The Darkest Seduction

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

BY THE TIME THEY WERE DRESSED and stepping out of their private cave into the big, bad realm where Zacharel the Chastity Belt waited, Paris had regained every bit of his strength and then some. His muscles were jacked with adrenaline, his bones fortified with steel. His steps were heavier from his increased weight, surer with his superior balance.

All because of Sienna.

“I used my energy escorting the fallen…someplace else. We’ll have to walk to the doorway,” Zacharel said to Sienna. His cheeks were a little gaunt, his bronzed skin now lacking any shine. “That is what you still prefer, yes? Before, you told me you would rather walk with Paris than fly with me, anyway, and though you will soon discover why that is unwise, it is the best I can offer at the moment.”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, ever polite.

“If you’re going to hang with us, make yourself useful.” Paris took the lead, urged Sienna to follow him and forced the angel to take up the rear. “Guard her with your life.”

A gust of wind danced around the angel, and only the angel, more chilling with every second that passed. “I plan to do so. No matter the threat against her.”

An easy tone, but his expression implied Paris himself was a threat, and Zach would take him down if necessary.

Good to know.

During the trek to find Sienna, hardly any creatures had been out and about, and there’d been a small measure of light, a crimson glow from the moon. Now, there were a lot of those hungry, oozing shadows slithering in every direction, and the only light came from the occasional fiend—like the ones who’d followed Sienna, with every intention of harming her. They were staked to poles and burning alive.

Paris reached back and hooked her fingers around the waist of his pants. “Don’t let go of me unless you have to fight.” I don’t want her to have to fight.

“I won’t.” Confident, unafraid.

That’s my girl. Their little train crept through the wilderness, and, like now, some sort of campground. Tents stretched on either side of him. Sex kept his big mouth closed, and this time Paris knew beyond any doubt that the demon was sleeping off the pleasure rather than hiding.

A hiss. A snap of teeth.

Enemy.

Paris searched through the darkness, found the source just up ahead at the top of the closest tent, and leapt into action. He went low, sliding on his knees, running his blade along the trunks of the same vinelike creatures he’d encountered on the climb down that cliff. He was back on his feet a second later, watching as the remains slithered along the sides of the fabric.

No time to relax. Three more rained down. He kept his pimp hand moving, arcing, slicing, and from the grunting he heard behind him, he knew Sienna and Zacharel were doing the same.

A quick look to check on his woman—she had her gaze on his back, swiping at anything that made a play for him—proved she had no wounds, hadn’t been hurt. One of the vines snapped in her direction, dripping fangs protruding from a pair of razored leaves. She was too busy protecting him to protect herself.

Paris swiped out his arm, and got a hunk of skin and muscle torn away. He sucked back a howl of pain. Okay, so now he knew what dribbled from those teeth. Acid.

“Fly her out of here,” he commanded Zacharel, even as he spun, hands crisscrossing and chopping, pieces of vine flung away. He’d rather lose her that way than another, more permanent way.

“Told you. I expended the rest of my energy removing the fallen.”

From the beginning, Paris had known he should off the punked-out bastard, but noooo. He’d sympathized with the guy’s plight. Lesson learned, though. Show a softer side, and boom, you’d be punished later.

“I’m not leaving you,” Sienna said while grabbing on to a stalk and hacking off the head with the crystal blade he’d given her. She was fast, but not fast enough, and soon they would be all over her. “Must have dropped the gun in the water. Sorry.”

Darkness…rising… Paris dropped his daggers and went for his own crystal blade. A single mental command, and the metal elongated…becoming a torch crackling with flames. He pressed those flames against the leather walls, the material soon engulfed…and the sparks jumped to the next tent.

Shrieks blended with the blaze’s crackle as he, Sienna and Zacharel raced away.

After a mile or so they slowed down and Zacharel said, “I thought you wished to remain inconspicuous.”

“We needed to send a message.” Thankfully, the shadow creatures got the message, too. Mess with Paris’s ragtag group, and fry. They kept their distance. Only Sienna’s presence prevented Paris from stomping over and doing some damage.

He wanted to hurt them, but he wanted her safe more.

You can always return for them. True. When Sienna left him, he’d need a good fight to level him out.

Great. Now, at the thought of her leaving him, he was ticked all over again. He only began to calm a few hours later. Nothing and no one dared approach, and more than once his thoughts skipped back to what Zacharel had said.

Paris’s darkness…his temper. Zacharel had implied that Paris would one day hurt Sienna. Yet, when they had been inside the cave and he’d been worked into a dark, consuming rage, he had remained totally aware of her. He hadn’t let the action near her.

With the vines, same deal. He’d remained aware of her. Had sought to protect her, placing that need above the one to maim.

Good news, right? Except, what if she ever pricked his temper? What if all his darkness focused on her?

Oh, hell, no. That wasn’t happening. Zacharel had made him paranoid, that was all. But doubts, once planted, could take on a life of their own, and Paris found himself sweating over the possibility.

Sienna affected him in a way no one else ever had. She accepted him as he was, good, bad and ugly. But if she ever betrayed him, if she ever lied to him, if she ever fought him or turned against him, he couldn’t predict how he would react. Especially now that he knew the thrill of her complete surrender.

What are you doing, pondering the worst? He’d given her a small measure of his trust. By succumbing to these fears, he would dishonor them both. He’d never minded dishonoring himself, but the thought of dishonoring her weighed heavily on his shoulders.

She’d taken him in her mouth, tasted all that he was, and loved his body with such shattering sweetness he would never be the same. She’d seen him at his worst. She knew his past, his future, and yet she still watched him with awe in her eyes, as if he meant something to her. He would not diminish that gift. And it was a gift.

A stumble over a rock propelled her into the side of his body and jerked him out of his head. He caught her with his free hand before she fell.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to space out,” she muttered as she straightened. While the sex had strengthened him, it had clearly tired her.

He shouldn’t have felt such pride about that, but he did. “You don’t hear me complaining about having you in my arms.”

Her lush, lovely grin flashed up at him. “True.”

Zacharel might have rolled his eyes.

Paris gave him a mental bird before scanning the stretch of land ahead. There were miles of dark yet to travel, filled with lots of little landmines. Like the puddle he next had to jump over, then help Sienna do the same. His nose wrinkled. The water smelled like rotting corpses. Probably because…yep, he saw a pair of dull, dead eyes floating underneath.

A fly as big as his fist darted past, then another. One landed on his arm and immediately bit his biceps. He slapped the insect, meaning to fling it away from him, but he ended up smashing it, the damn thing splattering all over him.

The entire realm was a cocktail of creepy from some of his favorite worst horror movies ever. Yeah. He dug the cheese. He also enjoyed romance novels, bench pressing buses and baking chocolate chip cookies.

He hadn’t had time for that stuff in a while, and now…now he realized just how much he’d missed it. How cool would it be to throw in a DVD, kick back with Sienna beside him and watch the bloody good times roll. After that, they could curl up together and maybe read a few scenes from a romance novel.

None of that would happen, though. He and Sienna were parting as soon as they reached the exit. And what do you know. Now he wanted to kill something—simply hurting was no longer good enough—with his bare hands. Was actually praying some feral, foaming-at-the-mouth male would jump out and attack him.

This wasn’t good. Meant his obsession with Sienna had reached the next level.

Paris maybe could have forced himself to let her go without much of a fuss before their time in that cavern. Now? Not likely. She was everything he’d ever wanted for himself and everything he hadn’t known he needed, all rolled into one sexy little package. A warrior when she needed to be, a siren when he needed her to be, yet always soft and sweet and giving. And brave, so brave.

When that pink-haired punk had invaded their private space, she hadn’t run. She’d stayed put. In case Paris needed her, and to keep Zacharel out of his face when things got dicey. He admired that about her. Hell, he was beginning to admire everything about her.

Suddenly Paris understood his man Amun in a way he never had before. Amun’s woman was a former Hunter, too, and once upon a time she had helped murder their bestie Baden. Because of that, every single Lord of the Underworld had despised her and had wanted to see her guts spilled all over their fortress, Paris included, but Amun had stood his ground and defended what was his, and everyone eventually—reluctantly—climbed on board the welcome train.

Maybe, after he’d taken care of Cronus, he would do the same for Sienna—take her home and play house. Things would be difficult at first, sure. She hadn’t killed anyone, but the Lords still didn’t and wouldn’t like her. They’d seen his cut and bruised body after her comrades had finished torturing him. They’d watched him suffer over her loss—and heard him curse himself for caring about her when she had never felt the same for him.

Until now. She’d changed her mind about him, and he’d changed his mind about her. He wasn’t sure what had done the changing on his end, though he suspected it had more to do with simply wanting to believe in her, as he’d claimed. He wasn’t even sure when the change had happened. All he knew was that she wasn’t out to get him.

Accepting that once again drove home the point that his earlier fears, planted by Zacharel, were foolish.

Paris knew women, and he knew sex, and he thought he was pretty good at reading the former’s emotion while engaged in the latter. More than that, he’d been with Sienna before. She might have wanted him back then, but that want had nothing on what she felt for him now. Total, all-encompassing and real.

He wasn’t sure what had changed her mind, either, but he was glad that something had. He loved being with her. She eased him. In so many ways, she eased him. So what the hell was he supposed to do without her, while he hunted Cronus?

Who would he take to bed when the first wave of weakness hit him?

Oh…damn. The thought of being with someone else made him sick. Like, vomit blood sick. He wanted Sienna and only Sienna, and when they parted, and they would because he couldn’t take her with him to hunt Cronus—too dangerous for her, considering the ambrosia in her system—he would have to take someone.

If he continued on this thought path, he would break down.

Maybe she sensed his turmoil. She twined her fingers with his, brought his hand to her mouth, and kissed the pulse hammering in his wrist. The world came back into focus with a whoosh.

“—did you do with that other guy, the fallen you called him?” she was saying to Zacharel. “Did he, uh, survive?”

“He lives, yes,” the angel said, but offered no more.

“He’ll come back for me.” That kind of blame and hatred wouldn’t fade. But by the time the fallen healed, Paris and Sienna would have already parted. She would be safe.

“Yes,” Zacharel said. “He will.”

A spike of fear added a layer of spice to the sweetness of Sienna’s scent. Paris traced his thumb over her knuckles, reveling in the softness of her skin as much as in her worry for him. “He won’t get the drop on me.”

Suddenly a shadow at his left surged into motion, darting at Sienna with the speed of an arrow. The only color in the six-foot slash of darkness was the flash of bloodstained fangs inside its mouth.

Without missing a beat, Paris stepped in front of her, whipping out of Sienna’s clasp to grasp the creature by the neck. He was surprised by the solid feel of flesh and heat. He commanded his crystal dagger to become whatever was needed to destroy a living shadow and stabbed, going deep into that mouth and feeling those fangs cut into his skin.

The dagger began to pulse with the light of the sun, bright enough to cause his eyes to tear. There was a howl of pain, a gurgle, before the writhing mass exploded into particles of mist and scattered on the breeze.

“Thank you,” Sienna said on a wispy catch of breath. The roses had faded from her cheeks, making her freckles stark.

“We don’t thank each other for this kind of thing, remember?” Protecting her would never be about the accolades.

Those exquisitely plump lips curled into a radiant smile he would see in his fantasies for the rest of eternity. Desire for her spun to new life.

She reached up, perhaps planning to trace a fingertip along the seam of his now aching mouth. Then Zacharel said, “May the Deity save me from such nonsense,” and she dropped her arm to her side.

“I don’t think your deity will have to worry about saving you,” Paris snapped. “I’m pretty sure females will recognize the fact that you’re not worth the effort from glance one.”

The angel seemed pleased by that.

Polar opposites, Paris thought; that’s what he and the angel were. Zacharel had never experienced a spark of arousal, so he had no idea what he was missing. Paris pitied the poor girl who finally gained his notice. She’d have to have balls of steel. Zach would fight her every step of the way to the bedroom, and probably even blame her for his introduction to passion.

Now that might be fun to watch.

If the circumstances had been any different, Paris might have unleashed Sex’s special scent upon the angel. More than likely even Zach would fall prey to the lush, candlelight-and-silk-sheets imagery that always consumed everyone else, and his horror at wanting Paris would amuse for centuries to come.

Sienna stiffened. As attuned to her every nuance as he was, Paris’s attention whipped to her. The roses had returned to her cheeks, but they were too bright, as if she were suffering with a fever. Her eyes, now more emerald than gold, were glued ahead—on the castle that had just crested into view.

Her bond to the structure must be growing stronger, he thought.

Paris wrapped his arm around her and tugged her as close as he could get her, remaining careful of her wings. She didn’t protest. In fact, she nuzzled her cheek against his neck, warm and soft and his.

He kissed her temple. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you go.”

A sigh of relief and unmistakable gratitude. “Than— I mean, whatever.”

“Good girl,” he said with a grin.

Zacharel frowned at them. “Do you still mean to part?”

Paris lost his good humor, and shot the angel an I-hope-you-die-painfully glare. Now was so not the time to get into that.

“Yes,” Sienna said in a tone as cold and biting as the wind buffeting against Zacharel. Then, contradicting the harsh affirmation, she rubbed a fist against her chest as though a hot poker burned there. “We’re still going to part.”

Indignation rose up, but Paris swallowed it back. That was the way it had to be. He knew it, had agreed to it. Shit, he’d even been the one to suggest it.

“This is good.” The angel nodded his approval, the action allowing several snowflakes to catch in the satin of his hair.

“Why do you care?” Paris demanded. He still hadn’t figured out the reason for Zacharel’s continued presence.

A shrug of one strong shoulder. “I would not say I care. I simply know that the two of you cannot successfully sustain a relationship.”

With that note of truth in his voice, it was clear the angel wholeheartedly believed what he’d said. “Our relationship isn’t your business, so your opinions aren’t welcome.”

“Actually, the two of you were made my business.”

Paris saw red. Demon-red. A volatile reaction when one was not needed, but he was helpless against it. Sheer will alone kept his hands at his sides rather than hammering into Zacharel’s face. “By who?”

Wings of white and gold spread, the angel beside him one moment, then in front of him the next. Zacharel’s feet floated above the ground, those wings flapping slowly, holding him steady. Paris had to grind to an abrupt stop to avoid slamming into him. Around them, snowflakes tumbled and swirled only to land and melt.

In case things got ugly, he shoved Sienna behind him. “What happened to being too weak to fly?”

“I have regained my strength.”

“How?”

“The answer will not change what is about to happen.”

He arched a brow, weapon at the ready. “Are you sure you want to go this route?”

“Some part of you hopes to keep her. Otherwise, you would not have reacted so violently to my observation.” Before Paris could respond, he added, “Do you recall when I told you that if you continued on your current path, you would lose everything you’d come to love?”

He popped his jaw. Only the gentle caress of Sienna’s hands on his back prevented him from hurling obscenities.

“I did not lie, demon. I never do. And now I think it’s time I proved just how terrible an enemy I can be.”

Paris blinked. Suddenly he hovered in the air, high above the castle’s drawbridge, Zacharel cradling him against a hard chest honed on the battlefield. His heart pounded an unsteady beat.

“How the hell did you do that?” And where the hell was Sienna?

“With powers you cannot begin to imagine. But this is not what I wished to show you.” One finger at a time, the angel loosened his grip. “I hope that you will soon learn I can help you…or destroy you.”

“You better not do what I think you’re going to do, you dirty piece of—”

His anchor vanished, and Paris free-fell toward the dilapidated slats of wood. He landed on the creaking boards with a hard slam and good loss of oxygen. Behind him, he heard the gargoyles screaming out their war cries, the flap of their wings, the scrape of their claws.

Zacharel had. He really had. “Son of a bitch!”