Where do you think you are going?” he demanded.

Okay, he’d noticed—and he now looked ready to kill her. Farrah didn’t waste another second. She whipped around and sprinted to the door. Locked. Damn it! With her unsteady grip, working the simple lock proved more difficult than the tubular she’d battled only a few hours ago. Finally, though, she made it outside. Cold air bit and nibbled at her exposed, damp skin.

Panting, trying not to panic, she raced through the moonlit parking lot, her bare feet slapping at the frigid cement. Rocks sliced at the sensitive skin, and she grimaced. But she didn’t slow. The best way to escape him, she thought, cornering the side of the building, was to lose him in the shadows, in the twists and turns of the back allies. When she was totally safe, she would call River and tell him to meet her in another location.

There were no footsteps behind her, so she dared a quick peek. No sign of him. Good. Maybe he’d decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. As she returned her attention in front of her, she slammed into a hard wall—a wall that enveloped her in aroused heat. She was thrown backward and landed on her ass with a hard thump.