The Darkest Passion lotu-6

by Gena Showalter

  They’d actually found one of the missing links and brought her here? “What’s she not a keeper of?” He would have scrubbed a hand down his face to clear away the remnants of sleep, but couldn’t.

  Paris sensed his need and wiped his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “Nightmares, apparently. Pretty thing, if you like ’em rough, but evidently she’s as crazy as the Hunters.”

  Nightmares. For some reason, the word alone was nearly enough to give his own demon an orgasm. And Gideon, well, he was suddenly wondering why the girl had seemed so familiar to him.

  Stay, stay, stay, Lies demanded inside his mind.

  “Olivia helped us capture her, and she’s locked in the dungeon,” Paris continued.

  “She’s hurt, right?” he demanded, throwing his weakened legs over the side of the bed.

  “What are you doing, man?”

  Gideon managed to stand, swaying but thankfully not falling, his gaze sweeping over his body. He still wore those boxers, was dirty from the sweat and probably smelled.

  It wasn’t vanity that propelled him unsteadily toward the bathroom, he told himself, but a sense of politeness. No reason to torture the girl—Scarlet, Paris claimed—when she had yet to do anything wrong. Well, kind of. His newest wounds hurt, dripping blood all over his clean floor. Her fault?

  Aeron, housecleaner extraordinaire, would be pissed, a prospect that had his lips twitching. If nothing else, that’d be fun to watch. Aeron with a mop. Classic.

  All the Lords had assigned chores. A great thing for his friends, sure, but Gideon kind of excelled at freeloading. A title he’d once worn with pride. Then Paris had guilted him into helping with the shopping. They’d taken turns, each going to the grocery once a week, Paris at the beginning of the week and Gideon at the end.

  He wondered if someone else had taken over the chore since his injury and if so, what he’d have to do instead once he recovered fully. Probably help Aeron with maid-service.

  His lips stopped twitching.

  “So what’d she do to you?” Paris asked, sidling up to him and acting as his crutch the rest of the way to the bathroom. Once there, Paris even started the water. Scalding hot, just as Gideon liked it. “You mentioned a small, hairless mosquito and I gotta tell you, I have no idea what that means.”

  With a little more help, Gideon managed to strip. He stepped under the spray. He’d never been modest and he knew Paris, who’d been with thousands and thousands of women, and even the occasional man over the years, wouldn’t care.

  For a long while, he simply stood immobile, stubs braced on the wall in front of him, broken arm throbbing as the water poured over him, burning his face and body. Then his good wrist was captured, his bandage upturned and a bar of soap placed atop it.

  “No thanks,” he muttered. How was he going to manage this?

  “It lives,” Paris muttered back. “You never answered my question. What’d she do to you with those mosquitoes?”

  “Nothing,” he said, meaning something.

  “I know that. Start talking.”

  As he scrubbed himself with the soap as best he could, considering he was handless and reduced to using only his right arm, he explained in Gideon-speak. His meaning was clear—Awake, I got to party with my favorite thing ever—even without having to resort to the truth.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” Paris asked grimly.

  “Yeah.” No. What the hell? His brain must be addled. All he could think was that Scarlet knew how to conjure insects, but then, a three-year-old could have figured that out by now.

  “She knew what scared you most. Only logical conclusion is that the woman can sense our deepest fears and present them to us while we’re sleeping. Hence, nightmares.”

  Great. Exactly what his life had been missing. “I’m not going to pay her a visit.”

  That earned a No, thanks from Lies.

  “Now hold everything.”

  “You’re totally going to be able to talk me out of this, so I wouldn’t shut up if I were you.” Took him a bit, but he managed to switch off the water. “Don’t get me a towel.”

  A growling Paris tossed a fluffy white bath mat at him. Gideon missed, his bandaged nubs simply not fast enough. He bent down and after several attempts, managed to lift the material. His arm throbbed. Stupid broken bones! He tried to dry himself, he really did, but he didn’t do too good a job.

  Finally Paris snatched the cotton and patted him dry. “You’re worse than a baby, you know that?”

  “Don’t grab me some clothes.”

  Shaking his head, Paris disappeared into the room. A dresser drawer slid open, slammed shut, then another, and then he was striding back into the bathroom, holding out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

  Gideon had already stepped from the stall. He could have dressed himself, but that would have required the rest of his energy. “I’m not going to let you do it.”

  Another shake of that head. “You’re going to go see her, at least take some weapons.” Paris tugged the shirt over his head and helped him pull his arms through. He only cringed once. “Like me.”

  “Sure.” Gods, this was embarrassing. Being this helpless. His friend was so matter-of-fact about it, though, that some of the sting eased.

  Paris rolled his eyes as he held open the shorts for Gideon to step into. “Just because she’s locked up doesn’t mean she’s harmless.” His gaze dropped pointedly to the still-bleeding wound in Gideon’s thigh.

  Gideon shrugged. “Could you have picked anything more masculine for me?” he asked with disgust as he eyed himself. If he hoped to impress Scarlet—which he didn’t, he assured himself—he would fail. A plain white shirt too small for him and gray running shorts. Fabulous.

  Paris crossed his arms over his chest. “So you’re thinking about going without me?”

  “No.” Alone, she’d said. If he brought a friend, she might zip her pretty lips, and that he wouldn’t tolerate. He wanted answers, damn it. Namely: how the hell did he know her? He wouldn’t be averse to listening to her apologize for slicing him, either.

  “Gideon,” Paris warned.

  “She’s not locked up, right?” He lumbered into the bedroom, throwing over his shoulder, “I’ll be in danger the entire time.”

  “Frustrating ass. Fine, but be careful,” Paris called.

  “Won’t.”

  After two winding hallways and a flight of stairs, he had to prop himself against a wall to remain standing. Along the way, he’d run into several of his friends, and each had tried to help him back to his room. He’d shooed them away as politely as possible. They were worried about him, and he loved them for it. Not that he could ever tell them that. “I hate you” was the best he could do. But he wasn’t backing down for this.

  He forced himself back into motion. As he crossed the threshold into the dungeon, the air changed completely. It was dirty now, laden with blood, sweat and even urine. Hunters had been tortured here, over and over again. How disgusted the girl must be. Perhaps huddled in a corner, shaking. Crying.

  What would he do if that were the case? Probably run screaming, he mused. Only thing worse than spiders were feminine tears.

  Grappling with dread, he turned the final corner. At last she came into view, and he stilled. Awareness consumed him. First thing he noticed: she wasn’t crying. Or scared. Second: she was far lovelier in person than she’d been in his dream.

  She gripped the bars, waiting, expression blank. “You came.” She didn’t sound surprised, just resigned.

  “No, I didn’t.” As if in a trance, he closed the distance between them, the scent of night flowers suddenly filling his nose. He breathed deeply. So did Lies.

  Her gaze raked him, taking his measure, cataloging his every flaw. “Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

  Again he was struck by how familiar she was, both her voice and her face, but he still couldn’t figure out where he’d met her. “Don’t tell me why.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed. “Te
ll me I’m pretty.”

  Conceited, was she? Well, she wouldn’t get what she wanted from him. “You’re ugly.”

  Part of him expected her to gasp in horror. She didn’t. In that same resigned voice, she said, “Tell me I’m smart.”

  “You’re stupid.”

  Slowly her lips curled into a smile. “Well, well, well. Lies. It really is you. We’re together again at last.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A DROP OF WATER hit Aeron’s lips, cool and tingling, before sliding over his tongue, down his throat and into his stomach, absorbing there, then entering his bloodstream and traveling to each of his organs. Moment of contact, his heart began a perfect beat, his lungs filled with more oxygen than they’d ever had and his skin reached the perfect temperature, neither too hot nor too cold.

  Suddenly he could hear the birds chirping outside his window, the wind dancing past the line of trees that surrounded the fortress. Could even hear his friends in the rooms above and below his, discussing what was to be done about Scarlet, about the Hunters, and lamenting his illness.

  And his nose… He breathed deeply, catching the scent of bark, dewy leaves, sweat, the lemon soap Sabin used, Paris’s aftershave and his personal favorite…wild sky. Olivia.

  Olivia was here with him.

  Maybe that was why Wrath was purring so contentedly.

  Aeron pried his eyelids apart, and immediately regretted the action. So much light. Light from the bulbs in the ceiling, light from the bathroom. His walls, which he’d once thought were pale silver and crumbling stone, gleamed as if those stones had somehow trapped a rainbow.

  “You’re alive,” Olivia said with palpable relief.

  There was something different about her voice, he thought as his gaze sought her out. It was still beautiful, more so now that he could hear the subtle nuances—a low rasp, banked sensuality—but still different. She was perched at the edge of his bed, sky-blue eyes peering down at him. Her dark hair was in tangles around her, framing the delicacy of her features. The white robe he’d forced her to don however long ago still draped her, free of wrinkles and dirt.

  Her skin was… His breath caught. Majestic. That was the only word to describe it. Majestic. No, not the only word. Flawless worked, too. He could have stared at her for hours, days. Forever. She was pure, white cream.

  He wanted to touch her. Had to feel how soft she was. How warm she was. Had to know she was healthy and whole and she’d escaped without harm.

  Escaped. The word tormented him. He remembered they’d been inside that crypt, and he’d been shot. He’d carried Nightmares into the cemetery, fallen to his knees, waiting for his friends, but he didn’t recall anything after that. He fisted the sheets. Answers first, then he could allow himself a single touch.

  Single?

  Concentrate. “What happened?” Odd. Olivia’s voice wasn’t the only one to have changed. His had never sounded so smooth or strong.

  She offered him a shaky smile. “We thought we’d lost you. You were shot, and the bullet was laced with immortal poison, slowly killing you.”

  Yes, that made sense. A bullet had never affected him like that, but this one had weakened him unbearably. “How’d I get here?”

  “Paris and William came and got us.”

  “No trouble?”

  “With Hunters?” She shook her head, that cloud of hair dancing around her shoulders. “None. We even picked up Gilly on the way back here, but we never encountered them.”

  It was only a matter of time, though. As close as they were, and with the success of their demon-possession, they would attack soon enough. “How’s Paris?”

  “He’s fine, strong and taking care of himself now.”

  Or he’d tricked everyone into thinking so. Paris was good at hiding his actions—or lack of action—behind humor and smiles. Most likely he was drinking ambrosia and neglecting his body’s needs.

  “I’m not going to say that!” Olivia suddenly snapped.

  Aeron frowned. “Say what?”

  “Sorry.” Her shoulders slumped. “The voice returned, telling me to do all kinds of things to your body. I’ve named him Temptation, and I’m pretty sure he’s a demon.”

  A demon? None that he knew, which could mean that someone else listed on the scrolls was hiding in town. But why torment Olivia? And with sexual thoughts, of all things?

  Whatever the reason, he wouldn’t stand for it.

  Punish, Wrath said.

  Aeron was glad the demon had recovered, as well. And yes. He wanted to punish the ones who had hurt them. He just had to—

  “Oh, no,” Olivia said with a shake of her lovely head. “I can see the thoughts spinning behind your eyes. We’ll worry about the demon later. He’s irritating, that’s all. Right now, I’m more concerned about you.”

  Sweet, darling Olivia. His protector, something he’d never thought he’d need. Something he’d never expected to want. But he did want, desperately. Need, certainly. Yet he had to convince her to return to the heavens. In—how long?

  He glanced at the window, the split curtains framing a waning moon. “How long did I sleep?”

  “Most of the day and night. You’re still naked, if you hadn’t noticed.” A blush stained her cheeks. “Not that that’s important right now.”

  Most of the day and night. Which meant morning would arrive all too soon. Which meant he had eight days to convince Olivia to return home. Eight days to save himself and Legion.

  Eight days to resist her.

  He wouldn’t last. A single touch wasn’t going to be enough, he admitted that now. He would want more. He would have more.

  More, Wrath echoed.

  Yes, more. He wasn’t going to stop himself. Not this time. Selfish of him, yes, but selfish he would be. He could have died out there. Died without warning. Without knowing what it was like to sink inside her, feeling her clench around his cock, clawing his back, gasping his name.

  When he knew, he would stop wondering, stop craving. He could continue on as before. And she would have had her fun. She could go home satisfied.

  Selfish? Ha! He was a giver.

  “How did I heal?” he asked. Better question: would he lose steam midway? He didn’t want her leaving this bed until she reached her peak twice. At least. He owed her. Her crack about his lack of prowess still stung.

  Olivia’s gaze shifted away from him. “An antidote.”

  Why couldn’t she meet his eyes? “An angel antidote?”

  “Yes.” She motioned to a glowing blue vial on his nightstand. “Water from the River of Life. One drop, and death is chased away.”

  No wonder his senses were heightened.

  “Once we run out,” she continued, “we’ll be given no more. Which is a shame. Lysander told me the Hunters have many, many more of those poisoned bullets.”

  “How long will the effects last?” He would’ve expected Wrath to fume at being fed a heavenly substance. Instead, the demon purred a little louder, as if given a great gift.

  In a snap, Aeron thought he understood. Legion represented hell, and Olivia heaven. The latter he’d already figured out, but the former… He realized now that Wrath missed his home. Both his homes. High Lords had once been angels, Olivia had said, before falling from the sky. Home number one. And landing in hell. Home number two, though Wrath hadn’t considered it as such until he compared it to Pandora’s box.

  Heaven and hell, he thought again, unsure how he’d missed the connection before. Olivia and Legion. Two halves of a whole, just as he and Wrath were.

  Speaking of… “Where’s Legion?” he asked, gazing around the room in search of her.

  “William’s distracting her, but I’m not sure how long that will last.” Olivia traced a finger along his breastbone. “Your heartbeat is improving. Strong.”

  His flesh heated where they connected. More.

  His ears twitched as he listened to a conversation a few rooms over. Sabin and his crew had returned from the Temple of the Un
spoken Ones. A lot of them were injured, but recovering. As soon as they were better, they were going to raid The Asylum and destroy the Hunters residing there.

  No one was coming to check on him, then, and there was nothing for Aeron to do at the moment. Except Olivia.

  “As you pointed out, I’m still naked,” he found himself saying. “Are you ready to have fun?”

  First her jaw dropped. Then she closed it with a snap. Then it dropped again. Unwilling to wait for her to acclimate to his intentions—no more waiting period—Aeron reached up and cupped the base of her neck, drawing her down until she was practically on top of him. Her breath hitched, and the softness of her breasts pressed into his chest.

  Yes, he would have this woman. Those breasts, too. The sweet spot hopefully moistening for him even now, definitely.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” The breathy question warmed him body and soul, because there was longing in every word.

  “Having you.” Finally.

  He lifted his head and meshed their lips together. She didn’t resist, not even for a moment. No, she opened for him, meeting his tongue with her own. He could taste the freshness of the water she’d given him, as well as the cinnamon of her breath.

  Trembling hands flattened on him, and his heart increased in speed, racing to meet them. Her skin was hot rather than warm, and burned him just right. Silky curls tickled him.

  He anchored his free hand under her bottom and tugged her the rest of the way atop him. Their bodies fit together, and her legs opened automatically, cradling him perfectly. He moaned. Yes…yes…

  Yes! Wrath agreed.

  “No,” she rasped, and wrenched away. She even scrambled from the bed and stood to trembling legs, nearly teetering over.

  Both he and the demon wanted to roar. Instead, Aeron settled his weight on his elbows and watched her. Calm. “You want me. I know you do.” Gods, he could smell her arousal just then, heady feminine musk.

  “Yes, but I won’t let you rouse my passions and then leave me before I can finish.” She fisted her robe, inadvertently raising the fabric and showing a hint of those beautiful calves. Calves he would lick.