The Darkest Seduction (Lords of the Underworld #9)(10)
Author: Gena Showalter

With a roar of white-hot rage, she sank those claws into Paris’s wrist and tossed him so hard he smacked into the building next door, its solid gold bricks cracking and plumping filigree into the air.

Oxygen abandoned his lungs. Stars returned to his line of vision. What. The. Hell? When he was able to focus clearly, he saw that Viola was Viola again, exquisite, blonde and innocent.

“Oops. My bad.” With a tinkling chuckle, she stuffed her phone into her boot. “Touching the merchandise isn’t allowed. Ever. Now, did you need something from me?”

Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is gonna be fun. I can tell.”

“Do you mind going with Lucien?” Paris asked her as he lumbered to his feet. Every new breath scraped his lungs against his ribs. Worse, the wound in his neck had opened. With one toss, she’d done far more damage to his body than the three amigos inside the bar had. “He’ll take you to Anya and you two girls can, uh, catch up.” He’d thought to force her to go. Now? He’d beg if necessary.

“Seriously?” Viola clapped, twirled and threw herself into Lucien’s arms. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! I’m going with you, but only if you promise to stop and pick up my pet, Princess Fluffikans, on the way. Small word of warning, though. You’re about to fall madly, passionately in love with me, and Anya will be utterly heartbroken.”

It was far more likely that one of the other—single—warriors would fall madly, passionately in bed with her, but now wasn’t the time to point that out.

Lucien fought off her octopus-like arms, scowled at Paris, and vanished with Viola jabbering about her majorly awesome awesomeness. Paris didn’t bother staying where he was. Death could follow the spiritual trail he left behind, easy, and meet him somewhere else.

Time to do a little tattooing.

The mortal and immortal worlds were scarily alike. Titania was a thriving metropolis of shopping centers and restaurants, brimming with entertainment of any and every kind. Didn’t take Paris long to gather the necessary tattooing equipment and a spare set of clothes, and settle into one of the motels he’d been amused to discover existed here. Apparently even immortals liked to have secret assignations.

As he waited for Lucien, he ate because it was de rigueur. A sandwich, and he had no idea what was strapped between the bread. He got himself off because that was necessary for his demon. He hadn’t had sex today, and the orgasm was like an injection of strength. Strength that wouldn’t last, not like the adrenaline rush that accompanied intercourse, but whatever. He’d take what he could get.

He showered, cleaned off the blood and the wealth of other things clinging to his skin. A lot of humans had died under his blade today. Hunters, his enemy. Mostly males. More and more, they were recruiting females. Paris wondered what would have happened if he’d met Sienna on the battlefield, or if he’d ever attempted to interrogate her.

If she’d lived long enough, that’s what he had planned to do to her. After he’d bedded her again. Would he have hurt her? He liked to think no, but…damn. He couldn’t be sure. She’d known things she shouldn’t. Where he was, why he was there. How to distract him, what to use to drug him, an immortal unaffected by human toxins. Now he knew she’d gotten her info from Rhea, Cronus’s wife and the true leader of the Hunters. Not directly, he didn’t think, but filtered down through the ranks. But even if he hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have concerned himself with questioning her this time around. He just wanted her.

Safe, right? You just want her safe? A sneer from Sex.

Whatever. Paris toweled off and looked himself over in the steam-fogged mirror. He’d lost a little weight, had bruises under his eyes, a few scratches on his cheeks and neck. His hair wasn’t exactly even. He’d trimmed the strands himself, just kind of chopping anytime a piece fell into his eyes. What would Sienna think of him now? Despite everything, she’d been attracted to him before. Would she still be attracted to him? Right now, he might be a little too feral for any woman. Very mountain-man meets post-traumatic stress survivor.

But what if the impossible happened and she did, in fact, want him again? For real, with no hidden agenda. What if she simply craved his body inside of hers? After all, she’d fought her way free of Cronus’s prison and come looking for him.

Lowering his guard would be stupid. He couldn’t trust her. Not really. He could take her, yeah, that was still on the menu. If he could still get hard for her while he was around her. Only time would tell. And if he could—and he thought he could, considering he was hard merely from thinking about her—maybe he could even stay with her a few days. If so, would his hunger for her finally wane? Or would it continue to intensify? Would he be able to let her go when the time came?

What if she wanted to stay with him?

He yearned for that. So damn badly he yearned for that. But like Zacharel had said, Paris would ruin her if he kept her. Not for the reasons the angel had given, but because if he and Sienna were ever separated and he couldn’t get to her, he would cheat on her. He would have to. His other choice would be death, and on the scales of life-versus-death, cheating—surviving—won every time.

He knew that firsthand, had once tried to sustain a relationship with a woman. Susan. He’d had her, knew he couldn’t have her again, but had craved something more and had pleased her in other ways. He’d genuinely liked her, had enjoyed her company—but had ultimately cheated on her, hurting her worse than anyone else ever had.

And here was another slap of truth: if he cheated on Sienna, he would destroy everything they had managed to build, as well as her heart, her sense of trust and any hint of innocence. He would be worthy of every dark deed she then committed against him—yet still he wanted her.

The situation was so messed up.

Scowling, he slammed his fist into the mirror. Jagged pieces of glass fell, shattering further when they hit the floor, surrounding his discarded weapons and glistening like diamonds in a sea of destruction. Blood dripped from his knuckles as he palmed and sheathed the blades at his wrists and ankles and holstered the guns under his arms. At this rate, he’d soon be carving himself up like Reyes, the keeper of Pain. Anything for release, for a moment when he didn’t have to wonder or worry about anything but his injuries.

Whatever. He’d gotten used to wondering and worrying. They were his constant companions now, and without them, he’d be utterly alone. Paris dressed in the new clothes he’d bought, a black shirt and black pants. Where he was going, night reigned no matter the time of day. He needed to blend.