“What did you say?” Surely he had misheard.
Her chin lifted haughtily, her eyes a shimmer of midnight hatred. “Beat me and let him go.”
No, he had not misheard. His narrowed gaze shot to the male Hunter kneeling at his feet. Cronus had come here, as he’d come here every day for the past few weeks, and offered Rhea the choice. Watch a Hunter die or feel the hammer of his fists. Or in this case, watch two Hunters die—a male and the female who had refused to release him as Cronus dragged him from the cage. Always she preferred to watch a Hunter die. Always.
Except today.
What had changed? The Hunter in question? He was the only variable that was different. Did that mean she cared for the male? No, he assured himself after a heartbeat of bewilderment. Rhea cared only for herself. Did he mean something to her heavenly campaign? But what could a lone puny human do to aid a goddess? The answer was simple. Nothing.
That left only one option. She desired him.
Rage unfurled inside Cronus, iron fists that battered at his chest. His skin pulled tight against his bones, his marrow sharpening into dagger points and cutting at him. He gripped the human by the hair, jerking him to his feet and studying him anew. Late twenties, blond, handsome in a quiet, distinguished way only a mortal with a limited amount of time could manage. Lean, with only the barest hint of muscle.
Clearly, he wasn’t a fighter. A scholar, perhaps. There could be no asking him, however. Like all the others, Cronus had already cut out his tongue. A must for these meetings. Allowing someone to speak to Rhea, to deliver a secret message Cronus could not decipher, would have been a huge tactical error.
Cronus never made tactical errors.
He looked at his wife. Her stubborn expression gave nothing away.
“Let him go,” she said, chin going ever higher. “I’ve made my choice. I will be beaten in exchange for his life.”
Let the male go? Alive and well, forgiven for his crimes against the greatest king Titania has ever known? The concept was inconceivable. Laughable. “And the female?” he snarled, tugging her hair to lift her head.
She whimpered, her obvious distress causing the male to grunt. How sweet, Cronus thought dryly. The humans cared for each other.
Eyes the color of a blood-soaked battlefield swept over the girl. “I don’t care about her. Do whatever you wish with her, just let the male go.”
Rhea’s demon must be giving her fits. Either that, or Strife simply enjoyed the show. Well, it would be Cronus’s pleasure to offer another blast of discord. “I do not approve of your choice, wife. Therefore, I think I will behead the man before I release him.”
The queen sputtered for a moment, her chains rattling against the bedposts. “Are you completely lacking in honor, husband?”
“Of course. To win, one must do whatever is necessary. Besides that, I never promised to let your Hunters go while their hearts still beat, did I?”
“You bastard!”
“If you wish to save this one, you will tell me what’s so special about him. That is our new bargain.”
The male quaked with fear, his clammy sweat creating an acrid scent in the air. The female, still kneeling at Cronus’s other side, reached for him, clasped his hand in a show of comfort and support. Her hair was cropped to her shoulders, and so black the tint had to have come from a bottle. Her eyes were brown, a deep chocolate, and filled with anguished tears. She was pretty in a delicate sort of way, and somehow familiar to him.
She wasn’t the first female he’d brought to Rhea, nor would she be the last. There were several others waiting below in the dungeon. Now he wondered if he’d slain a sibling of hers, a sister perhaps, and that was why he thought he recognized her.
“Explaining my reasons was never part of our bargain,” Rhea said in that haughty voice of hers, the one he loathed. The one guaranteed to make him see red. “Let. Him. Go.”
Sure enough, Cronus’s rage intensified. He returned his attention to the male. Shadows formed half circles under his eyes, his cheeks were hollowed out and there was blood dripping down his chin, all proof of his mortality.
Had Rhea once welcomed him into her bed? Was this man one of the many Cronus had felt his wife enjoying these past few months? Had this bastard climaxed inside her?
When her passions came upon her, she become wild and wanton, and unaware of—or unconcerned by—the damage she inflicted.
Each new deliberation tossed another smoldering log onto the fires of his rage, until the only thing inside his body was thick, black smoke with crimson flames trapped throughout. He couldn’t see past them, could only choke on them. And only then did he realize that it was not the human who was quaking with such intensity; it was him, and the knowledge humiliated him.
The human had to pay.
“Look at me. Now.”
Long golden-brown lashes lifted. Eyes filled with challenge and hatred stared up at him. Resentment, too. Did this human yearn for what he himself possessed? A connection to Rhea?
Well, that ended now. Before Cronus realized he had moved, he’d released the girl, palmed a blade—and slashed. He watched as the man’s throat split in the center, blood welling and flowing. Watched as pain took the place of the resentment…watched as even that dulled…faded…and his body sagged.
The girl screamed, the shrill noise scraping at his ears, annoying him. Frowning down at her, intending to reprimand her, he uncurled his fingers from the man’s hair and reached for her. Thump. The lifeless body hit the floor, and she released another scream, darting out of his way.
Not before he caught Rhea’s gasp of horror.
His attention whipped to her, the girl suddenly forgotten. His wife had just gasped. Misery was to be her only companion in the countless eternity that awaited her, yes, but the fact that she’d dared to find that misery in the demise of some frail mortal failed to fill him with any kind of satisfaction.
Such a reaction meant he’d miscalculated, that she had, indeed, cared for the man. Even as his temper flared all the hotter, he struggled with understanding. Why care for a creature so limited by time and capability? A creature so fragile, so easily killed. As he had just demonstrated.
The black-haired wench scrambled to the body of the fallen male and gathered him close. She cried, her tears a flood of emotion. Obviously, she had cared for the man, too. But…why? What had he done to draw two women’s loyalty?
Cronus’s lip curled up in a snarl. The answer didn’t matter, not really. The bastard was gone now, never to return. “Let him go,” he commanded the girl.
She looked up at him, hatred shining in her eyes. She carefully laid the body upon the floor, pressed a kiss to his forehead and stood. Her steps clipped, measured, she approached Cronus, horrible sounds of grief rising from her.
Had he not taken her tongue, curses would have been hurled at him, he was sure. But she could not blame him for her lack. He had given her a choice. Return to the cage and die another day, or stay with the man, lose her tongue and die on this one. She’d chosen to stay.
“I am not a monster,” he said. “The pair of you sanctioned the wrong side of the war, and you paid for it.” One thing he’d learned while whiling away the centuries inside Tartarus: a king without a firm hand was a king without a throne.
What came next was expected. She threw herself against him, her fists pummeling at him, her fury and heartache infusing every blow. He didn’t try to defend himself. There was no need. Did she truly think she was hurting him? That she could hurt him?
A resounding no to both, yet her relentless effort soon aggravated him. He had better things to do. “Stop, female.”
Either she didn’t hear him or she didn’t care to obey. He set her away from him, a concession on his part, and one he did not often offer, but she just came back, a catapult of feminine ire. He could have frozen her in place with a wave of his hand, but he refused to venture down that path. Pride dictated she obey of her own accord or suffer the consequences.
Somehow the question reached past her mania, and she stilled, a whisper of emotion-charged air separating their bodies. Panting breaths sawed in and out of her mouth, those heart-wrenching tears continuing to flow.
What came next was not expected.
With a cry springing from the depths of her soul, she threw herself into his blade. Her eyes widened with her pain; blood gurgled from her mouth. His blade. Oh, yes. He still clutched the hilt, the sharp, silver tip facing her—now inside her.
She did indeed want to die.
“Very well, female. Once again, I will support your choice.” A tug of his arm, and she was freed from the intrusion. A flick of his wrist, and he killed her the same way he’d killed her man. Quick, easy. A mercy slaying, he told himself.
Her eyes rolled back in her head as her body slumped beside her man’s.
A long moment passed in silence. Something burned in his chest. Regret, perhaps. Though why he would feel such a strong emotion for someone he did not know and did not care about was a mystery. Violence walked hand in hand with victory. In the heavens, you could not have one without the other.
“Well, well,” Rhea said, and there was no longer a hint of remorse in her tone. No anger or betrayal, either. “My compliments on a job well done, darling.”
He spun to face her. He was not met with tears, recrimination or even sorrow. He was met with glee. Lips he’d once kissed with reverence lifted in a smug grin. “How did that feel, murdering two innocents?”
He schooled his expression to blankness, unwilling to reveal his confusion. “Why so haughty, wife? It is your man bleeding all over my carpet, is it not?”
“No. It’s not.” She arched a brow at his flinching response. “Do you think I know not our prophecies? How it will be my Galen to take your head—unless you bind him to the female with wings of midnight.”
He wiped his blade on the coverlet at Rhea’s feet, a stark reminder of his prowess. One she would be forced to see for the rest of her stay here. “If your Galen takes my head, you die, as well.”
Laughter layered with ice left her, causing a chill to crawl down his spine. “I know.” And she didn’t sound as if she cared. “I also know how your mind works. You expect Galen to want to use the winged girl and her new demon, but you doubt he will desire the girl herself. How, then, could you force a bonding? Let me think, let me think. Oh, yes, I know. By turning her into a walking fountain of ambrosia and addicting Galen to her blood. How am I doing so far?”
Not since Zeus ambushed him and drove him to his knees had Cronus experienced such fear. “Shut your mouth. You know nothing!”
Rhea continued on, her voice a silky caress. “You could not infect a living girl with ambrosia; you could only infect a dead one. And who better to pick than someone the Lord of Sex desired? He will convince his friends to leave her alone, and she will convince him to leave Galen alone. Finally, peace will reign and your head will be safe. Yes? That’s what you believe, isn’t it?”
His heart slammed against his ribs. “Wrong,” he croaked. “You are so wrong.”
“How you disgrace us both with your lie. Did you think I would have no idea what was predicted all those centuries ago?”
Remaining silent, he once again schooled his features, unwilling to give her any more of a reaction.
“And did you truly think I would do nothing when I learned you’d given the demon of Wrath to a dead human girl, and she was growing wings of midnight?” Another grin, devious in its joy. “Well, what I did, husband, was learn everything I could about her. About her missing sister, Skye, and Skye’s mate. The two people you just killed.”
A moment passed as he digested her claim. When he did, he stumbled backward, shaking his head vehemently. “No. No.”
“Why do you think I allowed you to capture me, hmm? Why do you think I allowed you to capture my people? How else do you think your spies learned where they were hiding? I have been waiting for just this day. The day you brought about your own ruin, the day you realized that because you carry the All-Key inside of you, I do, as well. Think your Sienna will aid you now?”
With that, Rhea vanished from the bed, the chains that had bound her thudding onto the vacant mattress.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LEGION PACED HER BEDROOM floor as if her feet were on fire. The Lords had already left the fortress, destination Rome, determined to find and kill Galen, thereby saving Ashlyn and the babies. That they hadn’t come for her…she knew they’d never once considered trading her.
They were that honorable.
How did Legion repay them? By hiding herself away. And because of her actions, Ashlyn would suffer.
Sweet, sweet Ashlyn. What was Galen doing to her? If he hurt her the way the demons had hurt Legion… Stomach rebelling, she raced to her bathroom and hunched over the toilet. As many times as she’d thrown up the past day—week?—she was surprised when her lungs remained in her chest. Surprised, and disappointed.
She wanted to die. She would rather die than go through another pawing, having hands rip at her clothing, having things…done…to… “Argh!” She cut off the venomous thoughts before they could fully form. One unbidden image and she would collapse, hysterical, useless for days to come.
With a shuddering sigh, she rested her temple on the lid of the toilet. That beautiful blonde minor goddess had asked her a question. Who did she love most? The men who had saved her, or herself? Finally she copped to the answer. The men, definitely. They could have left her in hell, but they’d come for her, rescued her. She owed them. But…if she gave herself to Galen, he would torture her. She’d poisoned him, after all. Had tried to kill him.
He would expect her to warm his bed. She knew that. Before she had poisoned him, she had slept with him. Her first time with a man, and she had liked it, had craved more, until…
She gulped, once again forcing her mind to blank.
If she went to Galen, she would willingly place herself in another version of hell. But then, that’s what sacrificing yourself meant, didn’t it? Enduring pain so that someone else wouldn’t have to.
That’s what the warriors had done for her, time and time again. Could she really do any less for them?
A shudder of revulsion worked through her, and she closed her eyes. She was decided, then. She would go to Galen. She would trade herself for Ashlyn.
There was no other way, no other choice.
And now that the decision was made, she had only to close her eyes and think of him, and she would appear before him. The Lords had forgotten that, like Lucien, she could move from one location to another with only a thought. Only difference was, she didn’t have to follow a spiritual trail. Once she knew someone, she could appear before him anytime, anyplace.
Someone knocked on her door gently, as if afraid to startle her. She sniffed the air, recognized the sky-drenched scent of Danika, Reyes’s woman. She must have come to talk to her. Probably meant to reassure her that she was protected and safe, that no one thought to use her as Bait.
“Go away,” she shouted.
“No, I need to— Wait. You’re speaking. You’re speaking to me. It’s been so long—”
“I said go away!”
“Legion, let me in. Please. I need to talk to you. Need to tell you—”
“Goodbye,” she whispered, knowing she had to leave now or she would lose her nerve. Knowing she would never return. After the trade, after Ashlyn was safely returned, she would kill herself. She would rather die than be touched.
She pictured Galen—blond, beautiful and wicked. A moment later, the floor beneath her fell away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SIENNA RIGHTED THE CLOTHING Cronus had given her when he’d first brought her to the castle. The shirt fit around her arms while tucking under her wings without having to wrap around the tops and drape over her shoulders. No fuss, no strain, but complete coverage. She was shaking.
Wha
t she’d just done with Paris…she’d never experienced anything like it. Not even with him. Nothing could have prepared her for the total body awakening. He’d pleasured her with soul-shattering thoroughness, had known exactly where to touch her, how to kiss her, what to say to ramp her desire up, up, oh, sweet heaven, up. She’d been completely into him, her mind focused on him, the rest of the world forgotten.
And yet, as beautiful as the loving had been, they were now, half an hour later, steeped in all kinds of awkward. For her, that had been way more emotional and meaningful than she’d been equipped to handle, and she had to wonder. Was it always like that for him, with everyone?
“So, uh, did being with me work?” she asked, then wished she could swallow her tongue, both dreading and excited about the answer. “For your demon?”
He nodded as he sat at the edge of the spring. “Yes. I’m strong now.”
Despite the affirmation, her dread increased. He’d closed off his expression, hiding his feelings behind a blank mask.
“Do you know how to use a weapon?” he asked abruptly. And clearly, that was the end of the demon conversation.
O-kay. So they weren’t going to talk about what had happened. Which meant they wouldn’t be talking about what came next in their relationship.
Two days does not a relationship make, idiot.
“What kind of weapon?” Dumb question. Whatever he said, the answer was the same.
“Any.”
“Not really. When Wrath overtakes me, he kills using my body or whatever’s available. I’m never aware when he does it—it’s only after the fact that the memories flood me—so the skills aren’t something I’ve retained.”
“What about before your possession?”
“I was always a behind-the-scenes girl.” Oh, damn. Why’d she have to go and mention the one thing sure to turn him into Mr. Distant? Or rather, Mr. Way More Distant.
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