The Darkest Prison (Lords of the Underworld #3.5)(4)
Author: Gena Showalter

Nike moaned, as if she really liked what was being done to her. Red flickered through Atlas’s vision. How. Dare. She. Teeth grinding, he grabbed Nike by the collar of her robe and jerked her into the hard line of his body, away from Erebos.

A gasp escaped her. Unlike when the blonde had gasped, he did not remain unaffected. He wanted to swallow the sound—and do something, anything, to cause Nike to make it again.

What’s wrong with me?

“Hey,” Erebos snapped, foolishly reaching for her to finish what had been started. “We were busy.”

Scowling, Atlas kicked him in the chest. The smaller man flew backward, slamming into his fellow prisoners. He jumped to his feet to attack, saw who had rendered the blow and stilled, nostrils flaring.

“Touch her again,” Atlas said, “and I’ll remove your collar—right along with your head.”

The god paled, perhaps even whimpered. “She wasn’t worth it, anyway.”

Atlas might kill him for his words, as well.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nike demanded, suddenly coming to life and drawing his attention. She whirled on him, glaring up at him. “I can sleep with whoever I want. And hey, I might even pick one of your friends.”

Despite her heated words, she wasn’t breathless as she would have been if Atlas had been the one kissing her, and her cheeks weren’t flushed. Her ni**les weren’t even hard. Finally, something cooled the hottest flames of his rage.

“Just zip your mouth.” He latched on to Nike’s upper arm and dragged her out of the cell with him. Automatically, the bars closed behind him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said again, tugging against his hold. She’d never been one to obey him.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he countered. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he stopped. The blonde, who just happened to be the goddess of memory—damn it, what was her name? Mini? No, but close. M and M? Minisong? Closer. Mnemosyne. Yes, that was it—Mnemosyne, as well as the three other warriors chosen to guard Tartarus today, were gaping at him.

“What?” he snapped. At least Nike stopped resisting him. She stilled at his side, attention darting from him to the others, the others to him.

“You can’t just remove a prisoner,” Hyperion, god of light, said. He was a handsome man, though as pale as his title suggested, and Nike had better not be eyeing him as a possible bedmate.

“I’m not removing her,” Atlas replied stiffly. “I’m relocating her.” To a cell of her own, where no one could put their dirty, disgusting lips on her. Where no one could put their roving hands on her body. There was nothing sexual about this decision, either. He simply didn’t want her experiencing any type of pleasure. She didn’t deserve it.

“Why?” Mnemosyne regarded him curiously, not a single thread of upset or jealously in her expression.

Why? he wondered himself. She’d been eager to date him for months, summoning him constantly. Last night, she’d even shown up at his home naked.

She was beautiful, yes, and he’d almost given in and slept with her. His body had been worked into a frenzy after what had transpired with Nike, and he’d been desperate for release. But before he sealed the deal, he’d sent the determined goddess away. He’d felt too guilty to continue. As if he were cheating on Nike. Which was ridiculous. The only relationship he had with Nike was one of hate.

Besides, who wanted to spend time with a female who would never forget your mistakes? A female who would remember your every transgression? Not him. Yet he’d flashed to Mnemosyne’s home this morning and asked her to spend the day with him, just so he could bring her to the prison this morning. He’d been strangely jubilant at the thought of parading her in front of Nike.

So again, he wondered why Mnemosyne did not feel as if Nike were a threat. Though most females didn’t, he knew. He’d heard them talk. Nike was too tall, too muscled, they said. She was too hard, and too coarse. But those were the things that had first sparked his interest in her. She could handle his strength. She gave as good as she got. She would never wither under his glare. She would never run from his anger. She would always face him head-on. And he liked that. A lot. No other female he’d ever encountered had that kind of courage.

And she was pretty, he thought. Yes, only yesterday he’d thought her barely so, but, just now, that seemed wrong on every level. Only a short while ago, when he’d first walked into the prison, he’d felt her gaze on him and had looked up. For a second, only a second, her defenses had been lowered. She hadn’t known he’d been watching her, so she hadn’t guarded her expression. An expression that had been soft, wistful, her eyes luminous. The sight of her had heated his blood as if he’d been caught on fire.

That still didn’t mean he desired her, his enemy. The fact that his name was spelled across her back was simply playing havoc with his mind, his sense of possession, he was sure.

“Well,” Mnemosyne prompted.

“Yeah,” Nike said. “We’re waiting for an answer.”

To what? Oh, yeah. Why was he moving her. He raised his chin, refusing to look down at her. Not that he would have had to look far. At six foot, she was nearly as tall as he was. “I don’t need a reason. I’m responsible for this prison and everyone in it. Therefore, if I want to move you, I can.”

The last was meant for the Titans. They would do well not to question him.

Without another word, he dragged Nike away. Where should he take her? To his office, he decided. At the moment, there wasn’t an empty cell in the entire realm.

“You’re lucky I don’t have that bastard slain,” he said when he was sure the others couldn’t hear him.

She didn’t have to ask who “that bastard” was. “What for?”

For touching what’s mine. “He didn’t have permission to consort with you.” Atlas snaked a corner, and there at the end of the hallway was his door.

“Consort with me?” She laughed without humor. “Oh, wait. I get it. You can screw anyone you want, but I can’t.”

Good. They were on the same page. “That’s right.” He pushed his way inside and finally released her. His hands itched to return to her, but he kept them at his sides. Rather than settle behind his desk, he faced her, placing them nose to nose. “You are to suffer in solitude.” Gods, she smelled good. Like passion. Pure, white-hot passion.