The Darkest Night (Lords of the Underworld #1)(17)
Author: Gena Showalter

"I don’t understand," she breathed. Am I dreaming?

Maddox – no, the man, for he couldn’t possibly be Maddox, no matter how similar the voices – stepped into the cell. His attention jerked to the side, away from her, as if he needed a moment to compose himself.

Golden rays of sunlight danced over him, reverently caressing his beautiful face. Same dark eyebrows, same thickly lashed violet eyes. Same blade of a nose and lush lips.

How could this be? How had her captors produced the exact likeness of the man she’d met last night, down to that same feral edge? A man who stopped the voices of the past with his mere presence?

A twin?

Her eyes widened. A twin. Of course. Finally, something made sense. "They killed your brother," she blurted out. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he was glad. But maybe, just maybe, he’d take her into town and she could report the horrendous crime she’d witnessed. Justice could be served.

"I do not have a brother," he said. "Not by blood."

"But… but…" Maddox will be fine, the gorgeous man had said. She shook her head. Impossible. She’d watched him die. But an angel could have been resurrected, right? A hard lump formed in her throat. The men of this household were most definitely not angels, no matter what the townspeople claimed.

His gaze swept back to her, down her body in a possessive appraisal and up again. He scowled. "Did they leave you here all night?" Countenance darker by the second, he scanned the rest of the cell. "Tell me they gave you blankets and water and only removed them this morning."

Shaking still, she smoothed a hand over her face and through her hair, wincing at the tangles she encountered. Dirt probably caked her from head to toe. Like that matters. "Who are you? What are you?"

For a long while, he didn’t speak. Just studied her as though she were a bug under a microscope. She knew that look well. It was a favorite of everyone at the Institute. "You know who I am."

"But you can’t be him," she insisted, not wanting to accept the other alternative. He was not like the others, the demons who had slain him. "My Maddox is dead."

"Your Maddox?" Something fiery flickered in his eyes. "Yours?"

She lifted her chin, refusing to answer.

Lips inching into what might have been a smile, he held out one arm and beckoned her over. "Come. We will clean you up, warm you and feed you. Then I will…explain."

That hesitation made it clear he wouldn’t be explaining anything. He had something else in mind and his tone suggested that something would be intense. She remained in place, scared to the core. "Let me see your stomach," she said, stalling for time.

His fingers gave a swift jerk. "Come."

A part of her wanted to go to him, to follow wherever he would lead. Because he did look like Maddox, and whatever else Maddox was, he’d still been the best thing to ever happen to her. But once again she held her ground. "No."

"Come."

She shook her head. "I’m staying here until you show me your stomach."

"I won’t hurt you, Ashlyn." The words not yet echoed from the walls – unsaid, but there all the same. Even more unnerving, the sound of her name on his tongue was decadent, as if he couldn’t help but savor it. And desire another taste. "Ashlyn," he repeated.

Another shiver raked her and she frowned. He shouldn’t desire her, and she damn sure shouldn’t desire him. "You can’t be my Maddox. You just can’t."

That intense, fiery something flashed over his face again. "That’s twice now you’ve claimed me as yours."

"I-I’m sorry." She didn’t know what else to say. Maddox had saved her from the voices, for a little while at least. She had watched him die. They were connected. He was hers.

"Don’t be sorry." He sounded almost tender just then. "I am Maddox," he insisted. "Now come."

"No."

Tired of her refusal, the man closed the rest of the distance between them. He smelled of wanton heat and primitive rituals performed in the moonlight. "I’ll carry you over my shoulder if I must, just as I did last night. If I’m forced to do it, however, I cannot guarantee you’ll make it out of this cell with your clothes on. Understand?"

Oddly, his words were heady when they should have been frightening. Comforting when they should have been intimidating. Only Maddox knew the way she’d been carted. He’d switched her to his arms before entering the chateau and yelling at his murderers.

"Please," she found herself saying. "Just show me your stomach." The more she demanded to see it, the more she wanted to. Would she find stitched wounds? Smooth skin?

Would there be any indication that this man had been stabbed over and over again?

At first he gave no reaction to her request. Then, finally, he sighed. "It appears I am the one who will not make it out of here with my clothes on." He reached for the hem of his black tee and slowly… slowly… raised it.

Despite her insistence, Ashlyn couldn’t yet work up the courage to tear her attention from his intense violet gaze. She told herself it was because his eyes were so beautiful, so mesmerizing that she was lost in them, drowning. But she knew that was only half the truth. If he was stitched, was scabbed… if this was Maddox…

"You wanted to look. So look," the man commanded, both impatient and resigned.

Do it. Look. Inch by inch, her gaze lowered. She saw a corded neck and a wildly ticking pulse. A collarbone mostly covered by black cloth. She saw one of his thick hands fisting that cloth right above his heart. His ni**les were tiny, brown and hard. His skin was that otherworldly bronze she’d admired in the forest, and he was stacked with rope after rope of muscle.

And then she saw them. Six scabbed-over wounds. Not stitched, but red and angry. Painful.

She sucked in a shocked breath. Almost in a trance, she reached out. Her fingertip brushed the scab that slashed through his navel. The healing sore was rough and warm and abraded her palm. Electric tingles rushed up her arm.

"Maddox," she gasped out.

"Finally," he muttered, backing away as if she were a bomb, detonation imminent. He dropped the shirt, blocking the injuries from her view. "Are you satisfied now? I’m here, and I’m very real."

He – no, not "he." Maddox. Not his twin, not a dream. Not a trick. He’d been stabbed; the evidence was there, those six hellish wounds. He’d had no heartbeat, no breath. And now he stood before her.

"How?" she asked, needing to hear him say it. "You’re not an angel. Does that mean you’re a demon? That’s what some people have said about you and your friends."