The Darkest Seduction (Lords of the Underworld #9)(30)
Author: Gena Showalter

Viola rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You’re right. I wouldn’t get sick if I touched him. I’m sure you noticed how killer my immune system is. But even still, I’m not sure I want someone so flawed worshipping at my temple. Who else is there?”

“There’s Kane, but he’s…” Sadness dulled Ashlyn’s amber eyes. “He doesn’t date. Says it’s not worth the hardship.”

“He’d change his mind for me, of course, but that’s not why you’re sad, right? I believe I heard something about him being missing.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry. As soon as he finds out I’m here, he’ll find his way back. Even if he’s dead. I don’t like to brag, but that’s happened a few times before. I’ll just shoot out a quick little Screech, and boom. The race to reach me will begin.”

Rather than cheer the girl up, her reassurances tossed worry into that storm of sadness. “Uh, you’re not supposed to Screech,” Ashlyn said. “Remember?”

Viola’s shoulders slumped. That’s right. Within five minutes of arriving here, Lucien had dragged her to the luscious Torin’s bedroom and told the guy to check out her blog and website—evidently he was the resident computer guru. Afterward, both men had issued the same warning. Screech or post anything online about her location or her new BFFs and she would never be allowed back.

“Who else?” she asked.

Ashlyn nibbled on her bottom lip. “There’s Cameo, but I’m pretty sure she likes men.”

Viola shook her head. “I could change her mind, no problem, but I’m so over that stage of my life. Who else?”

“There’s William the Ever Randy. He’s not a demon keeper, but he’s some kind of immortal.”

William the Naughty Boy Toy. Oh, yes, she knew him. Like Anya, Viola had met him in Tartarus. “He’s more than immortal, but whatever.” He was also arrogant, conceited and highly annoying. “I’ll put him in the maybe category.”

“More than immortal? What does that mean? He’s claimed to be some kind of god a few times, but I always assumed he was bragging, padding the truth. Which is—”

“Enough about him. We’re talking about me. Who else can I date?”

Annnd a return of the nibbling. “There’s Paris, but he’s kind of obsessed with another woman right now.”

“The dead one. Yeah. I know. I could still change his mind, but I don’t think I want to, because…” There was a reason, wasn’t there? As Viola pondered the answer, she clinked her teeth together.

Paris had asked her how to see the dead, and she had told him. Then he’d asked her something else, but Lucien arrived and ended their conversation. What had he asked? She tuned her mind’s radio in to their past conversation, and her eyes widened as the answer at last slammed into place.

Consequences. He’d wanted to know if there would be consequences for tattooing himself with Sienna’s ashes. Oops. She’d let him get away without telling him that yes, there would be.

Oh, well. It wasn’t her problem. It was his.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DAZED, SIENNA WALKED down a long hallway. Just as her past had played along the walls of the castle, Paris’s past played here, a concerto of colors, faces, voices…limbs. On both sides of her, above and below her, women writhed, so many women. At first, she saw them smiling, heard them laughing, each one eager for what he offered, quickly falling for his charming facade.

Why wouldn’t they? Whatever they wanted, he gave them. A touch, a kiss, a lick. A gentle ride. A rough pounding. He made love to all of them, knew exactly where to stroke and taste for maximum pleasure. He knew precisely the right amount of pressure to use as he kneaded their br**sts, their thighs. Soft for some, firm for others.

He knew what position to place them in. On their backs, their hands and knees, right side up, upside down. Knew some wanted slow, and some wanted fast. They loved him for it, their pleasure unparalleled.

Then he left them and they cried with gut-wrenching sobs, their bodies heaving, their hearts breaking as the grief overcame them. Interspersed throughout the females were males. Paris had been with men, too, and he’d left them in the same condition as the women. They wanted him, and though they were not his preference, he took them so that he might survive. Afterward, they asked him to stay and he bailed.

One woman, Susan, was a beauty he’d truly cared for. He’d tried to make a relationship with her work, but Paris, being Paris, had hurt her in the worst way, choosing survival, as always, over her heart.

When Sienna caught an image of herself, she stopped, gasped. There, practically overshadowed by the other images, Paris was strapped to her boss’s table, naked, the lights dim, and she was on top of him. She didn’t need the vision to serve as a reminder. She would never forget.

She had been unable to see him, needing the darkness to relax, and he had alternated between snapping at her, hating her, hating himself, and aiding her, moving his hips to increase her pleasure. Now, however, she saw into his mind. Part of him had hoped to punish her afterward. Part of him—the deepest, most secret part—had wanted to hold on to her and never let go. To him, she had been a balm unlike any other.

Nausea rose, threatening to erupt. He had thought such beautiful things about her, and still she had condemned him.

Wrath slammed into her frontal lobe, urging her forward. To see more, to see all. She stumbled along, her feet as heavy as boulders.

Other scenes bled into the image of her and Paris, and someone must have cranked the volume control because suddenly she heard grunts, groans, moans and screams. Screams of pleasure, of pain and even of fury. Accusations were hurled, followed by pleas.

The pleas were followed by curses.

Sometimes, when Paris could find no one willing to be with him, his strength would wane, his will to live would wither and his demon would pull free of his reins. A dark, rich scent would seep from Paris’s pores, intoxicating everyone nearby, luring them closer. These people would flock to him, regardless of their previous reservations about him or their disgust for casual sex. They would take him, or allow him to take them.

When this happened, Paris always battled intense guilt, because he knew the dastardly thing he was doing—but he took whatever was offered anyway.

These bedmates did not cry when he left. They watched him through narrowed eyes, detesting him, shamed by what they’d done with and to him, horrified by what they would soon lose. A loved one’s respect.