The Darkest Prison (Lords of the Underworld #3.5)(12)
Author: Gena Showalter

“You insolent fool!”

Atlas peered up at the fuming Cronus. Not like he could do anything else. His wrists were chained to poles, forcing him to remain on his knees. The very collar he’d removed from Nike was now wrapped around his own neck.

He’d known this would happen, but he hadn’t cared. He still didn’t. Nike was free, and that was all that mattered.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“No.”

“One Greek can raise an army. That army can attack us. Ruin us. I told you that, and still you defied me.”

“Nike won’t do that,” he said confidently. He trusted her to disappear. Even as angry as she had to be with him, she would not endanger herself to save people she had never truly liked.

Cronus slammed his fist against the arm of his throne, ever the petulant child. “You can’t know that! You aren’t my All-Seeing Eye.”

Atlas arched a brow, refusing to be cowed. “Would you risk being imprisoned again to help your fellow Titans? I may not be able to see all the secrets of the heavens and hell, yet I know you would not.”

The king had no response to that, but that didn’t stop him from growling. “You disobeyed a direct order, and you will be punished.”

“I understand.” He offered the statement without hesitation. It was the truth. He understood that the god king had to make an example out of him. Otherwise, others would see him as weak. They would disobey him as Atlas had.

“I think you actually do.” Some of Cronus’s fury abated. “Only this morning I saw a portrait of you. A portrait painted by my Eye. With it, she showed me exactly how to punish you.” The king smiled evilly and looked to the ghostlike girl still standing at his side. “You know what to do, sweet Sienna.”

Sienna strode forward, a knife appearing in her hand. She stopped in front of Atlas and dropped to her knees, placing them eye to eye. So this was it, he thought. The end. As an immortal, he’d never thought to reach this point. Still. He found he only regretted that he hadn’t had more time with Nike, that he hadn’t gotten the chance to apologize for his harsh words the last time they were together and that he would never have the chance to confess his love.

With absolutely no emotion on her face, the girl dug the tip of the blade into his wrist and cut out his sensor, rather than chop off his head. That’s when he realized Cronus meant to lock him away rather than kill him. Good. More time to think about Nike and what could have been.

But then Sienna moved the blade to his chest and pressed, slicing. It stung, but that was not what made him struggle against her ministrations. No, it was the fact that she began carving Nike’s name from his chest. He roared loud and long, fighting for all he was worth. Guards were called over and hard hands settled over him, pressing him down, holding him steady. Still he fought, but in the end, they managed to remove all four letters.

As they walked away from him, he glanced down at himself through burning, watery eyes. Blood poured down his chest and four open wounds stared up at him, the muscles torn, the skin completely gone. He might have hated that brand at one point in his life, but he’d grown to love it as much as the woman who’d given it to him. More than that, it had been the last remaining evidence of her presence.

His hands fisted, and his back straightened. Blood and sweat mingled, stinging further. Another roar burst from his lips, and he tossed it to the domed ceiling. He didn’t stop until his throat was shredded from the strain.

“Are you quite finished?” Cronus asked him.

His gaze fell to the dais, narrowing. “I will destroy you for this,” his vowed brokenly. “One day you will die by my hand.”

“Not likely. Take him to Tartarus,” the king told his guards, unconcerned. “Where he will rot for all eternity.”

CHAPTER TEN

It took her two days, but Nike finally located Atlas’s home, a sprawling estate in Olympus. The amount of wealth he’d needed to acquire such a place astonished her. But then, she supposed he’d considered every cent worth it. After living in a tiny cell for thousands of years, he’d most likely wanted every bit of space he could get. And every amenity.

There was a swimming pool, more than thirty bedrooms, two winding, marble staircases and four fireplaces, and all the walls were comprised of solid gold. None of that interested her, however. Only his bedroom did.There, she discovered more about the man who had sent her on her way. A man who would not have risked this just to avoid her face, as he’d claimed. A man who would not have risked his life for anything other than love.

He owned a huge bed and had covered it with black silk sheets. The walls were painted with murals of the sun and sky, and the furniture smelled of rich mahogany. There were multiple bookcases, each filled with leather-bound books. Beaded pillows were strategically placed along the floor. Places for him to lounge and read, she supposed.

What held her attention, however, was the portrait hanging above the hearth. A portrait of her.

He must have commissioned it after their time inside that tent, for she was reclined in a porcelain tub, bubbles sliding over her shoulder and chest, her hair soaked. She would have looked as plain and masculine as always, except he’d had the artist add a sensual light to her dark eyes and a come-and-get-me curve to her lips.

Finally she knew how he saw her. As someone beautiful. Worthy.

Only a man in love would do such a thing. Only a man in love would keep such a thing in such a prominent place. Only a man in love would want to see a woman’s portrait every night before he fell asleep, then wake up looking at it.

Oh, yes. He loved her.

There, outside of Tartarus, she’d thought, hoped, that he did so, but she had let his words scrape against her already low self-esteem. How could so beautiful and sensual a man want her? she’d wondered. But he did. He loved her. Proof: he’d risked everything for her.

She could do no less for him.

Nike strode through the bedroom, knowing her lover would have a weapons case stashed somewhere—and knowing exactly what to do with it.

Atlas was not given a cell of his own—not at first. Still bleeding and frantic, fighting, he had been thrust into a cell with Erebos. Of course, that’s who had been chosen as his cell mate, he’d thought, rage filling him. A male who had once thought to claim his Nike. A male who had then stolen food from her, pushed her around and called her terrible names.

Atlas had seen it happen on numerous occasions. He hadn’t done anything about it then, telling himself she deserved what she got, but he’d wanted to. And there was no better time than now.