The Darkest Kiss

'I just can't. I won't.'

Then there was nothing more for him to say. Do it. End it. It is time. 'Here is your warning. I will make this quick. Kill you first. Take your soul after.' He flashed to her, was straddling her hips in the next instant, his daggers withdrawn and cradled in his hands, raised, ready to strike.

Those teary eyes went wide with shock.

'I am sorry,' he said, and struck.

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.