The Darkest Whisper (Lords of the Underworld #4)(50)
Author: Gena Showalter

“It pains me that you’ve done this to yourself,” Aeron said softly. “And for me. I don’t deserve it.”

“I’ll recover,” Paris said, but Aeron didn’t think either one of them believed it.

After he switched off the water, he handed his friend a towel. He would have dried Paris himself, but didn’t think the big guy’s pride would appreciate it.

“Just go,” Paris said, crawling out of the stall.

“Either walk to the bed or I’ll carry you,” Aeron said.

Paris growled low in his throat, but stood without comment. He stumbled to the bed and flopped onto the mattress, bouncing once. Aeron followed close at his heels, then stared down at him, unsure what to do next. Never had Paris looked more fragile or lost, and the sight brought tears to his eyes. After all, he owed this man his life. Not just for what Paris had given up for him, but for his friendship, for fighting beside him, taking bullets and knife wounds for him, listening to him bitch about life—this and their other, when they’d been warriors for the gods and he’d wanted, well, more.

He couldn’t leave him like this. Which meant he had to go into town on his own and find Paris a woman.

Leaning down, he smoothed a strand of hair from the warrior’s brow. “I’ll make this better. I will.”

“Score me another bag of ambrosia,” was the weak reply. “That’s all I need.”

“Oh, oh,” Legion said happily, suddenly done with her sulking. She raced into the room and hopped onto the bed. “Me know where to get sssome!”

Paris groaned yet again as the mattress shook. “Hurry.”

Aeron frowned at Legion and her smile faded. Head hanging, she climbed back on his shoulders. “What wrong now?”

“Don’t encourage him. We don’t want him sicker, we want him better.”

“Sssorry.”

He scratched her behind the ears. “I’ll return,” he told Paris, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Thankfully everyone was in the entertainment room, waiting for the meeting to start. If it hadn’t already. He made it to his chamber without bumping into anyone and hugged Legion tight before settling her on the ruffled lounge he’d had Maddox build for her.

“Stay here,” he said, stalking to his closet. In seconds, he was weighed down with knives. He wanted to take a gun, just in case, but didn’t want the human, whoever he chose, having access to it while he was preoccupied with flying.

“But—but—Me just got here. Me misssed you.”

“I know, and I missed you, too. But the townspeople are already afraid of me. I think they’d riot at the sight of both of us.” It was true. They’d never regarded Aeron’s heavily tattooed face with the same reverence they bestowed upon the other warriors. “I need to find a female for Paris and fly her back here.”

“But you can carry two. Me and her.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“No!” She stomped her foot, red eyes bright. “No fe-malesss alone with you.”

He knew she wasn’t jealous romantically, but jealous like a child was when its parent remarried. “We’ve talked about this, Legion. I don’t like human females.” When he gave himself to a woman, it would be a strong immortal, one who was hard, resilient and not easily destroyed.

How Paris and the others could bed the humans, knowing they were doomed by disease, stupidity, carelessness or cruelty at the hands of another of their kind, he didn’t know. They would die. They always did. Even Ashlyn and Danika, to whom the gods had promised immortality, had weaknesses.

“I won’t be long,” he said. “I plan to grab the first female I find. Someone completely unattractive to me.”

She traced a claw over the emerald velvet. “Prom-issse?”

“Promise,” he assured her.

That mollified her somewhat, and she sighed. “Okay. Me ssstay. Me…” Her thin lips curved into a frown.

An instant later, Aeron felt a pair of invisible eyes boring into him. Hot, curious, insistent.

Legion trembled, scales paling, fear curtaining her features. “No. Nooooo!”

“Go,” he commanded, and she did without hesitation, disappearing with only a thought.

Slowly he spun, searching for any hint of the…angel? There was nothing, no shimmery outline, no heavenly scent. Everything was as it had always been. His jaw clenched. So badly he wanted to curse at the creature, demand it emerge and state its business with him. But he didn’t. There wasn’t time. Later, though…

He pulled off his shirt and tossed it to the floor, looking down at his tattooed chest. Battle scenes, faces. He never wanted to forget the things he’d done. The people he’d seen led to slaughter. Otherwise he feared he would become the very evil he’d always fought against. He would become his demon, Wrath.

No time for these grim thoughts. With only a mental command, his wings exploded from the hidden slits in his back, black, gossamer, deceptively fragile in appearance but incredibly strong. In that moment, he thought he heard a feminine gasp. Then warm hands were stroking those wings, learning every curve and hollow. Just like that, his c**k hardened, a traitor to his resolve.

Hell. No. Desire a demon assassin? Not in this lifetime. “Don’t touch,” he snarled.

The phantom hands jerked away.

If only the creature would obey him in all things. “If you hurt my friends or think to steal from me, I will carve you up, piece by piece. It would be better for you to leave and never return.”

There was no response. That white-hot gaze remained.

Teeth grinding together, he strode to the double doors overlooking his balcony.

Outside, warm air enveloped him, fragrant with the scents of nature. Trees towered around the fortress, stretching to the sky. In the distance, he could see the red rooftops of the town shops and cathedrals. Those soft, hot hands never returned to him, and he was grateful. He was not disappointed, he assured himself.

Determined, he leapt from the balcony. Down, down he fell. He flapped his wings once, and rose. Again, and soared higher. He angled toward the left, turning to the north. That’s when the front of the fortress came into view and he saw Sabin, jumping out of the SUV with a bleeding, unconscious Gwendolyn in his arms.

Aeron wanted to stop, to help, but instead flapped his wings faster, harder. Paris came first. Now and always, Paris would come first.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SABIN HAD MEANT to keep at least one Hunter alive for questioning, perhaps a little torturing. Then they’d shot at Gwen, and that desire had vanished. The second bullet had been an accident, but rage had consumed him, more rage than he’d ever experienced before. He’d slaughtered them like cattle, one by one, their throats opening under the slick pressure of his blade. Hadn’t seemed like enough, then or now.