The Darkest Surrender (Lords of the Underworld #8)(13)
Author: Gena Showalter

She shut her bedroom door in his stunned face, heard him snarl low in his throat and grinned. The grin vanished as a thought occurred to her. There was plenty of stolen food in the kitchen. If he noticed, there’d be no good reason for her to take him hunting.

Have to risk it. I smell. Kaia hurried through a shower, grateful as the grime and total body makeup that had caked her washed away. She almost raced from her room after changing into a glittery pink T-shirt that read Strangers Have the Best Candy and short jean shorts, but caught a glimpse of herself in her full-length mirror. Outfit was fine, but not her hair. The red mass was sopping wet and practically glued to her head and arms, making her resemble a drowned clown.

Back to the bathroom she raced for a crucial blow-dry. She thought about applying another layer of makeup to her exposed skin, wanting Strider to want her for her, not any other reason, but discarded the idea. Let Strider see. Let Strider crave. Right now, she’d take him however she could get him. Later, they could work on their reasons why.

If she decided to give him another chance.

Finally, she raced from the bedroom. In record time, too. Just under twenty (forty) minutes.

A trail of fragrant steam followed her as she strode down the hall. No Strider in the living room, where she kept her life-size hula dancer lamp and the castle she’d built from empty beer cans. He must be looking around. She wondered what he thought of her place, her things, and tried to see the room through his eyes.

Besides the coffee table, which was carved to resemble a hunched over wooden Sumo wrestler with a sheet of glass perched on top, and the chair with arms that were actually painted to look like humans legs that stretched to the floor, the furniture was beautiful, pieces she and Bianka had stolen throughout the centuries.

History was a scent that clung to almost every polished piece. Okay, maybe not the white rug with two yellow pillows sewn at one end, so that the whole thing looked like eggs in a frying pan. Or the hamburger beanbag chair, complete with lettuce, tomato and mustard layers, but that was it.

And okay, maybe the couch and love seat had been chosen for comfort more than anything else, and were no more than a decade old. She’d crashed a frat party a few years ago and had liked the way the overstuffed cushions had conformed to her body. Plus, they were a pretty tawny color, almost the same as Bianka’s eyes, so she’d made sure to leave with them. No one had tried to stop her, either. Maybe because she’d carried each one over her head. By herself.

Colorful vases decorated the tabletops, interspersed with personalized bobblehead dolls and the occasional stuffed squirrel in a crazy outfit. Weapons and artwork hung on the walls right beside the homemade plaques congratulating her on a job well done. Her fave: the one for giving Bianka the best birthday present ever—the tongue of the man who’d called her a “mean, ugly hag.”

There were also photos of her and her family. Bianka, as well as their younger sis, Gwen, and their older half sis, Taliyah. Kaia partying hard at clubs, Bianka winning beauty pageants, Gwen trying to hide from the camera, and Taliyah standing proudly over her kills. Mercenary that she was, she had a lot of kills.

In the kitchen—Kaia skidded to a halt, her heart banging frantically against her ribs. Strider. Gorgeous, sexy Strider. He sat at the pool table she’d plucked from his fortress her very first visit there and now used in the breakfast nook. Food was scattered in every direction, from bags of chips to cheese slices to candy bars.

He wasn’t looking at her, hadn’t even glanced at her, but he had stiffened when she’d stepped inside. “I figured that, since these things were here, they were acceptable for you to eat. Which means I more than kept up with you. I outwitted and surpassed you.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. How disappointing. The one time she wanted her man to forget he had a brain, he remembered.

She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms over her chest. Her stomach tightened, threatening to growl, but she remained in place, waiting. Only when he’d gotten a good once-over would she move.

“Kaia. Eat.”

“In a minute. I’m enjoying the view. You should give it a try.”

He tensed. “There’s a note from your sister on the fridge. She said she’s in the heavens with Lysander, and she’ll see you in four days for the games.”

“’Kay.”

“What games? Never mind,” he rushed out before she could reply. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. What perfume are you wearing? I don’t like it.”

Asshat. “I’m not wearing any perfume.” And she knew he loved it. He had a weakness for cinnamon, something she’d noticed while stalking, uh, hanging out with him.

Within hours of learning that little tidbit, she’d stocked up on cinnamon-scented soap, shampoo and conditioner.

“Stop…enjoying the view and come eat,” he said through clenched teeth.

He’d closed the blinds over the only window and flipped on the overhead light. Natural sunlight complemented her skin the best, but— Oh, who was she kidding, acting all modest? Any light complemented her skin.

“Kaia. Come. Eat. Now.”

Gods, she adored that authoritative tone. She shouldn’t. She should hate it—barbarians weren’t supposed to be attractive to modern women—but still, she shivered. “Make me.” Please.

Finally his gaze skidded over to her. He was on his feet a second later, his chair sliding behind him. His mouth floundered open and closed, and his pupils dilated. He licked his lips. He reached out to grip the edge of the table, his nostrils flaring as he fought to breathe. “You… Your… Shit!”

Every pulse point hammering, she twirled. She knew what he saw—rainbow shards dancing hypnotically over every inch of visible flesh, the blush of health and vitality…the promise of seduction. “You like?”

As if in a trance, he moved around the table and stepped toward her. Closed the distance…stopped just before he reached her and cursed. He spun, giving her his back, and tangled a hand through his hair.

“I’ve gotta go.” His voice was hoarse, the words pushed through a river of broken glass.

What? No! “You just got here.” And he’d been so close to making a move on her. Just the thought caused her ni**les to bead and moisture to pool between her legs.

“I told you, I promised Paris I’d help him. I have to help him. Yeah, that’s what I have to do.”

Would she ever overcome his determination to resist her? ’Cause yeah, she wanted him, wanted to give him another chance. And another. However many he needed to get this right. “Strider, I—”