Lord of the Vampires (Royal House of Shadows #1)(77)
Author: Gena Showalter

“Paris,” he began—just as a fist connected with his face.

His head whipped back. His feet slipped on the slick floor and he tumbled to his side. More of the cherry flavor filled his mouth.

Paris straddled his shoulders, punched him again. Lysander’s lip split. Before a single drop of blood could form, however, the wound healed.

He frowned. He now had the right to slay the man, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He did not blame Paris for this battle; he blamed Bianka. She had forced them into this situation.

Another punch. “Are you the one who’s been watching Aeron?” Paris demanded.

“Hey, now,” Bianka called. No longer did she sound so carefree. “Paris, you are not to use your fists. That’s boxing, not wrestling.”

Lysander remained silent, not understanding the difference. A fight was a fight.

Another punch. “Are you?” Paris growled.

“Paris! Did you hear me?” Now she sounded angry. “Use your fists like that again and I’ll cut off your head.”

She’d do it, too, Lysander thought, and wondered why she was so upset. Could she, perhaps, care for his health? His eyes widened. Was that why she preferred the less intensive wrestling to the more violent boxing? Would she want to do the same to him if he were to punch the Lord? And what would it mean if she did?

How would he feel about that?

“Are you?” Paris repeated.

“No,” he finally said. “I’m not.” He worked his legs up, planted his feet on Paris’s chest and pressed. But rather than send the warrior flying, his foot slipped and connected with Paris’s jaw, then ear, knocking the man’s head back.

“Use your hands, angel,” Bianka suggested. “Choke him! He deserves it for breaking my rules.”

“Bianka,” Paris snapped. He lost his footing and tumbled to his butt. “I thought you wanted me to destroy him, not the other way around.”

She blinked over at them, brow furrowed. “I do. I just don’t want you to hurt him. That’s my job.”

Paris tangled a hand through his soaked hair. “Sorry, darling, but if this continues, I’m going to unleash a world of hurt on your frenemy. Nothing you say will be able to stop me. Clearly, he doesn’t have your best interests at heart.”

Darling? Had the demon-possessed immortal just called Bianka darling? Something dark and dangerous flooded Lysander—mine echoed through his head—and before he realized what he was doing, he was on top of the warrior, a sword of fire in his hand, raised, descending…about to meet flesh.

A firm hand around his wrist stopped him. Warm, smooth skin. His wild gaze whipped to the side. There was Bianka, inside the tub, oil glistening off her. How fast she’d moved.

“You can’t kill him,” she said determinedly.

“Because you want him, too,” he snarled. A statement, not a question. Rage, so much rage. He didn’t know where it was coming from or how to stop the flow.

She blinked again, as if the thought had never entered her mind, and that, miraculously, cooled his temper. “No. Because then you would be like me and therefore perfect,” she said. “That wouldn’t be fair to the world.”

“Stop talking and fight, damn you,” Paris commanded. A fist connected with Lysander’s jaw, tossing him to the side and out of Bianka’s reach. He maintained his grip on the sword and even when it dipped into the oil, it didn’t lose a single flame. In fact, the oil heated.

Great. Now he was hot-tubbing, as the humans would say.

“What’d you do that for, you big dummy?” Bianka didn’t wait for Paris’s reply but launched herself at him. Rather than scratch him or pull his hair, she punched him. Over and over again. “He wasn’t going to hurt you.”

Paris took the beating without retaliating.

That saved his life.

Lysander grabbed the Harpy around the waist and hefted her into the hard line of his body. Soaked as they both were, he had a difficult time maintaining his grip. She was panting, arms flailing for the demon-possessed warrior, but she didn’t try to pull away.

“I’ll teach you to defy me, you rotten piece of shit,” she growled.

Paris rolled his eyes.

“Send him away,” Lysander commanded.

“Not until after I—”

He splayed his fingers, spanning much of her waist. He both rejoiced and cursed that he couldn’t feel the texture of Bianka’s skin through the oil. “I want to be alone with you.”

“You—what?”

“Alone. With you.”

With no hesitation, she said, “Go home, Paris. Your work here is done. Thanks for trying to rescue me. That’s the only reason you’re still alive. Oh, and don’t forget to tell my sisters I’m fine.”

The sputtering Lord disappeared.

Lysander released her, and she spun around to face him. She was now grinning.

“So you want to be alone with me, do you?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Was that fun for you?”

“Yes.”

And she wasn’t ashamed to admit it, he realized. Captivating baggage. “Return the cloud to me and I will take you home.”

“Wait. What?” Her grin slowly faded. “I thought you wanted to be alone with me.”

“I do. So that we can conclude our business.”

Disappointment, regret, anger and relief played over her features. One step, two, she closed the distance between them. “Well, I’m not giving you the cloud. That would be stupid.”

“You have my word that once you return it to me, I will take you home. I know you hear the truth in my claim.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged a little. “So we really would be rid of each other. That’s great, then.”

Did she still not believe him? Or… No, surely not. “Do you want to stay here?”

“Of course not!” She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, and her eyes closed for a moment, an expression of pleasure consuming her features. “Mmm, cherries.” Blood…heating…

Her lashes lifted and her gaze locked on him. Determination replaced all the other emotions, yet her voice dipped sexily. “But I know something that tastes even better.”

So did he. Her. A tremor slid the length of his spine. “Do not do this, Bianka. You will fail.” He hoped.

“One kiss,” she beseeched, “and the cloud is yours.”

His eyes narrowed. Hot, so hot. “You cannot be trusted to keep your word.”