The Darkest Surrender (Lords of the Underworld #8)(60)
Author: Gena Showalter

Win.

No problem.

“I will,” the angel said easily. “Stay away from her, that is.”

Strider blinked, confused, and backed a step away. “But you just—”

“I just agreed with you. Yes. Every unmated man in this building wants a piece of her.”

He was back in the guy’s face a second later. “And you?” Damn it. He had to get himself under control. He’d vowed not to let himself be challenged majorly for the next few weeks, yet he kept reacting to everyone who so much as glanced in Kaia’s direction.

“I was merely ensuring you desire her, rather than…someone else.”

Someone, like an angel. Once again, he stepped backward. Faster this time, his cheeks heating with mortification. So. The bastard had picked up on the earlier fascination.

“You look all innocent and shit, but you’re really a devil in disguise, aren’t you?”

Zacharel merely shrugged, his expression unchanging.

Win?

Yeah. We won that round. The angel hadn’t made a play for Kaia, and that was all that mattered.

Defeat might have agreed, but there were no accompanying sparks of pleasure. Nor were there spurts of pain.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he grumbled.

“Bianka competes in the next game. Lysander wishes me to—”

“Lysander can speak for himself,” the warrior interjected. “I wished for a supporting arm to either hold me back or help me, should I be inclined to punish Bianka’s opponents.”

Aw. True love. How sickening.

Both Lysander and Zacharel could create swords of fire from nothing but air. A few Harpy heads would probably roll by the time the second game ended if any harm came to Kaia’s twin.

“You do know you’ll embarrass Bianka if you—”

“Who are you talking to, Strider?” Though Haidee had closed most of the distance between them, she asked the question from behind her beer bottle, not daring to glance in his direction. He knew she didn’t fear Kaia, though she should, but merely thought to prevent another attack while the enemy was nearby.

And damn it. The angels had warned him. No one else could see them. Well, Sabin and Gwen could, he was sure, since they were smothering their laughter behind beers of their own.

“No one,” he muttered. No one important. He refocused on Kaia and Bianka, the Twin Troublemakers.

“—no better time,” Bianka was saying.

“Then let’s do it,” Kaia responded with an evil grin. “Juliette will never know what hit her.”

Shit. Do what? With those two, “it” always involved bloodshed, grand theft auto or a five-alarm blaze. Or, on special days, a combination of all three. He watched, dread coursing through him, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, as the girls moved forward.

Then the worst of his fears were confirmed when they climbed onto the dais.

To karaoke.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

PARIS PRESSED INTO A SHADOWED corner of the heavenly harem. Mindless chatter and the sound of playful splashing coasted on the over-warm air. The scent of jasmine oil and sandalwood drifted to his nose and he tried not to inhale. Ambrosia layered both, a waft of coconut that lured and seduced, and he couldn’t yet afford to get high. No matter how much his body shook, desperate for a fix.

After his back-alley brawl, he’d taken the first female he’d stumbled upon. Sex had ensured her willingness, despite Paris’s ragged appearance, and he’d healed quickly afterward.

Unfortunately, the vital encounter had made him an hour late to his meeting with Mina, the goddess of weaponry, and he’d had to pay extra for the crystal blades.

She liked her pleasure with a bit of bite, and he’d had to do things to her that might haunt him for years. But he had the daggers now and had crossed item one off his To Do list.

He rubbed the hilts as he scanned his surroundings, hating the cobalt wisps of fabric that fell from the ceiling and draped the entire enclosure. Hating the beaded lounge pillows, the naked, glistening bodies strolling this way and that.

Time to cross off item number two. Arca, the messenger goddess. Surely she would know where Sienna was being held, as one of his many partners had led him to believe. Pillow talk—his best friend, and everyone else’s worst enemy.

If she wasn’t here, he had no idea where to go next. Or who to do.

Don’t think like that. No one here had sensed him. Yet. That would change all too soon. Sex craved today’s dose. Already the scents of chocolate and champagne drifted from him. Soon mortals and immortals alike, all brought here to service Cronus, would find themselves consumed by hunger.

The god king had given up keeping a single mistress. Now he was keeping thirty…three. Yes, thirty-three, Paris counted. The twenty-seven others standing around the pool ledge were bodyguards, not sexual conquests.

Paris doubted Cronus had slept with everyone here, or that the bastard even planned to nail them all in the future. But Cronus would do anything to piss off Rhea, his traitor of a wife, and nothing hurt a woman’s pride quite like infidelity. A fact Paris knew very well.

He’d never been faithful. Could never be faithful. No matter how much he wanted to be. No matter how much his many conquests screamed and ranted at him, desperate for something he couldn’t give them. Something…more. His lovers were his demon’s food, that was all. He couldn’t let them be anything else. And really, he didn’t want them to be anything else.

He just wanted Sienna.

If he could find her, if he could touch her, if she no longer despised him—which didn’t seem likely, especially after the things, people, he’d done up here—would she give herself to him?

So many ifs.

He’d been up here off and on ever since her disappearance, and he’d kept his ear to the ground—aka he’d screwed the information out of anyone close to Cronus. See? Unfaithful. He was here for one woman, but had slept with another. And another. And another.

Buck up. Otherwise, he’d start wanting that ambrosia.

Hell, maybe he should just give in.

Or maybe he should leave. Cronus was going to pop a vessel when he discovered Paris’s whereabouts. Would definitely punish him. Because…to hide his activities, Paris had to wear a necklace—a manlace, as Torin called it—the god king had given him. A manlace he was only supposed to wear to hide himself from Rhea. Using it to conceal himself from Cronus as well was a small crime, sure, but couple that with Paris’s intentions…