CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 7 page

What were a few bruises when her breasts rasped against his chest with her every inhalation, and her aching nipples rubbed at him, sparking the desire inside her to a hotter degree?

She spread her legs, allowing his lower half to fall more firmly against hers. His erection—so big, so long, so perfectly thick—hit her just right, and she gasped. Hotter, hotter, sooo much hotter.

“Strider,” she moaned.

“Kaia.”

Her name on his lips…heaven and hell, sweet and torturous. A siren’s song. “More.”

“How do you like it?”

“However you give it.” Her nails had already lengthened into claws, and she dug them into his back, accidentally cutting past his shirt and into skin. He groaned, and their teeth scraped together. His fingers clenched on her jaw. “Sorry,” she panted. She squeezed his hips with her knees, just in case he thought to leave her.

“Don’t be sorry,” he growled. “Just do it again.” He sucked on her bottom lip, hard, causing sizzling goose bumps to sprout from head to toe.

More erotic, freeing words had never been spoken. As a Harpy, she was stronger and more vicious than almost all other immortals. She’d always had to temper her passions and hold back. Even with Paris.

She didn’t think she’d have to hold back with Strider—and wouldn’t. Whatever she dished, he could take. Hell, he would revel in. He was too strong, too determined for anything less. And really, he might look like an angel, but he was far wickeder than any other Lord. The best kind of wicked, at that. Devilish. Gentle and easy weren’t his style.

He found humor in the strangest things. If he discovered one of his friends chained to a female’s bed (cough Lucien cough), he took pictures and emailed them to every one he knew. How cool was that?

A man like that would never ask her to stop stealing. He might even join her on her obligatory forays, keeping her dark side happy without causing too much damage. More than that, he knew triumph and loss better than any other. He would revel in her every accomplishment, good, bad or ugly. He would be the first to tell her when she’d screwed up, but he wouldn’t write her off.

Or maybe the man she pictured in her mind was pure fantasy. The one on top of her thought to barter with her, his body in exchange for her cooperation. That pissed her off royally—but not enough to stop this tasting.

He was her drug of choice, she mused, and she was already addicted to him.

“Kaia! Pay some fucking attention to what’s happening here,” he snarled.

Startled back to her senses, she blinked up at him. He was panting, sweating—perhaps more than he should—his features tight with strain. He must have been calling for her for quite a while. And damn, she’d stopped kissing him to ponder his virtues and follies, she realized. A travesty she would rectify immediately.

“I’m here.” She wrapped her legs around him and locked her ankles, arching up. More contact with his erection, more gasping from her. So delicious. So perfect. So freaking hot.

“Good girl.” His tongue found its way back inside her mouth, and they dueled, fighting for dominance.

She let him win, submitting, allowing him to take the lead, urging her toward complete satisfaction. Or maybe insanity. Her mind fogged with desire, her blood heated to blistering and her Harpy sang with approval.

This was everything she had been dreaming of, fantasizing about, craving with every fiber of her being. Her man, feasting on her, grinding against her. She would never get enough of him, would always want more. Always need more. Her nerve endings caught fire, the ever-growing blaze nearly too much, the ache between her legs fierce.

She had to lock this deal up tight. Love him within an inch of his life, bind them together, and never, never, allow him to escape her. Never allow any of the other Harpies near him. He was hers. Would always be hers.

You can’t think like that. He’s a warrior, used to control. You try to bind him, and he’ll run. This has to be a partnership, not a Harpytatorship. Yes, okay. She could do that. Work with him. Anything to keep him with her, to kiss him again, to have him, all of him. Question—could he work with her?

“Damn it, Kaia.” He removed his hand from her jaw and cupped one of her breasts, squeezing. “What the hell is going on in that head of yours?”

“You, us, together. Yes,” she moaned, pressing herself into the touch. Hot, she was so hot, and only growing hotter. “More.”

“Good, okay, yes. Harder?”

“Harder. Please.” She lifted her hips off the mattress, the springs squeaking, and moved herself against him. Steam might even have risen from her pores, surrounding them both, thickening the air. “More. All.”

“Damn, your mouth is a firestorm. Burns. And yeah, baby doll, I’ll give you—” He sucked in another breath, stiffened, cursed. Cursed so violently she was surprised her ears hadn’t started bleeding. “All right. Yes. We’ll do this. You and me. I’ll give you more, all.”

His voice was…odd, she thought distantly. No longer layered with arousal, but as stiff as his body now was, and formal. Almost robotic. Why? What had changed? She mourned the loss.

He fit their lips back together and the kiss continued. She rubbed her core up and down his length, unable to stop herself, never loosening her grip around his waist. He settled against her, his skin slick with sweat. She fell back to the bed, but all the while she fought through the now cooling lust-fog, determined to figure out what was going on with him.

His tongue moved in and out of her mouth, mimicking sex. His hand squeezed her breast every few seconds. He swirled his hips at the same time, brushing against her clitoris. It was a dance, each movement fitting the rhythm of the next. His technique was flawless. Soon he would make her come.

Technique, she thought then. Yes, that’s exactly what this was. A technique. He was hard where it counted, yes, but also where it didn’t, his muscles petrified into stone. He wasn’t moaning in surrender. How could he? Every swish of his tongue was calculated, as if he were thinking about what to do rather than allowing instinct to guide him. As if he had absolute control and wasn’t even close to losing it.

Which meant he wasn’t enjoying what he was doing. He was simply performing, driving her need higher and higher, manipulating her. Giving her what she wanted, but not taking what he needed.

He had somehow managed to detach himself.

“What do you like?” he asked. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

She could have been anyone, and it wouldn’t have mattered to him. And when it was over, he would have taken her, had her, but she would have been one of a thousand others, unimportant and temporary. An easy conquest. A means to an end.

No. No! She would not be Kaia the Disappointment. Not with him. She would not be content with the scraps of his affections and call it good. She would have all or nothing. Settling was for the weak.

She was not weak.

But even knowing what he was doing, even hurting as she was—again—and even as desperate as she was for release, she couldn’t bring herself to harm him physically. Not by her hand, and not by using his demon. He had to win this contest of wills without smothering her pride anymore than he already had. Somehow, someway.

She cut off a bitter laugh. Once again she would be throwing a fight. This time, however, the prize was far more important. His body…and his heart? No, not his heart. That, he would never offer. Not to her. The same determination that had sculpted him into such a fierce warrior and lover had turned him into an emotional recluse. Cooling…cooling… “Strider?”

A swipe of his tongue, a squeeze of his hand. “Tell me,” he said, ignoring her. “Your mouth, the heat is gone.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Either way, I like it. But why the change?”

Enough of this. Besides, she didn’t know. She’d never heated up like that before. “I don’t…I don’t think you can stop.” Gods, saying the words, letting them raze her throat, left her trembling with frustration.

He froze above her, beads of sweat still dripping from him. In fact, his shirt was soaked, sticking to his chest. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t think you can stop kissing me, stop touching me.”

With more of those black curses ringing from him, he jolted away from her, off the bed and to his feet. He remained at the edge of the mattress, glaring down at her as she eased to a sitting position. She struggled to breathe, her lungs still cooling…cooling.

“Damn it, Kaia.”

She flashed her fangs at him. “That isn’t my name.”

That gave him pause. “What? Kaia? I happen to know otherwise.”

“No. Damn it, Kaia isn’t my name.”

His eyelids narrowed even as the corners of his lips twitched. “Whatever.”

That’s all he had to say to her? After everything they’d just done?

“Will you steal the Paring Rod for me or not?” he asked.

Apparently so.

Did he feel nothing for her? No hint of true passion? She licked her lips, and she was heartened to note his gaze followed the movement. “Not. But,” she added before his demon could punish him for failing to convince her. And yes, she knew that was one of the reasons he was pushing her so hard for this. At least, she hoped. Made it easier to forgive him, to excuse him, for reducing their electrifying kiss to a bargaining chip. “We’ll compromise.”

He shook his head, once, and very stiffly. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes. Compromise doesn’t cause you physical pain.”

His lashes fused together, shielding the navy of his eyes. “It doesn’t help me, either.”

She lifted her chin. “Do you want to hear my proposal or not? If not, there’s the door.”

“Gods almighty, I hate when your chin goes up.” He popped his jaw. “Fine. Talk.”

“I will fight in the games. If at any point,” she rushed to add, “I’m disqualified or I think my team cannot bring home the gold, I will risk my life and my future to steal the Rod for you.”

Silent, he crossed his arms over his chest.

She knew exactly what he was thinking. “Also, you can’t do anything to aid a disqualification. Not for me or for any member of my team.”

Oh, yes. That’s exactly what he’d been thinking. Suddenly fury sizzled and snapped off his skin like tiny flickers of lightning. His eyes lit up, twin red lasers, a skeletal mask flashing over his features. “What if, while you’re playing your games, someone else manages to steal it?”

His demon really was pulling his strings. She sympathized. She hated when her Harpy took over. “Not possible. You could call every warrior and god you know, but the lot of you still wouldn’t be able to find it, much less grab it. And no, that wasn’t a dare. Just a truth. Harpies are a suspicious and possessive race, and we take extreme measures to guard what we consider ours. Believe me, Juliette will let no one near the Rod.”

Several minutes passed before he relaxed. He couldn’t fight the Harpies on his own—not successfully—and he had to know it. “Very well. We have a deal.” She opened her mouth to respond. “But you listen to me, little girl,” he added darkly.

Little girl. Exactly what Lazarus had called her, all those centuries ago. Shadows shimmered through her line of vision, the only color a crimson bull’s-eye on Strider’s chest. Calm, steady.

Don’t interfere, she told her Harpy.

“You’ve claimed I’m your consort, and that consorts are precious. You’ve also claimed you’ll do anything to protect yours.”

She snapped her teeth at him. “I never said that.” Not out loud.

“Fine. Maybe Gwen told me. Thing is, it’s true.”

And he planned to use the knowledge against her? “Well, look at you, Mr. Smartie Pants.” She clapped her hands. “Congratulations. You know I can’t hurt you. But hey, what does that matter? I can always pay someone else to do my dirty work.”

A muscle ticked below his eye. “You’re willing to let an artifact that can kill me remain in the hands of your enemy,” he said, ignoring her threat. “That woman, Juliette, the one with the boyfriend you still haven’t told me about, isn’t going to give you the Rod. Whether you win or not, she hates you and will hardly reward you.”

Kaia fisted the comforter, nearly ripping the material. “How do you know she hates me?” He’d only caught the tail end of the meeting, and Juliette hadn’t spoken to her directly after his arrival.

“I have eyes, Kaia. Every time she looked at you, she wanted to carve your face with her dagger. What’d you do to her, anyway? And don’t tell me she just hasn’t forgiven you for what you did to the clans. Her beef with you is personal. No one else looked at you the way she did.”

Floundering, she blinked up at him. He was too observant for his own good. “What makes you think I did anything to her?”

“Come on. You must think I’m stupid, answering my question with a question and assuming I won’t notice and will let the matter drop.”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

“Funny.” He held out his hand and waved his fingers in her direction. “Come here.”

Unable to resist a chance to touch him, any chance, she reached up. The moment she met his grip, he hefted her to her feet until only a whisper separated them. He peered down at her, his body heat snaking around her and squeezing like a boa.

Tension crackled between them so hotly she imagined she could almost feel the flames. His lips were swollen, red and still wet from her kiss. His eyelids went to half-mast, as if he’d slipped into a dream and wouldn’t emerge.

If he looked this sumptuous turned on, how would he look sated?

Mind, out of gutter. This was clearly another attempt to distract her, to win her over to his side. She had to remain strong. “Well?”

“Did you make a play for her man?” he demanded. O-kay. Obviously he’d emerged from the dream.

Her cheeks flushed with color and that was all the answer he required.

He released her to scrub his hand down his face. “Damn it, Kaia.”

Without his touch, her skin cooled. She would not admit to her own stupidity, even acute stupidity committed so long ago. She would not admit she’d sought to prove herself worthy to a mother who would never love her, and that she’d failed on every level.

“I saw him, I wanted him and I took him. End of story.” The truth muddied by his own suppositions. Strider would never find his way to the surface, and that was for the best.

“And she found out?” His voice snapped like a whip.

Yep. He was lost in the mire of her omissions. “She did.” Kaia nodded, her head bobbling. “That’s exactly right.”

“How?”

Her eyes widened. Why wouldn’t he let this go? “Excuse me?”

“How did she find out?”

“Oh, uh, she walked in on us,” Kaia said, gaze falling to the floor. Realizing what she’d done, she forced her attention back up. There were two things a girl needed when telling a lie. The first, confidence. You could convince anyone of anything as long as you believed it yourself. The second, details. The more details you supplied, the more credible the story. “We were in the middle of the act. Very hot and heavy. I wasn’t at all distracted with him.”

Strider was quiet for a moment. Then he said smoothly, “Is that so?”

Perhaps he wasn’t as blinded by the mud as she’d thought. What had given her away? Well, it didn’t matter, really. He could suspect the truth all he wanted, but he’d never know for sure. And hell, there might be another way to convince him of what she wanted.

She glared up at him. “Yes, that’s so. I had him flat on his back atop a pile of furs.” She pictured Strider in just such a position, and her desire reignited, adding a smoky note to her voice. “He was naked…I was naked. I straddled his waist, and gods, he was beautiful, so lost to passion. To me.”

Strider whipped around, as if he could no longer bear to face her. There. Done, she thought. He was utterly convinced of her slutty nature. Her shoulders sagged just a little. Part of her wished he would have continued resisting.

Better this way, she reminded herself. He’d already considered her promiscuous. Adding weak and dumb to the equation would have hampered her future progress with him.

Not that she’d really made any today.

SHE WAS LYING, STRIDER thought, suddenly needing every ounce of strength he possessed to stop himself from grinning. Damn if she wasn’t ten times sexier as she spun her web of deceit. Maybe because she’d almost had him. Would have had him, if she hadn’t glanced down at her feet. So telling, that glance. When Kaia believed something wholeheartedly, her confidence was like a shining star. She did nothing to signal a back down.

Defeat liked that they’d figured out her game and was shooting little sparks of pleasure through his bloodstream. A victory he hadn’t anticipated, yet one that was as delicious as ambrosia-laced wine. Almost as delicious as Kaia’s kiss.

Don’t think about that right now.

He couldn’t help himself. Hell’s fire, that kiss…the woman was passion incarnate, so sensually giving he could have gorged himself on her forever and still found himself hungry. Her tongue had thrust just right, her nails had scraped just right, and her legs had wrapped around him better than just right.

She’d just…fit him. Fit his body perfectly. Every curve, every plane, every indentation. Two puzzle pieces locking together. And they’d still had their clothes on! If he ever stripped her, he’d— No. No, no, no. He couldn’t venture down that road again. The kiss had been a mistake. A damn exquisite mistake, but one that could have done serious damage to his cause.

Already his mind was muddled by her.

And unfortunately, he couldn’t blame her skin this time. What was bared, she’d dulled with makeup, making her look like any other human. No, not true. She’d never look like a human, no matter what she did. Her features were too dazzling, too flawless.

She’d never kiss like a human, either. She was too bold, too lush, too damn eager.

Too mine, he’d thought midway through, wanting to give her “all” as she’d said. Wanting to give her everything. Only then had he realized how lost he was, simply enjoying her, not even trying to please her. Just taking, giving and taking some more. There was nothing more dangerous for him. He had to please her, more than Paris had, or he would suffer.

Reining in his own desires had been the most difficult battle of his life, but he’d done it. He’d won. And oh, Defeat had loved him for it, sparking the same sense of pleasure that raced through him now. Which had made it all the more difficult to hold back, to measure each of his caresses, every single lick.

Except one moment she’d wanted all, everything, and he’d been willing to supply it, to take her over the edge, and the next she’d wanted him to stop. He recognized a challenge when he heard one, and ‘I bet you can’t stop’ was one-hundred-percent, raise-the-red-flag challenge.

What he hadn’t known—still didn’t know—was why she’d done it.

Didn’t matter, he supposed. What was done was done, and there was no going back. He had to forget the kiss and concentrate on the journey ahead. On the games, the Rod and ultimate victory. He had to forget the color that bloomed in her cheeks, the breath that sawed in and out of her nose, the flecks of fury that had detonated in her eyes every time he’d spoken. Had to forget the fact that she was gorgeous when her emotions were roused, that she lit up like a firecracker, and he wanted so desperately to be burned.

Kaia cleared her throat. “Strider,” she began.

He held up his hand in a bid for silence. “Look, here’s how it’s gonna be. You don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you, but we are going to work together. So, you’re going to tell me about tomorrow’s battle, and then we’re going to scout the competition.”

Or rather, she would scout. He would search for the Rod. Much as he understood her plight, her pain, that understanding didn’t change the facts. No artifact, no box.

So, he would find and steal that Rod. Even at the expense of Kaia’s pride. He wouldn’t like himself afterward, he was sure, because victory required a betrayal of her trust, but nothing would sway him from this course.

“Got it?” he demanded, already fighting a wave of guilt.

A pause, heavy and unsure. Then she whispered, “Yes. All right. We’ll work together.”

“Good.” He cleared his expression and spun back around. He made sure to glare at her for good measure. “Now, start talking.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

WILLIAM THE EVER RANDY, honorary Lord of the Underworld and a man so physically perfect he’d once been voted Most Beautiful Immortal of All Time—so what that he’d been the only judge of that particular competition; he would swear on what remained of his soul that the scores hadn’t been fixed—stood in the living room of a human residence.

Strider the Reneger should be here with him. I must be rubbing off on him. Strider had promised to be here with him. Instead the lucky bastard was spending time with the very Harpy William often dreamed of seducing.

William had been with vampires, humans, witches, shape-shifters and goddesses, but he’d never been with a Harpy. He wanted to be with a Harpy. Whine, pout.

Maybe, when he finished here, he would give Strider a wee bit of competition for Kaia’s affections. The warrior liked to compete, after all, and William was such a giver, always thinking of others rather than himself.

That giving nature was the very reason he was here.

“Here” was an average home, with average rooms in serious need of a decorator. Beige furniture, beige walls and beige carpet, as if the owners were afraid of color. Oh, and had he mentioned the half-empty vodka bottles that were hidden inside vents, behind books and even in hidden cutouts in the mattresses?

This mundane, prisonlike alcoholic’s paradise was where his Little Gilly Gumdrop had grown up.

Gilly, a.k.a. Gillian Shaw. Human, brown-eyed, too sensual for her own good. At seventeen, she had known more horror and terror than most immortals experienced in an eternity. All because of the owners of this home in Nowhere, Nebraska.

William didn’t have many friends, so he took care of the ones he had. Sure, he liked the Lords of the Underworld well enough. They were fun to torture and damn entertaining to watch as they fell in love, one by one, like flies meeting the swinging net of a swatter. Case in point— Strider. Until William intervened, of course. Surely Kaia would at last succumb to his delightful wiles and forget all about the keeper of Defeat.

The entertainment alone was worth the price of his ticket into their Budapest Fortress: allowing the freaking (minor) goddess of Anarchy to hold William’s most treasured possession for ransom. He lay awake nights dreaming of ways to retrieve that possession, a book written in code that foretold how to save him from the curses the gods had heaped upon him. But he wasn’t going to think about that right now.

He was only going to think about his Gilly. He’d met her months ago, when the keeper of Pain’s woman brought her to the fortress, and he’d been instantly smitten. Not in a sexual way, she was too young for that—he would remind himself a thousand times if necessary—but in a white-knight kind of way.

She’d looked at him, and she’d seen a gorgeous immortal warrior who could give her body untold pleasure. Of course. Everyone did. She’d also seen a gorgeous immortal warrior who could slay her dragons.

He wanted to slay her dragons. He would slay her dragons.

A few times over the past several months, he’d returned to the fortress injured from battle. Gilly had taken care of him, always tender, sweet, ensuring he ate something, was tucked into bed and comfortable. She wasn’t intimidated by him. She laughed with him, joked with him, and when he pissed her off, she stayed and fought with him, rather than running away to hide from his temper.

She knew, soul deep, that he would never hurt her. Even if he didn’t always know it himself. There was a darkness inside him, a churning darkness sprung from the vilest pits of hell. A darkness he’d never loved more than he did at this moment.

Hardly anyone noticed his evil side. They saw the irreverent scamp he projected. And no, that image wasn’t a lie. William was irreverent to the bone, but there was more to him, and somehow Gilly saw that part, too.

And still she accepted him. Had never asked him to change. Had only thought to enjoy his company, to protect him. No one had ever tried to protect him before.

Now, he would protect her. Her family had hurt her in the worst possible way. Therefore, her family would die in the worst possible way. Vengeance was its own form of safeguarding, after all. Sure, time had passed and she’d had no recent contact with them. That didn’t change the fact that they’d hurt her in the most terrible way, forced her to brave the streets on her own—and that they could do it again, to someone else. He’d wanted to do this for a long time, and that hadn’t changed. In fact, the need had only grown stronger.

William walked around the room, lifting knickknacks, discarding them and smiling when they shattered on the floor. Gilly’s mother and stepfather were currently at work, and her stepbrothers no longer lived here, so he didn’t worry about noise control. When he finished that little exercise, he studied the pictures on the mantle over the fireplace.

There were none of Gilly.

Obviously they’d written her out of their lives. No afterthought, no concern for what had befallen her once she’d left.

What he did see: a thirtysomething bleached blonde with silicone-enhanced breasts and an average-looking thirtysomething male.

Stomach clenching, William thumped the man’s face. The bastard was going to pay for every illicit touch, every ounce of shame inflicted. The mother would pay for allowing it to happen. The brothers would pay for failing to save her.

Her family had given her no option but to run away at the age of fifteen. Fifteen. On her own, surviving as best she could, for over a year before Danika had found her and brought her to Budapest. But because of what had been done to her, because of what she’d had to do merely to eat, she no longer valued herself. She saw herself as used, dirty, unworthy. She’d never said as much, but he knew. When she stayed at the Lords’ fortress, she slept in the bedroom next to his, and he’d heard the way she cried out at night. He knew nightmares plagued her.

Her family would pay for every single one of those dark dreams, too.

His ears suddenly twitched, picking up the sound of the garage door sliding open. He grinned. Oh, goodie. The first contestant of Hurt, Suffer and Die was home.

When he’d first arrived, he had dropped his bag of “toys” on the floor and now bent to pick it up. Oh, yes, he’d never loved his darkness more.

This was going to be fun.

KANE, KEEPER OF THE DEMON of Disaster, strode down the long, winding corridor inside the unfamiliar heavenly palace where he now found himself. The walls were straight up weird, comprised of thousands upon thousands of threads braided and strewn together. Thick and colorful threads with animated scenes playing across them, as if the people he saw were truly living and breathing right in front of him, and he had only to reach out to touch them. It was the most awe-inspiring sight he’d ever beheld—and was that Strider and Kaia crawling along a moonlit hill, females sneaking up on them, weapons trained on their skulls?

He stopped and narrowed his gaze on them, his hands fisting. A head-exploding ache tore through his temples. Only when he peered straight ahead and forced the image of what he’d seen out of his mind did the ache lessen.

In and out he breathed. His thoughts fogged, then cleared. Then he couldn’t recall what he’d been upset about in the first place. Oh, well. In, out. In, out. Clearer and clearer. The air carried the sweet scent of ambrosia, he realized. To keep visitors pliant?

If only that kind of thing worked on him. But the goddesses who lived here could have pumped gasoline through the vents, and it wouldn’t have affected him. His demon loved all things devious, clandestine and potentially life-threatening. And maybe, just maybe, that love would prevent the bastard from cracking the floor Kane stood upon or from unraveling the ceiling above him, the need for calamity sated for just a little while.

A guy could hope, anyway.

Kane jumped back into motion. He had a purpose, didn’t he? Oh, yeah. The Moirai had summoned him. Why the hell had they summoned him?

Whatever the reason, he’d smile like a good little boy. He did not want to piss off the Moirai, and in his current what-the-fuck-is-happening state of mind, he had to be extra careful. They were neither Greek nor Titan—he didn’t know what they were—and yet, neither godly race had ever raised a hand against the three females who lived here, and they never would. Because the Moirai were the weavers of Fate. They spun and they wove, and the scenes they created happened. Always.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 575