The Darkest Surrender (Lords of the Underworld #8)(37)
Author: Gena Showalter

She was a Hunter, his enemy. She had tricked him, drugged him and helped imprison him. Whatever. She’d also helped him escape, and that’s when she died. Shot down by her own people while in Paris’s arms.

He’d relived that nightmare over and over again, thinking of all the things he could have, should have, done differently. Thinking about her final words of hate, her wish that he had been the one to die. She’d blamed him for what had happened, and rightly so.

Yet still her soul had come back for him. Had escaped its heavenly prison and found him. For help? Revenge? He didn’t know and didn’t care. All he knew was that Cronus had carted her away before he’d gotten a chance to speak with her. She had to be terrified, confused and desperate.

He could soothe her. He just had to find her.

Want, his demon said, drawing him out of his mind.

Dread flooded him. That command could mean only one thing.

Paris focused, and sure enough at the end of the alley loomed a trio of ugly bruisers. Fallen angels, he would guess, who, for whatever reason, had given over to their dark sides. They couldn’t be gods, even minor ones, because no power pulsed from them.

He had only to pass them and turn right, and he’d reach the goddess’s street.

When they spotted him, they grinned greedily.

I want, his demon said.

You’ll get yours soon enough.

Ignoring him, Sex blasted his special fragrance from Paris’s pores. Soon the scent of chocolate and expensive champagne thickened the air. From experience, he knew that every time the men breathed in, desire would flood them. Desire for Paris and Paris alone, even if they didn’t swing that way.

Damn you! he growled.

I want!

His dread intensified as their grins faded and they began licking their lips.

“You want by, you’ll get on your knees.”

“We each get a turn.”

“And I’ll be first,” the biggest one said.

Paris slowed, but didn’t stop and didn’t change direction. Fallen angels were, in essence, little more than human. He could plow through them, no problem.

Hurt…kill… A soft whisper, a dark urge, one that had filled his mind more and more lately. Not from his demon, but from deep inside him. He wasn’t sure why it happened, or what had caused it, but every time, he’d given in. Now would be no different. He would reach the goddess, and these men weren’t going to deter him. He would plow through them, true, but he’d make it hurt—would kill—when he did.

In unison, the trio said, “Knees. Now.”

“Actually,” Paris replied. “The only thing going down will be you.”

He tossed both of his daggers in quick succession. The tip of one sank deep into the jugular of the guy on the right. The tip of the other embedded in a wall of golden brick, missing its mark.

Sex whimpered, racing to hide in a far corner of his mind. His demon was a lover, not a fighter.

The two remaining men watched, wide-eyed, as their friend collapsed, twitching as death approached.

Hurt…kill… Having run even as he’d thrown, Paris barreled into them, his arms spread, knocking both of them to the ground. They pulled themselves out of their sexual stupors and rolled him to his back, their fists hammering at him.

Vessels burst in one of his eyes, limiting his line of sight. His nose popped out of place. His jaw separated. The pain intensified with every blow, but still he fought. And fought dirty, going for groins, throats and kidneys.

Hurt…

Kill…

The dark compulsions rose…rose…consumed. With a roar, he brought his legs up and kicked. Both men flew backward. He leapt at the one closest to him, pinning the guy’s shoulders to the concrete with his knees. One punch, two, three. Blood splattered.

He hit and hit and hit, until the guy’s head lolled to the side, his swollen eyes open but glazed. Only then did he realize the other guy had jumped on his back and had been punching him in the head that entire time.

Paris reached back, gripped a fistful of shirt and jerked. Guy soared over his shoulders and landed on top of his buddy, losing his breath. As Paris grabbed for the blade in his ankle holster, his opponent gathered his wits and swung a meaty fist, knocking him into the wall. Temple against brick, and brick won. Dazed, the blade was batted out of his hand.

A booted foot slammed into his trachea, pushing him to his back and holding him down.

The pressure increased as the guy unsheathed a dagger of his own, bent down and stabbed Paris in the stomach. An agonizing lance of pain. A searing hiss of air through his teeth.

“That should keep you docile.” Looming over him, panting raggedly, scowling, the guy unzipped his pants.

“Not a smart move,” Paris managed to croak out. Though instinct demanded he wrap his fingers around the guy’s ankle and shove, he inched his hand behind him, toward the hilt of his remaining blade. “You want to keep that thing, don’t you?”

“Shut your mouth. Had you played nice, I would have let you go after I finished with you. Now…”

Finally the boot lifted from Paris’s neck, then the guy was crouched between his legs, working at his zipper. Distracted. Good. Using the last of his strength, Paris swung his arm up. Another dagger found solace in a jugular.

Blood gurgled from the guy’s mouth, shock and pain glazing his eyes. Paris ripped the blade free, but that wouldn’t save him. Crimson continued to flow, and he slumped over, on top of Paris, motionless…dead.

Weak but determined, Paris pushed the weight away and lumbered to shaky legs. He gave himself a once-over. His clothes were ripped, stained and soaked in blood, his skin abraded, bruised and sliced. The goddess might turn him away the moment she saw him.

Probably not a bad idea. She expected pleasure, and right now he was too pathetic to see to hers. On the flip side, he needed sex to heal. But if he used her to heal, taking his own pleasure while unable to see to hers, he wouldn’t be able to sleep with her a second time in exchange for the crystal daggers.

Okay. Change of plans. Next female he spotted, he’d seduce, unleashing his demon, nothing held back. The thought sickened him, but whatever. Then he’d head to the goddess’s palace. He’d be late, but he could charm her out of any pique that tardiness might cause. Another sickening thought.

Get over yourself. He’d chosen to travel this path. He would live with the emotional fallout.

Resolute, Paris stumbled out of the alley.

SIENNA BLACKSTONE HUDDLED in the corner, enveloped by tormenting shadows. Her wings—those ever-growing black wings, courtesy of the demon now inside her—pulled at tendons and bone she hadn’t known she had, shooting aches all through her body.