The Darkest Kiss

CHAPTER NINE

PARIS ROAMED THE PAVED STREETS of Athens as the sun shone bright and golden. The air was peaceful, serene, and the white-washed, Old-World sights riveting. Gentle waves from the sea only a short distance away added the perfect soundtrack.

He should have been preparing for his upcoming trip to the States.

He wasn't.

He was looking for a woman, any woman, who would have him. But no matter what he did or said, the females of Greece weren't responding to him as the females of Budapest—hell, as the females everywhere else on earth—had.

He didn't understand it, either. His physical appearance had not changed. He was a handsome motherfucker. His demeanor had not changed. He was the most charming person he knew. Nothing about him had changed. Yet before traveling here, he'd had only to cast his gaze upon a woman to have her stripping, readying herself for his pleasure. Here, nothing. Nada.

Women of every age, size and color treated him like a leper.

Sadly, at this point, all he needed was five minutes and a pair of spread legs.

Without sex, he weakened. Became vulnerable and unable to defend himself from Hunters and their vicious attacks.

Had it been possible, he would have chosen one woman, married her and taken her with him everywhere, enjoying her and her alone. But apart from the obstacle of human women's mortality, the demon inside him would allow no such thing. Once he'd slept with a woman, he couldn't get hard for her again. No matter how much he wanted to be with her.

It was why he'd stopped trying for anything more than a single night. To stay alive, he would have to cheat on a wife constantly, and he refused to do such a thing.

Someone look at me, want me. If he couldn't find a female…the things he was forced to do sickened him.

Not rape, please not rape, but the demon had no gender preference. Paris did. Paris only wanted women. His stomach cramped as memories tried to fill his mind. Hated memories. He clenched his teeth in an effort to halt them.

Find a prostitute, Promiscuity suggested, needing sex as much as he did.

Tried. It's as if they're hiding from me. Paris actually preferred prostitutes. They both got something out of the deal, and his lover didn't leave with expectations of a repeat performance.

A brunette sauntered down the sidewalk across from him. Female. He scented her before he saw her, turning his head to draw in more of her sweet feminine fragrance. She'll do.

He was halfway to her before he realized he'd taken a single step. "Excuse me," he called when he reached her. Desperation laced his tone.

Her gaze slid to him. Appreciation curtained her features, but that was it. Nothing more. No trancelike desire. Up close, he could see strands of silver in her hair and the age lines around her eyes.

Didn't matter. His mouth watered for her.

"Yes," she said in heavily accented English, not slowing.

Usually they stopped, already desperate to touch him. What made these Greek females different? "Would you like to…" Shit. He couldn't ask her to sleep with him, not right away. She'd probably balk. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

"No, thanks. I already ate." And with that, she picked up speed and walked away from him.

He ground to a stop, stunned, unnerved. Irritated. What the hell was going on?

The gods, perhaps? Were they interfering? He glared up at the heavens. Bastards. He wouldn't put it past them. But why would they even care? They wanted to find their artifacts, didn't they? He and the other warriors were the best chance they had.

"I've done nothing to you," he barked.

Even as he spoke, a dark thought slipped into place. Maddox—Violence—had noticed a change in himself—becoming more wild, more uncontrolled—just before he'd met Ashlyn, the love of his life. Lucien seemed to be experiencing a similar phenomenon with Anya, not that stoic Death would admit such a thing aloud.

Were Paris to mention it, he suspected the new Lucien might club him to death in a fit of temper—a temper he'd rarely ever shown before.

Dear gods. Am I next?

No. No, no, no. Since Paris couldn't stay with one woman, he prayed he'd never meet a woman he could fall in love with. In fact, if he encountered a beauty whose name started with A—first Ashlyn, then Anya—he was running like hell. No way. Not for him.

A blonde passed him, carrying two paper sacks from which the scent of fresh-baked bread wafted. He leapt into motion, chasing after her. "Allow me to help you with those," he said. Gods, he sounded desperate.

"No, thanks." She didn't spare him a glance, but kept moving.

Again, he ground to a stop. Fuck! What the hell was he supposed to do? If he had to fly back to Buda, he would do it. Or track Lucien down and endure another dizzying flash so he could get there faster. Those artifacts and Pandora's box be damned. He would—

Another blonde passed him.

Another rejection followed.

Another brunette.

Another rejection.

An hour later, his body was hard and hot and—fuck—still weakening. His hands were trembling, and he could feel the need for sex fueling his every cell—which was why, when someone ran into him from behind, he stumbled forward, nearly falling flat on his face before he managed to right himself.

"I'm so sorry," a feminine voice said.

A shiver danced through him at the sound of her decadent timbre. He turned slowly, afraid if he moved too quickly she would run away from him like the others. Papers were scattered around her feet, he noticed first, and she was bent down trying to gather them.

"That'll teach me to read and walk at the same time," she muttered.

"I'm glad you were reading," he said, bending down to help her. "I'm glad we ran into each other."

Her lids raised, and her gaze met his. She gasped.

In awareness? Please, please be awareness.

She was plain, with hazel eyes, freckled skin, and wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were too big for her face, and her lips were so full they appeared bee-stung. But there was something mesmerizing about her. Something that compelled his gaze to linger, to drink her in and enjoy. A hidden sensuality, perhaps. A wicked flicker in those green and brown eyes.

The quiet, mousy ones were always the wildest.

"Your name doesn't start with an A, does it?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.

Her brow puckered in confusion, but she shook her head. "No. My name is Sienna. Not that you care and not that you really asked. Sorry. I didn't mean to just blurt it out."

"I care," he said huskily. He couldn't wait to strip her.

A rosy blush infused her cheeks, and she hastily returned her attention to the papers.

"You're…American?" he asked, handing her the papers he'd gathered.

"Yes. Vacationing here to work on my manuscript. Again, not that you asked. I can't place your accent, though."

"Hungarian," he said. Well, he'd lived in Budapest for enough centuries to claim the nationality. Quickly he changed the subject back to her. "So you are a writer?"

"Yes. Well, I hope to be. Wait, that's not right, either. I am a writer, but I'm not published yet." Stacking her bundle, she nibbled on her lush bottom lip. "I'm sorry I'm babbling. It's a habit of mine. Just tell me to shut up when you've heard enough from me."

"I'd love to hear more." Relief was swimming through him, as potent as the richest wine laced with ambrosia. Finally—a woman who didn't rush away from him as if he were poison.

Blushing again, she smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear.

He watched the action, his cock twitching in response. This woman's hands were exquisite, perhaps the most sensual body part he'd ever seen. Soft, delicate, with white-tipped, square nails. A thick silver chain was linked around her equally exquisite wrist. She wore three rings. Two were simple bands, again silver, and the third was a large iridescent opal.

Married?

He didn't like the thought, but wasn't going to let it sway him. He imagined those hands on his body and could have come.

He had to have her.

Could be Bait. The thought struck him out of habit, because it was something he worried about constantly. He studied her more closely. The freckles spread over her entire face, the lips nearly misshapen by their large size. Probably not Bait, he decided then. Bait was usually gorgeous. Like Ashlyn. Like Anya. Sienna wasn't gorgeous. Not even close. Still, he wasn't going to lower his guard.

Must have her. Now! the demon growled.

Soon…soon…

"You're just being nice," she said, breaking the silence that had encompassed them. She pushed to her feet, tucking her manuscript under her arm. She was very slim, almost flat-chested.

He stood, loving how small she was compared to him, how his big body dwarfed her. "Hell, no. I'm nice, but I'm not lying. I want to know everything about you."

"Really?" she asked hopefully.

"Swear."

Her clothes were unflattering, dark blue and bagging. He wondered if she wore sexy lingerie underneath. He'd like to see her in emerald-green lace.

"Would you, uh, like to get a coffee or something?" she asked.

"Yes." Gods, yes.

Slowly she grinned. "Where?"

That grin affected him soul-deep. He felt its radiance like a punch in the gut. "Wherever you lead, I'll follow." He was already hard, but now he was invigorated. He'd charm and flatter her, then give her the best orgasm of her life. Afterward, they'd amicably part ways.

She'd have a night to remember, and his strength would be restored. For the rest of the day, at least. An even trade.

"Come on," he said. "We'll find something." Soon.

They meandered along the walkway, side by side. His awareness of her only grew. She smelled of soap and—he sniffed. Wildflowers. What were her most secret fantasies?

"There's a café just around the corner," she said.

"Perfect." A tremble racked him. Weakness or desire? He didn't know, didn't care. Distract yourself. "What's your manuscript about?"

"Oh." She waved a hand through the air. "You don't really want to know, and I'm embarrassed to say."

"A romance novel, then?"

Her eyes widened and she peered over at him. "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess." He knew women, even if he couldn't get close to any one of them. While most loved all things romantic, they hid their romance novels as if they were something to be ashamed of. They couldn't know that he read them. He loved them, actually, and would have liked a happy ending for himself.

Until the impossible became possible—aka the Titans dressed in tutus and waved their magic wands while dancing and singing about love—he'd just have to make do.

Finally they rounded the corner and the outdoor café came into view. Circular tables and high-backed chairs were lined in front of a large glass window. One was vacant, so they quickly claimed it.

"How long have you been in Greece?" she asked, settling the papers and her purse in her lap.

"A little more than a week, but I've been working."

"Oh, that's terrible. You haven't had a chance to see the sights, have you?" She propped her elbows on the tabletop and peered over at him, expression rapt. "Are you here alone or with a group?"

Ignoring her question, he said, "I'm looking at the best sight right now." All right, boy. That's getting a little cheesy, even for you. What, you gonna ask her to research the love scenes of her book next? Bring it down a notch.

She blushed once more, though, a pretty pinkening of her freckled skin. His cock throbbed in reaction.

A waitress arrived and they placed their orders. He was surprised when his companion—what had she said her name was?—ordered straight, black coffee. He would have placed money on something sweet. He ordered a double espresso for himself.

When the drinks arrived a few minutes later, he returned his attention to Freckles. She became lovelier by the second, he realized. Underneath the freckles, her skin was a creamy shade of pearl, her eyes now more green than brown.

"Thank you for the coffee," she said, sipping. She reached over with her free hand to pat his fingers. At the instant of contact, warm, heady tingles raced up his arm—unexpected and as exquisite as she suddenly was.

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.

REYES 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?

AERON 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…