The Darkest Whisper (Lords of the Underworld #4)(36)
Author: Gena Showalter

“No. He didn’t. Your nails, they’re hurting me.”

Instantly Sabin relaxed his grip, willing his nails to sink back into their beds. They snaked a corner, and his pace increased. Urgency rushed through him, as potent and strong as a flooded river.

“Did he scare you?” This time, the question was merely gruff.

“Again, no. And if he had, I—I could have handled him.”

His lips twitched in his first stirring of humor that evening. As if. When she was Gwen, the Harpy dormant, she was the most docile creature he’d ever encountered. It was, at times, endearing. His life was death and dishonor, cruelty and might, yet she was all that was serene and good.

“And how would you have done that?” He didn’t ask to taunt her but to force her to admit she needed a guardian. Him. Here, in this house, even out in the world, she needed him. The day she learned to control her Harpy, of course, that would change. And he was glad. Yep. Glad.

A little gasp of irritation escaped her and she tried to rip her hand from his. He held tight, strangely unwilling to end the physical connection. “I’m not a total washout, you know?”

“I wouldn’t care if you were as strong as Pandora once was. You are desirable, and some of the men here like to believe they are irresistible. I don’t want you dealing with them. Ever.”

“You find me…desirable?”

Had she not heard the warning in his voice? To stay away from the warriors, or else?

“Never mind,” she muttered, his hesitation clearly embarrassing her. “Let’s talk about something else. Like your home. Yes. Perfect. Your home is lovely.” She was panting now, the long walk likely more exercise than she’d gotten in her year of confinement.

He gave his surroundings a cursory glance. The stone floor was polished and veined with gold—like her eyes. The end tables were cherrywood—as glossy a red as her hair. The walls were smooth, inlaid with multihued marble and utter perfection—like her skin, even dirty as it was.

When had he begun to compare everything to her?

When they hit the landing of the second staircase, his bedroom door entered his line of vision and he breathed a sigh of relief. Almost there…How would she react to what he was about to do? Go Harpy?

He’d have to tread carefully. At the same time, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—back down.

What if he hurts you? the demon was suddenly whispering into her mind. What if he—

“Shut the f**k up!” he snarled, and Doubt laughed gleefully at the damage it had already caused.

Gwen tensed. “Must you curse like that?”

“Yes.” He tugged her now reluctant form through the door, shutting and locking it behind her. They faced off. She was pale, trembling again. “Besides, I wasn’t talking to you.”

“I know. We’ve had this conversation before. You were talking to your demon. To Doubt.”

A statement, not a question. He massaged the back of his neck, wishing his fingers were curled around the goddess of Anarchy’s neck instead. “Anya told you.” He didn’t like that Gwen knew, would have liked for her to have time to get used to him first.

A shake of her beautiful head. “William did. So the demon wants me to…doubt you?” She twirled the ends of her hair. Another nervous gesture?

“It wants you to doubt everything. Every choice you make, every breath you take. Everyone around you. It can’t help itself. The indecision and confusion of others is where it derives its strength. A moment ago, I could hear it shooting its poisoned barb into your mind, trying to make you believe I’ll hurt you. That’s why I felt the need to curse.”

Her eyes widened, those silver striations expanding and overshadowing the amber. “That’s what I’m hearing, then. I wondered where the thoughts were coming from.”

His brow furrowed as he processed her words. “You’re able to distinguish its voice from your own?”

“Yes.”

Those who knew him often recognized the demon simply by its word choices. But for a virtual stranger to separate him from his demon…How could she tell the difference between them? “Not many can do so,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “Wow. I actually have a skill most don’t. And an impressive one, at that. Your demon is sneaky.”

“Insidious,” he agreed, surprised that she hadn’t fainted, screamed or demanded to be released from his despicable clutches. She even seemed proud of herself. “It senses weakness and pounces.”

Her expression became pensive. Then depressed. Then angry. She’d discovered the hidden meaning to his words: she was weak and the demon knew it. He preferred her pride.

His gaze snagged on the tray resting on his dresser. An empty tray. He nearly grinned. Anya had gotten her to eat, thank the gods. No wonder her color was higher, her cheeks sweetly fuller. What else was different about her? he mused, studying her. At her waist, there were several slight bulges—but those, he was sure, weren’t the result of her recent meal.

A quick scan of the room revealed his weapons case was three inches to the right of its normal mark. She must have disabled the lock and pilfered the contents. The little thief, he thought, eyeing her again.

She squirmed under the scrutiny, cheeks pinkening. “What?”

“Just thinking.” Let her keep them, he decided. Hopefully, they made her feel safer. And the safer she felt, the less likely it was that he’d have a confrontation with the Harpy.

“You’re making me nervous,” she admitted. She rubbed her palms on the front of her thighs.

“Then let’s speed things along and assuage your fears.” Gods, she was lovely. “Take off your clothes.”

Her mouth fell open on a strangled gasp. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Strip.”

One step, two, she backed away from him, holding her hands up and out. “Not just no but hell, no.” Her knees hit the back of the bed and she fell onto the mattress, gaping up at him in horror. “I fell! That was an accident, not an invitation,” she rushed out, popping to her feet.

“I know. The hell, no gave you away. But it doesn’t matter. We’re going to shower.” She needed to clean up and he needed to mark her. They could knock out both objectives at the same time.

“Feel free.” Her voice trembled. “Alone.”

“Together. And that’s not an invitation, either. It’s a fact.” He reached behind him and dragged his shirt over his head. His favorite necklace, a gift from Baden, bounced against his chest as the material pooled at his feet.