The Darkest Secret (Lords of the Underworld #7)(10)
Author: Gena Showalter

Bastards, she thought again, her molars gnashing together.

In this life or the next—and she was always given a “next”—she would punish them.

Spiderwebs suddenly wove in front of her eyes, gossamer threads laced with a shot of fatigue.

Determined, she swept them away. She couldn’t deteriorate. Not now. Micah needed her.

Haidee?

His voice startled her, but she quickly recovered. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

A soft sigh echoed, a whisper of contentment. The breathy sound stroked her—even though his mouth had never moved and his lips had never parted. Impossible. Right?

“Micah? How are you talking to me?”

Sweet, sweet, Haidee.

Again, his mouth hadn’t moved, but again, she’d heard him.

And she knew she wasn’t imagining his voice. She couldn’t be. She’d heard him before ever entering the room.

That could only mean… Her eyes widened in astonishment.

He was speaking inside her mind. Had been speaking inside her mind the entire time. That was new for them, too, and far more disconcerting than the heat.

How was he doing it? How could the Lords have caused this?

Reason it out later. “I’m going to look for weapons, okay?

Something, anything.” Could she even stand? Her muscles were vibrating, her veins fil ing with sludge.

“And then I’m going to find a way—”

No! Don’t leave. There was a panicked pause. Need you.

Please.

“I won’t leave the room, I swear, not without you, but I have to—”

No! No, no, no! Babbling now, his body tensing. You have to stay.

“Okay, baby, okay. I’m here. I’l stay.” Soft, gentle, the promise left her before she could consider the consequences. Not that they would matter. She would rather hand herself over to Defeat, gift wrapped on a silver platter, than cause this man any more grief. “I won’t budge from this spot. Promise.”

Need you, he said again, barely audible this time.

“You’ve got me. You’ve always got me.” She stretched out, mindful of his injuries, and curled herself around his fragile frame, offering what comfort she could. She knew what it was like to suffer alone. She didn’t want that for him. Ever.

Perhaps this was even a blessing in disguise. Micah probably wouldn’t survive his wounds if he left the bed anytime soon. And this way, when the demons returned—and they would return, they wouldn’t leave her for long—she would be here to fight them, to keep them from hurting him even more.

Yeah, they’d strike back and probably kil her. And yeah, she gagged, thinking of what would happen to her after that death, a fate so much worse than being stabbed, shot, or even burned alive. Al of which she’d endured before.

She’d told herself she wouldn’t consider what happened after she died, but she didn’t stop herself this time. Not even when fear swept through her, consuming her, chil ing her.

If she managed to kil any of the Lords, they would be eternal y lost, but she would be reformed, returned to the age she was now, minus any good memories she’d built of this lifetime, consumed only with the bad, with the hate. It was an agonizing process that made her scream and beg and pray for an eternal death of her own.

A process that had taught her to avoid death at al costs.

But this time…she would die wil ingly, eagerly, taking as many Lords as she could with her. And then, then she could return for the rest of them.

Then she could avenge Micah.

CHAPTER FOUR

AMUN BLINKED OPEN HIS EYES. Or tried to. The action proved difficult, since his lashes felt as if they’d been glued together. And maybe they had been. If one of his friends had punked him, he was going to retaliate. With scissors.

He kept tugging and final y managed to separate top from bottom. Immediately his eyebal s burned and watered, every thing around him seemingly smeared with Vaseline.

Worse, the light seeping in from the only window stil managed to lance his retinas like blade-tipped lasers. He turned his head away from the reflective glass and studied his surroundings as best he could.

He frowned—and damn, that hurt, tugging and splitting multiple cuts on his lips. He was in his own bedroom, but…

there was a hole in the wal . A hole that led into the chamber next door. A hole he hadn’t made, and to his knowledge, his friends hadn’t, either. He liked to think they would have asked his permission before redesigning his room like that.

How was he here, anyway?

Last thing he remembered, he’d been deep inside hel , fire crackling al around him as he fought evil spirits and basical y got the shit kicked out of both his body and his mind. Demon thoughts and human memories had bombarded him, like bombs going off inside his head, and they—

Were stil there, he realized, frown deepening. The dark thoughts and memories were stil there, but though they were churning, agitated, they remained at a distance, as if afraid to gain his attention. Why?

A feminine moan stroked his ears, shocking him into concentrating.

Amun stiffened, his attention shifting again, this time landing on his mattress. Or what should have been mattress. Beside him was a woman. A very beautiful woman who was curled on her side, facing him, her warm breath caressing him. One of her arms was bent over his stomach, as if she couldn’t bear to let him go, with her hand resting over his heart. Monitoring the beat?

That arm was tattooed from wrist to shoulder, completely sleeving her. He saw faces—human—each one glowing with life and love. Numbers, too. And dates, maybe?

Though, if so, some of those dates were from way back.

There were also names: Micah, Viola, Skye. And phrases: Darkness always loses to light and You have loved and been loved.

He knew her. Somehow he knew her. How—

The answer slid into place. Haidee, the one from his visions, or whatever they’d been. The little girl he’d yearned to comfort, and the woman he’d longed to touch. She was here.

How was she here?

He lifted his hand to smooth the pale hair plastered on her cheeks, and his muscle went death match on his bone, both aching in protest. Damn. What the hel was wrong with him?

As careful y as he was able, he moved his arm closer to his face, every inch an unsteady milestone, but not stopping until he had a clear look. Seeing the ruined flesh, the knotted muscle, he wanted to curse.

He’d been chained, maybe tortured. By Hunters? Had they tortured the girl, and his friends had rescued her, too?

As rage sparked inside him at the thought of her mistreatment, his gaze returned to her. She hadn’t moved, was stil sleeping so peaceful y. Dark circles marred the delicate tissue under her eyes. There were a few smudges of dirt lining her cheeks and a bruise on the underside of her jaw. Signs of wear and tear, but not torture. The rage muted to a low simmer.