The Darkest Surrender
Page 40

Paris doubted Cronus had slept with everyone here, or that the bastard even planned to nail them all in the future. But Cronus would do anything to piss off Rhea, his traitor of a wife, and nothing hurt a woman’s pride quite like infidelity. A fact Paris knew very well.
He’d never been faithful. Could never be faithful. No matter how much he wanted to be. No matter how much his many conquests screamed and ranted at him, desperate for something he couldn’t give them. Something…more. His lovers were his demon’s food, that was all. He couldn’t let them be anything else. And really, he didn’t want them to be anything else.
He just wanted Sienna.
If he could find her, if he could touch her, if she no longer despised him—which didn’t seem likely, especially after the things, people, he’d done up here—would she give herself to him?
So many ifs.
He’d been up here off and on ever since her disappearance, and he’d kept his ear to the ground—aka he’d screwed the information out of anyone close to Cronus. See? Unfaithful. He was here for one woman, but had slept with another. And another. And another.
Buck up. Otherwise, he’d start wanting that ambrosia.
Hell, maybe he should just give in.
Or maybe he should leave. Cronus was going to pop a vessel when he discovered Paris’s whereabouts. Would definitely punish him. Because…to hide his activities, Paris had to wear a necklace—a manlace, as Torin called it—the god king had given him. A manlace he was only supposed to wear to hide himself from Rhea. Using it to conceal himself from Cronus as well was a small crime, sure, but couple that with Paris’s intentions…
You’re close. Closer than you’ve ever been. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t give up. So, no ambrosia and no leaving.
“I’m so hot,” one woman said. She lay on a velvet recliner, naked and glistening, arching her back as she traced her fingertips between her large, tawny-tipped breasts. “So needy.”
“Me, too,” another said. She licked her lips as she searched for a partner.
Oh, yes. They had sensed Paris at last.
His friends were used to him, used to his scent and the need it caused, and were mostly immune. Plus, he’d over-indulged Sex, so the demon had rarely acted out like this. Paris wasn’t yet used to it.
“I’ve never been this aroused,” another female said.
Then, it was on. Moans of pleasure resounded as an orgy broke out. Multiple writhing bodies, hands stroking, legs spreading. The sight failed to arouse even the barest flicker of need. Been there, gotten tired of that.
They were distracted, at least. He studied them, searching for the telltale “long, braided white hair” he’d been told Arca possessed. Another tidbit he’d learned: she was responsible for the children’s story about Rapunzel. Once, when she’d delivered a godly message to a human king, he’d become captivated by her beauty and thought to keep her. And he had very nearly succeeded. Not just because he’d used black magic, but because his timing had been impeccable. The Greeks had gained control of the heavens, locking the Titans away. Arca had been forgotten.
Paris didn’t know if the rest of the story held true. If she had been rescued by a mortal prince. If the mortal had been killed in front of her when the Greeks at last remembered her and dragged her up to the heavens, locking her in another, stronger prison. And he wouldn’t let himself care.
What he did know? Arca had been grabbed right off a golden street and tossed here. Paris could work that to his advantage. She had to despise the king, had to crave revenge.
Also, she wasn’t in this section of the palace. Please be in another.
He slinked along the wall. He could have stripped and presented himself as a slave, or a new addition to the harem, but he refused to relinquish his new weapons. No doubt he’d need them.
He reached a corner, paused, listened, looked. Heard no footsteps. Saw no shadows moving along the marble floor. He inched forward, leaving the bathing area completely. Curtained doorway after curtained doorway greeted him, and he gnashed his teeth. If he had to screw someone just to find out which room belonged to Arca—
A slave strode from the room at the far end of the hallway, a silver tray balanced in his hands. He spotted Paris, but didn’t issue an alarm. No, his tanned, naked body reacted instantly, his belly quivering. He set the tray on the floor and practically skipped over, as if in a trance.
He probably was. Paris hadn’t fed his demon for twenty-three hours. He wouldn’t start weakening for another hour, yet Sex’s pheromones—or whatever it was the bastard released from Paris’s pores—would continue to strengthen until they’d come inside someone.
A few times, Paris had let himself become so weak he couldn’t move. Yet those pheromones had drifted from him, so damn potent that humans had fallen on him, unable to help themselves, lost to lust. A few times, before Paris had reached the point of total weakness, he had lost control of himself and fallen on humans.
The slave reached him. “Who are you, beautiful?” Callused, overworked hands whisked along his chest, caressing.
Maybe he wasn’t as close to finding Sienna as he’d thought. First time he’d neared her, his demon had begun repelling others. This slave was far from repelled. But he wouldn’t change course, Paris thought. He couldn’t. If not here, he had no idea where to go.
“Do you know where Arca is?” he asked, ignoring the question asked of him.
A pink tongue emerged, tracing over already moistened lips. “Yes.”
Relief flooded him. “Tell me. Please,” he added as an afterthought.
Those questing hands slid lower…lower still… “For you, anything.”
He waited, forcing himself to remain still. When no other response was forthcoming, he said, “Tell me.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but first I must…have to…please…” Every word caused the slave’s voice to dip lower, huskier, absolute yearning in the undertones.
Lost, Paris thought. The slave was already lost to his body’s needs. Paris would get no answers until that need was assuaged. He leaned against the wall and stared up at the domed ceiling.
“Drop to your knees,” he commanded, pulling Sienna’s delicate face, dark hair and adorably freckled skin to the forefront of his mind.
WILLIAM PACED THE CONFINES of his prison cell. After the blonde bitch had dropped her bombshell about Kane, he had erupted, shouting and fighting for freedom. She’d soon realized there would be no calming him down and had had his gurney wheeled here.
About an hour ago, he’d regained enough of his strength to break out of the metal restraints. Not so with the cage. Four walls, all bars, and he couldn’t bend or manipulate a single one.
The prison had been built for immortals.
He had to get out of here. Had to get to Kane. Had to stop the warrior from reaching hell. The horsemen. The danger…
“So. You’ve calmed down.”
The blonde. Fury rising inside him, William turned on his heel, following the sound of her voice. And there she was. Ponytail, wire rims, delicate features, lab coat.
“Are you ready to chat now?” she asked.
Don’t erupt again. Much as he currently wanted to rip her throat out, he needed her.
He was at a disadvantage, though. Patches of his skin were still charred, his pants—the only article of clothing currently remaining on his body—were bloodstained and ripped, and his hair was sticking out in spikes.
He was still a babe, though. Surely.
He pasted a seductive smile on his face. “Absolutely I’m ready. What’s your name, darling?”
She arched a brow two shades darker than her hair. “I thought you didn’t care about my name.”
Great. She was one of those. Stubborn and determined not to let a man soften her. Otherwise she would have melted already. And yes, he usually worked that quickly. “That was the pain talking, I promise.”
“Okay. I’ll pretend that I believe you. My name is Skye.”
“I’ll call you Dr. Love Button.”
“And I’ll have you castrated.” There was no heat in her tone.
“Kinky. So you work for Galen, do you?” Gods, William hated the bastard. Not for the sake of the Lords, though that didn’t help the keeper of Hope’s cause, but because William simply couldn’t stand people who were deceitful about their evil. Reminded him too much of his brother. And they didn’t get more deceitful than Galen, who masqueraded as an angel so he could manipulate a bunch of feeble-minded humans into doing his dark bidding.
Skye, if that was her real name, laughed. “Kinda sorta, though mostly no.”
Of all the nonanswers she could have given, that topped the list. “Mind explaining that a little better, pet?”
“Not really, but I’ll give it a shot.” She shook her head and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “I’m not a Hunter. Or a doctor, for that matter. I never finished med school.”
“Then why did you bomb me, nearly kill me, help heal me and what? Lock me away as if you despise me. Oh, yeah. And I can’t forget that you also carted my demon-possessed friend into hell.” Something humans wouldn’t have known how to do—or how to navigate through if by some miracle they did manage to reach it. Which meant a god—or a goddess—had to be involved. And the only divine pain in the ass currently helping mortals was Rhea, the heavenly queen. “Also, how do you know about Galen and Hunters if you’re not part of their brainwashed masses?”
A rosy flush colored her cheeks. “First, I didn’t bomb you. Hunters did, yes. And, okay, so my husband is a Hunter, and that’s why I’m so knowledgeable, but I’m working with him on that, trying to get him out. As for the other, I only locked you away because you were a danger to yourself and everyone around you.”
He placed a hand over his heart, as if she’d mortally wounded him. “As if I’d ever hurt you.”