Lords of the Underworld Bundle (60 page)

She gasped. He fought a moan.

“My pleasure,” he answered, arousal building…building…Was it too soon to make a move? Would she run?

“So, you never told me. What are you doing in Greece?” She pulled her hand away, but stared at his as if there were something wrong with it.

“I just felt like traveling,” he lied. Wait. He'd mentioned something about work a bit ago. “For work. I'm a…model.” It was a lie he'd used time and time again.

“Wow,” she said, obviously distracted. Frowning, she reached out and touched his hand again.

Again, tingles rushed through him. And her, as well, it seemed. She gasped a second time and turned her hand over, studying it. Perhaps now was a good time to make his move, after all.

“I love the feel of your skin.”

Shifting nervously, she looked away. “Thank you.”

Slowly, so slowly, he claimed her hand and raised it to his mouth. He placed a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. The warm tingles sparked between them, constant now, and so erotic he was willing to beg her to sleep with him.

When she didn't protest, he licked her pulse.

Gasping, she jerked. Not away from him, but in surprised…delight? He'd never had to wonder before, but couldn't quite read her expression. Couldn't release her, either. Touching her was like touching a live wire, pinning him in place, holding him captive with those electric jolts.

“I never do this,” she said on a catch of breath. “I never have coffee with strange men or let them kiss me. Especially not male models.”

“But I'm not kissing you.”

“Oh. Well. I just meant—well, I just meant my wrist. You were kissing my wrist.”

“I'd like to kiss you.” He drank her in through the thick fan of his lashes. “Truly kiss you.”

“Why? Don't get me wrong,” she rushed out. “I'm glad. But why me?”

“You're a desirable woman.”

“I am?”

“Oh, yes.” His voice was husky with arousal. “Can't you feel the hum of my desire?”

“I—I—” She chewed on her lower lip again. A nervous habit?

It was endearing, but
he
wanted to chew on that lip.

“I don't know what to say,” she said. She traced a fingertip over her mouth, as if she was imagining his tongue there, too.

“Say yes.”

“But we're strangers.”

“We don't have to be.” Gods, he couldn't wait to taste her. All of her.

“We could, I don't know, go to my hotel room,” she suggested shyly. “If you wanted to, that is. We can have a drink or something. I mean, more than coffee. But I'm not suggesting you have to have more if you don't want to. Oh, crap. I'm nervous! I'm sorry.”

“Let's go somewhere new to both of us.” He never entered a mortal's quarters. He'd made that mistake only once. And he couldn't take her to his temporary new home. That would place the other warriors in danger if Hunters were to follow. That left getting a hotel room himself. “Somewhere close.”

“I—I—” she stammered again.

He pushed up, leaning toward her, and meshed his mouth over hers. She immediately opened without protest, and he swept his tongue inside for a hot, searing kiss. Her taste—better than he could have imagined. Mint and lemons, coffee and total passion. Already a lance of strength shot through him.

What would she taste like between her legs?

“O-okay,” she breathed when he pulled away. Her nipples were hard. “Should we get a room?”

He'd trace his tongue around those nipples before sucking on them. He'd have her writhing while he pleasured her with his fingers first, then screaming while he filled her with his cock. He would spend hours enjoying her.

With a groan, he straightened and took her hand. She didn't protest as he helped her to her feet. He tossed several bills on the table.

“This way,” he said.

They held hands as they raced down the walkway, and Paris again wished he could flash like Lucien. He wasn't sure how much longer he could wait to have this woman. Of course, when the passion was over, she'd lose her appeal. But until then…

“Wait,” she suddenly said.

He was panting, he realized, and almost shouted, “No.” He tugged her into an alleyway. Desperate, so desperate. The area was filled with sunlight, but at least they'd have a modicum of privacy.

“Yes,” he said, pushing her up against the wall. Her navy shirt had a slit up each side, each revealing a tiny patch of smooth skin.

“I don't even know your name.” She didn't shove him away as he'd feared, but gaped at him with white-hot need in those hazel eyes as she wound her arms around his neck.

I'm back,
he thought, muttering, “Paris. My name is Paris.” Then he kissed the breath right out of her.

She moaned, and he swallowed the sound. Her legs parted. His erection pressed into the sweetest part of her, rubbing, mimicking sex.
He
moaned this time.

Perfection.

She kneaded his back, her nails scoring past the material of his shirt. All the while their tongues dueled. When he palmed her breast, the kiss deepened, spinning into a tide of wildness.

Need skin to skin contact.
He tunneled a hand under her shirt—smooth skin, ah, so good—up the flatness of her stomach—she quivered—and palmed her breast again.

She wasn't wearing a bra, and he got a taste of the skin he craved. Sweet merciful heavens. Her breasts were small, but perfectly tipped. He gently pinched one nipple, rolling it between his greedy fingers, loving the feel. She arched her hips, stroking his cock.

“So sweet,” he growled.

“Paris,” she panted.

“I need to be inside you.”

“I—I—I'm sorry.”

He kissed a path down her cheek, along her jaw. She wouldn't regret giving herself to him. He'd take such good care of her. She'd remember him with a smile for the rest of her life. “Why?”

“For this,” she said. She no longer sounded breathless or aroused. She sounded determined.

A sharp needlelike pain stabbed at his neck. He pulled back from her in confusion. Staggered. Felt a strange lethargy work through him, causing his knees to tremble. “What…why…” His voice was weak. Wrong.

Her face swam in front of him, but he could see that she wore an emotionless mask. Her freckles blurred together. He watched as she closed the top of her opal ring, shielding the sharp point inside.

“Evil has to be stamped out,” she said flatly.

Bait after all,
he thought, and then his world went black.

 

R
EYES SAT IN THE SHADOWED
corner of an Italian strip club thinking that one bar was the same as any other, no matter the country. He'd come to Rome to search for Pandora's box, but he was having trouble concentrating and had succeeded only in pissing off his team, rather than helping them.

They'd finally told him to leave, to calm himself down before coming back to the ruins of the Unspoken Ones.

So here he sat, cutting his arm under the table so no one could see what he was doing. Possessed by the spirit of Pain, he needed to feel the sharp sting of agony on a daily basis. Nothing else soothed him.

Especially now, when all he could think about was Danika.

Where was she? Was she okay? Did she hate him or did she spend her nights dreaming of him as he dreamed of her?

Her image flashed through his mind. Blond, tiny, angelic. Sensual, courageous, passionate. Well, he imagined she would be passionate. He hadn't even kissed her yet, much less touched her or stripped her.

But he wanted to. Gods, he wanted to.

He had to get her out of his mind—which was the reason he'd come here. But the four naked women on stage, beautiful as they were, did nothing for him. He wasn't even hard. Couldn't get hard anymore without thinking of Danika.

So badly he wanted to track her down, guard her…love her. He couldn't. Despite his temporary restraints, Aeron would kill her one day soon, fulfilling the Titans' command. And Reyes didn't want to become involved with her, knowing he'd lose her. For there would be no stopping Aeron—to stop him, Reyes would have to kill him or condemn his friend to a lifetime of torment.

Unfortunately, Reyes was not that selfish. Aeron was his brother in all but blood. A warrior who had stood by Reyes's side and at his back, slaying Hunters. They'd bled together. They'd saved each other. To forget that for a woman, a momentary pleasure…he bit the inside of his cheek.

The knife dug deep into his wrist, nicking a vein. He felt the warm rush of blood down his arm. The wound healed immediately, however, the tissues quickly weaving back together.

He sliced another groove, grimaced. Sighed in sweet relief.

“Lap dance?” one of the dancers asked him in Italian.

“No,” he replied, harsher than he'd intended. Another sigh escaped him, this one devoid of any hint of relief. He wasn't doing himself any good, staying here. He wasn't calming down, but was growing even moodier.

“Sure?” She cupped her lace-clad breasts. “I'll make you feel good.”

Only once since being paired with the demon of Pain had he felt actual pleasure and that was while looking at Danika. The pain of that pleasure had been…addicting. Nothing else would do anymore, it seemed. “I'm sure. Leave me.”

The stripper flounced away in a huff.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Surely there was something he could do to help Danika. The thought of her vibrant life being snuffed out was nearly too much for him to bear. Too
painful,
even for him.

Perhaps he could petition the gods, ask them to rescind their command for Wrath—Aeron—to kill Danika.

Maybe, he thought, leaning back in his chair, feeling a measure of peace for the first time in weeks. He would need something to bargain with, something they coveted. He didn't know much about the Titans, who hadn't been in power very long. What did they want? And how could he procure it?

 

A
ERON CROUCHED IN THE
corner of the cell, his body battered and bloodied from his many rages. The pain didn't bother him, though. No, it strengthened him.

Kill, kill, kill.

He had to escape this prison.
A prisoner inside my own home.
Bloodlust held him in a tight clasp, squeezing, squeezing…so much so that he saw the world in a haze of reds. He couldn't eat without imagining his knife slicing through Danika's neck—then her sister's, her mother's, her grandmother's. He couldn't breathe, sleep or move without imagining it.
Kill.

For so long, he'd hoped and prayed he would lose this desire to kill. But every day, the urge grew stronger. His friends no longer visited him except to slip a tray of food into his cell; it was as if they'd written him out of their lives.

Kill, kill, kill.
He needed out of this dungeon. Needed to destroy. Then the desire would leave him. He knew it. And oh, he could almost taste those deaths in his mouth. Yes, he needed out.

No more waiting. No more hoping for peace. He'd do what was necessary, what he'd been commanded.

He stared over at the bars. A plan began to take root in his mind. He grinned. Soon…

A
NYA COULDN'T BELIEVE
L
UCIEN
had just tried to kill her. Truly kill her, and not in jest. Yeah, she'd known he'd been commanded to do it. Yeah, he'd claimed he meant to see it through. And yeah, he'd even tried before.

But his previous attempts had been halfhearted. This hadn't. He'd meant to slay her. Permanently, no take-backs. If she hadn't flashed from the couch when she had, he would have cleaved her head from her body. And now he was hot on her trail, still determined to take her out.

Hurt and anger flooded her as she flashed from one location to another, each blurring together as she tried to lose him. Today she'd shopped with him and laughed with him. She'd told him about the key. For once he'd seemed to like—and enjoy!—her presence. More than that, he'd promised to take her to the Arctic with him.

And then he'd tried to kill her.

The heat of her anger intensified, and the sharpness of her hurt cut deep. How dare he! She'd been nothing but kind to him.

Well, she thought, eyes narrowing, that was going to change.
She
was now going to kill
him.
No more desiring him. No more kissing him and imagining him inside her. Seething, she flashed to her apartment in Switzerland and quickly changed into a tee and black stretch pants that wouldn't easily stain with Lucien's blood, reminding her for years to come of what she'd had to do to him. Flashed to two other places, gathering weapons.

Once she was armored in knives, throwing stars and a Taser, she flashed back to his home in the Cyclades. She wasn't just going to kill him, she was going to have fun electrocuting him before slicing him up like a Christmas ham.

He was gone. Still looking for her, she knew.

He would appear soon enough.

She stood in place, feet apart, hands at her sides. Waiting…eager…

He arrived a split second later. His gorgeously scarred features were devoid of emotion. Seeing him, she remembered something she wanted to do to him and grinned evilly.
Payback was going to be a bitch.

“Anya.”

Rather than attack him, she flashed to his room in Budapest. She gathered the chains he'd used on her, flashed to that glacier in Antarctica and wrapped them around her waist like a belt.

“Bastard,” she said as cold wind cut into her skin. Lucien hadn't known that she was the one immortal no chains could hold, no prison could contain. Thanks to her father, who had gifted her with the All-Key, she could escape any place at any time. She could escape anything—except her curse.

I will not give it up.

To give the key away was to chart the course of your own downfall, as she well knew. Her father had known he would weaken when he gave it to her, but he had done it. To make up for his absence most of her life, to prove he really did love her.

To her horror, he'd quickly begun to crumble. Now, all these years later, he was a shell of his former self. He did not remember who he was, what he'd done throughout his lengthy life, or that he had a wife. He could barely take care of himself. And because Anya had left Themis rotting in prison, Anya's mother had to see to his needs.

Both were happy, though, Anya liked to think. Dysnomia, because she had a man who needed her and didn't revile her. Tartarus, because the prison and his bitch of a wife no longer bound him.

That didn't mean Anya would reduce her father's sacrifice to a bargaining tool in her war with Cronus, losing everything she had gained. If she gave the key away, she would be vulnerable again. Her powers, gone. Her memories, wiped out. Her ability to escape any chain, destroyed.

Damn Cronus, anyway. She wished like hell he'd never learned of the key, but figured he had seen Tartarus, who had been blessed with the key as a child, give it to her. They'd been locked in the same prison, after all, so it made sense. And if she hadn't used it to free her parents after Cronus locked them up, the god would have most likely forgotten about it. But she had, and here they were.

“Chaser and chasee,” she muttered.

Mostly Cronus wanted the key out of her possession to prevent her from using it against him again. She'd tried to tell him that she didn't care about the other gods and wouldn't return to the prison. Like the distrustful deity he was, he hadn't believed her. And to be honest, he was smart not to. If he locked her parents up again, she'd simply return and bust them out.

A scowling Lucien appeared in front of her. “Anya?” She didn't miss a beat.

“Ready to have some fun?” She didn't give him time to answer. Weighed down with the chains, she flashed to a busy street in New York—fingers crossed he would be run over—then to a gay strip club in Italy—fingers crossed he would be groped—then to a zoo in Oklahoma—fingers crossed the elephant shit was ripe.

“Enjoy,” she muttered with relish.

Anya flashed one final time, back to where she'd begun: his home in Greece. Lucien was still following her trail. Lightning-quick, she hid the chains under the bed and palmed her Taser.

When she straightened he was there, just in front of her. Her breath caught. He was still scowling, teeth bared and sharp, Death glowing in his eyes. He had a bleeding cut on his leg and he smelled like shit.

Her nose wrinkled. “Step in something?” she asked innocently.

“That, I did not mind.” He took a menacing step toward her. “What I
did
mind was being hit by a cab, then landing on the lap of a naked man. With an erection, Anya. He had an erection.”

She grinned. She just couldn't help herself.

“Now,” he continued in that outraged tone, “you are going to tell me why you flashed to my room in Buda.”

“No. I'm not.” Grin widening, she lifted her arm and Tasered him.

His entire body shook, his expression frozen in outrage and anguish. Only when the last volt escaped did she drop the weapon. Hissing, he jerked the plugs from his nipples. Her aim had been dead on.

“Anya!” he growled.

Careful not to allow her expression to betray her, she whipped out two silver-tipped throwing stars and launched them at him. The
whoosh
was the only warning he had before the stars embedded in his heart.

He howled. “Again in the heart? Where is your originality?” He winced as he yanked them out, and his jaw set stubbornly as he tossed it to the ground. “This doesn't have to be messy, Anya.”

“Hell, yes, it does.” She threw another star.

He ducked, and the tiny blade sailed over his shoulder. Then he took another step toward her. Brave man. “Why can't you give Cronus the key?”

“Why couldn't you pick me rather than Cronus?” she ground out. “Why couldn't you pick me rather than your friends?”

Oh, gods. Had she truly said that? Whined like that? Heat spread over her entire face. Of course he'd picked his friends. She might wish otherwise—even the night Ashlyn sacrificed herself for Maddox, Anya had dreamed of Lucien being willing to do the same for her—but that was the way of the world. Lovers, whether they'd done the deed or not, came and went. Friends were forever.

Lucien paused. “For all I know, Anya, you will forget me tomorrow. Why should I risk all that I hold dear for a few days with you?”

Because I'm worthy, damn it!
Foolishly, selfishly, she would have liked to hear that he'd go through anything for her, no matter how little or long they'd be together. Punishment. Hell. Torture. A combination of all three. “I could have helped you find those artifacts. I could have helped you fight Hydra. I could have helped you find that godsdamn box.”

His shoulders sagged slightly. “I know.”

Her hurt increased. He'd rather kill her than to 1) risk getting to know her more and perhaps watch her walk away one day and 2) obtain her aid for an item he desperately craved.

Growling low in her throat, she launched yet another star. He wasn't fast enough this time and it sliced into his already injured thigh.

“Damn it, Anya.” He jerked it out and tossed it aside, even though he could have tossed it at her. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Shithead. “You wanna kill me, you're going to have to work for it.”

“Very well.” Eyes narrowing, he allowed his long legs to eat up the rest of the distance between them.

She flashed to the living room, but he was right behind her. She whipped around and jumped backward, placing a coffee table between them. He simply picked it up and tossed it aside. The glass shattered on impact, raining shards all over the room. The wooden legs splintered.

Why, why, why did the force of his determination and strength arouse her? Now of all times? She wouldn't let that arousal affect her, though. From the beginning, he'd done nothing but insult her, smash her hopes and ignore her feelings. He deserved whatever pain she dished out.

“If we are going to fight, it might as well be honorable,” he said, and then he disappeared.

She wasn't given time to wonder where he'd gone.

He reappeared a moment later holding two swords. He threw one in her direction, and she caught it by the hilt. Heavy, but that wouldn't be a problem. She was much stronger than she looked.

“There's no fun in honor,” she told him, waving the thick metal back and forth.

“Try it. You might be surprised.”

“Seriously, though. You want to swordfight a
girl?
” She tried to put enough censure in her voice to shame him, even though she hummed with excitement. Could he beat her?

“You are hardly a typical girl, so yes. I want to fight you.”

“I'll take that as a compliment, Flowers.”

“It was meant as one.”

Lucien was on her in the next heartbeat. She raised her sword to parry and metal clinked against metal, the force of which caused her to stumble. He continued to surge forward, continued to push her backward, his thrusts quick and unceasing, but she managed to twist to the side, swing and slice into his shirt. Oopsie, flesh too.

Blood seeped through the cotton, soaking it to his stomach. The flow swiftly stanched, and the wound, she suspected, closed. Damn immortal warriors and their supernatural healing! Because they were designed for battle, they healed much quicker than even the gods.

“Luck,” he said.

“Talent.”
Clink.
She kicked a lily-filled vase at him, and it shattered against his chest. Droplets of crimson appeared, blending with the sweat that trickled from his temples.

“We shall see.”

“Should we worry about visitors?” she asked, dodging as he lunged at her.

“This place was chosen for its isolation. More than that, we paid dearly to be ignored, no matter what was heard.” He jumped backward, hunching to remove his stomach from her line of fire.

“Well, aren't you a Smartie McSmartpants.” She went low, aiming for his ankles. Hobbling him would be amusing.

Unfortunately, he hopped out of the way. They began a dance of thrust, parry and retreat, moving throughout the entire home.
Clank.
Something fell to the ground and splintered.
Clank.
Another item followed suit.

Within fifteen minutes, the couch and love seat were destroyed, as was every knickknack and even the television. Curtains were ripped down, and holes were punched into the walls. Much longer, and the authorities
would
arrive. Anya was panting, growing tired, but she managed to cut Lucien on his upper arm, calf and again his stomach.

He'd managed to cut her not at all.

Oops. Take that back. The tip of his sword slashed across her left shoulder, causing the shirt to gape and reveal the lace of her favorite demi-bra. The skin above it stung.

“You cut me,” she said, gaping at him.

“I am sorry.” And he did sound apologetic.

She growled, a predator locking on the evening's meal. “Not yet, but you will be!” She withdrew a dagger and stabbed at his thigh.

Contact.

“Ouch!”

End this.
There was only one sure way to do that. She spun on her heel as she chopped at him, forcing him to turn and backing him toward the bedroom. He was strong—stronger than her, she admitted, for she knew he had been pulling back every time his blade almost nicked her. Why he did that, she didn't know, since he'd finally gotten serious about killing her.

“I don't know why I hung around you so long,” she said amid thrusts and parries. “I don't know why I helped you.”

“That makes two of us.” His straight, white teeth bared in another scowl.

“You know what? I'm sick of your poor-me routine. It's old, sweetcakes.”