The Darkest Whisper (Lords of the Underworld #4)(19)
Author: Gena Showalter

“—didn’t see that one coming.”

“Should have.”

“Not the kiss, idiot. The calming. Her eyes had turned, and her claws had emerged. She was poised to strike. I mean, hello. Am I the only one who remembers what happened to the Hunter who tangled with her?”

“Maybe Sabin’s a portal to heaven like Danika,” someone said dryly. “Maybe the Harpy saw a few angels while receiving mouth-to-mouth.”

Male chuckles abounded.

Gwen’s cheeks heated. Half of what they’d said escaped her understanding. The other half mortified her. She’d kissed a man, a demon, who clearly wanted nothing to do with her—and she’d done it in front of witnesses.

“Ignore them,” Sabin said, his voice so guttural it scraped against her eardrums. “Focus on me.”

Their gazes clashed together, brown against gold. She scooted as far back in her chair as she could, putting as much distance between them as possible.

“Are you still afraid of me?” he asked, head tilting to the side.

She raised her chin. “No.” Yes. She was afraid of what he made her feel, afraid that what he was would again cease to matter. Afraid he’d never crave her the way she suddenly craved him. Afraid that the wonderfully protective man in front of her was nothing more than a mirage, that evil waited just below the surface, ready to devour her whole.

Such a coward you are. How the hell could she have kissed him like that?

One of his brows arched. “You wouldn’t be lying, would you?”

“I never lie, remember?” Ironically, that was a lie.

“Good. Now listen closely, because I don’t want to have this discussion again. I have a demon inside my body, yes.” He gripped her armrests so tightly his knuckles slowly blanched. “It’s there because centuries ago I stupidly helped open Pandora’s box, unleashing the spirits inside. As punishment, the gods cursed me and all the warriors you see on this plane to carry one inside ourselves. In the beginning, I couldn’t control that demon and did some…bad things, as you said. But that was thousands of years ago, and I now have control. We all do. Like I told you in that cell, you have nothing to fear from us. Got me, red?”

Red. Earlier, during her panic attack, he’d called her something else. Something like…sweetheart? No. Tyson used to call her sweetheart. Dearest? No. But close. Darling? Yes! Yes, that was it. She blinked in surprise. In delight. This hard warrior who could cut a man’s throat without hesitation had referred to her as precious treasure.

So why hadn’t he kissed her back?

“We’ve reached our destination, guys,” an unfamiliar voice dripping with relief said over the intercom. The pilot, she figured, and experienced a wave of guilt for the trouble she had caused. “Prepare for descent.”

Sabin remained in place, an indomitable rock between her legs. “Do you believe me, Gwen? Will you still willingly travel to our home?”

“I was never willing.”

“But you never tried to escape.”

“Should I have braved a strange land by myself, with no provisions?”

He frowned. “I’ve seen for myself how skilled you are. And we’ve offered you provisions time and time again. For whatever reason, part of you wants to be with us or you wouldn’t be here. You know it, and I know it.”

Logic she couldn’t deny. But…why? Why would part of her want to stay? Then or now?

You know the answer to that, though you’ve tried to deny it. Him. Sabin. Not attracted to him? Ha! She studied him, noting the thin lines of strain branching from his eyes, the spiky shadows cast by his lashes, the muscle twitching in his jaw. The erratic pound of his pulse, now so loud in her ears. Maybe he was just as attracted to her, but was fighting it, as she was. The thought pleased her.

Did he have a woman waiting for him in Budapest? A wife?

Gwen’s hands fisted, the nails digging deep, cutting. She was no longer pleased. This doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t want him.

“Gwen. Will you?”

The way he said her name was a slap and a caress at the same time, jarring her, making her shiver. She liked that he sought her cooperation, though she suspected he would try and force her to his will if she declined. “Maybe I should have run.”

“To what? A life of regrets? A life of wishing you had acted against the ones who hurt you? I’m offering you a chance to help me kill Hunters. And just so you know, killing them won’t be the only benefit,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I can help you control your beast the way I control mine. I can help you channel it for a good cause. Don’t you want to be in control?”

All her life, she’d wanted only three things: to meet her father, earn her family’s respect and learn to control her Harpy. If Sabin could deliver on that promise, she would finally, after all these years, have achieved one of the three. He was probably overreaching and destined to fail, but it was a temptation she couldn’t resist.

“I’ll go with you,” she said. “I’ll help you as best I can.”

Relief pulsed from him as he closed his eyes and smiled. “Thank you.”

That smile relaxed the stark edges of his face, making him appear boyish once again. As she drank him in, the plane jolted abruptly. Sabin was pushed back; she was propelled forward. To her delight—dismay—the distance between them never widened.

“On one condition,” she added when they settled.

His relief hardened into something cruel. “What?”

“You have to invite my sisters.” Maybe not right away. She was embarrassed by her circumstances and didn’t want her sisters to see her like this, to know what had happened to her. But she missed them like crazy, and knew her homesickness would soon outweigh her embarrassment.

“Invite your sisters? You mean you want me to have to deal with more of you?”

“That had better be happiness in your tone, not disgust,” she said, offended. “My sisters have castrated men for less.”

Sabin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sure. Invite them. Gods save us all.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

PARIS SLOUCHED in the backseat of an Escalade, Strider at the wheel and completely unaware of speed limits. Though the sun was shining on downtown Budapest, you couldn’t tell it from where Paris was sitting. The windows were tinted so thickly the interior was cast in gloomy shadows. Anya, Lucien’s lover and the minor goddess of Anarchy, had stolen the vehicle from gods knew where—along with a matching second and a Bentley for herself—just before they’d left for Egypt.