The Darkest Seduction (Lords of the Underworld #9)(47)
Author: Gena Showalter

“I can answer, or I can help you.”

So sick of his manipulations, but there’s no denying I could use his help. And aren’t I just the cutest damsel in distress ever? Aeron had carried Paris through the skies a time or two, so he knew there was nothing sexual about it. He only prayed Zacharel realized the erection he currently sported had nothing to do with their close proximity.

The angel wrapped his arms around Paris’s waist. “You’ll find good deeds are balm for the soul.”

“That’s just peachy.” For a greater sense of being anchored, Paris wrapped his own arms around the angel’s neck. Solid muscle, ice-cold skin. Even as primed and needy as Sex was, the demon stayed quiet. “But can we do this without conversation?”

“Can we? Yes. Will we? No. While you are my captive audience, I wish to discuss your unhealthy obsession with the dead girl and the fact that she will be better off without you.”

O-kay. Paris brought his legs between them, pushed their bodies apart, and jumped.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BLOOD DRIPPED FROM SIENNA’S hands, caked her clothing and made her tennies squish disgustingly with every step she took. As with every other time Wrath had taken over her body and whisked her out of the castle, he had forced her to follow the shadows to their lair so that he could wage an attack and hurt the creatures far worse than they had hurt others. His crimson-bright gaze had shone through hers, cutting through their skin…or ooze…or whatever comprised their outer shell, burning them. He had laughed and laughed.

The shadows had been too sated from gorging to fight back, their helplessness an aphrodisiac to Wrath, making him crave more, more, more, and the moment he’d finished with the shadows, he had turned his sights on the other beings living in this hidden realm, rhapsodizing when they, too, screamed in pain.

When his hunger was finally satisfied, he tried to force her to walk back to the castle. For the first time, she had known what he was doing while he was doing it, her mind refusing to break its link with Paris, and she’d fought him—and fought hard. Ultimately, as replete as he’d been, he’d given up and retreated to the back of her mind. Now she was at the wheel and driving the (short) bus.

Sadly, her fighting wasn’t yet done. There was an invisible cord connecting the castle and her neck, trying to pull her closer and closer. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could resist. Her wings were shredded—not that she knew how to fly without Wrath’s guidance—and though they would heal in a few hours, they were currently unable to hold her weight. Still, she dug her heels into the ground and managed to slow her momentum. Pain vibrated in her bones. She cringed as she turned…turned…and began to slip away in the opposite direction. Yes. Yes!

To go back, even to see Paris, to say goodbye, to kiss him one last time, to make love to him, was to imprison herself. And though she was tempted, oh, was she tempted, she had to do this. For him. For Skye. Before Cronus learned of her escape, thought to punish Paris and started pulling her strings all over again.

If she could reach Galen, interrogate and kill him before Cronus realized she was gone, she wouldn’t have to seduce him, and the war between the Lords and the Hunters would at last end. Even if the keeper of Hope never told her where her sister was, he couldn’t hurt the girl if he was dead. That would have to suffice.

Footsteps echoed, jerking her out of her mind. There were beings behind her, she realized, following her. She didn’t have to glance back to know they were empty-eyed males with sagging, gray-tinted skin and jaws that split into rows of four, each loaded with razor-sharp fangs. They were killers without a conscience, the blood of their enemies their source of life.

A few weeks ago, Wrath had struck at their camp, leaving blood and death in his wake. Of course, that meant Sienna—the face the survivors had seen—had become Enemy One. They’d been gunning for her ever since, and would have attacked the castle if not for the Gargl.

The urge to run was nearly irresistible. From the glimpses her demon had given her of these creatures, she knew how they’d hunted in the past, knew how mercilessly they’d killed. Knew they enjoyed the chase more than they enjoyed the slaughter. So maybe if she kept a calm head, maybe if she stayed on her current path, they’d lose interest in her.

Yeah, maybe. Not.

“You took our ssslavesss, female. Now you become our ssslave.”

That lisp came courtesy of his fangs, which sliced at the words as they emerged.

“The thingsss we’ll do to you…” A calculated snicker. “The ssscreamsss you’ll utter…”

Offering no reply, but remaining highly attuned to their every move, she forced herself farther and farther from the castle. Her surroundings became darker, the air thicker, scented with blood and other things. She bypassed piles of bones, crimson-colored ponds, caverns that sprang from the mouths of large, carved skulls. She had no weapons, and wasn’t exactly sure where the realm’s exit was—only knew it was here because Cronus had brought her through while she was semi-conscious, and besides, how else would Paris and his friend have entered?—or where in the heavens she would next find herself.

Should have questioned Paris. Hindsight sucked.

“Yesss, keep walking, female. You’re headed ssstraight for our camp.”

Truth or lie? Wrath was no help this time. Should she stop? Fight them? Her self-defense skills were laughable, considering she had trouble balancing her weight. No matter what she did or where she went, the men were going to attack her, and that was that. Waiting for them to strike merely delayed the inevitable.

A pain-filled grunt rent the air behind her, followed by another. Then another. The men must be fighting among themselves, she thought with a tide of relief, saving her the trouble.

A head—without a body—rolled past her. The empty-eyed stare flashed, disappeared, flashed, disappeared. She tripped over her own feet as another head rolled past. Her stomach churned, even as her relief tripled.

“Must you kill so needlessly?” a male voice asked. Emotionless, and yet there was something in the cadence, something that caressed her ears.

“Yeah. I must.”

Paris! Sienna whirled around, her heart a thunderstorm inside her chest. Her gaze cut through the darkness. Where was— There! Her knees nearly buckled from the ensuing flood of happiness.

“Why?” The speaker was a dark-haired man dressed in a robe, keeping pace beside Paris. He had a sublime face, wicked in its heartless beauty. Majestic wings of white-gold stretched from his back. He looked like a fallen angel, but then, so did Galen. Still, if Paris trusted him, so would she. Snow wafted around him, but only him. The flakes seemed to absorb into his skin and crystallize.