The Darkest Pleasure

reaped the bountiful harvest sown by their hard work; and desiring the adoration and worship that had been denied them for thousands of years? Their wants and needs had not been considered during their time in prison, so now they would indulge their every whim.

And yet, this insight did not help Paris. He couldn't figure out how to fight them. They had amazing powers, could flash from one place to another with only a thought, could control the weather and observe the world and its citizens unimpeded. They could curse with one hand and bless with the other. Paris had a demon who liked to fuck. A demon who weakened without sex and wasn't much of a weapon in any game but seduction.

No question who would win a fight.

If he did nothing, however, his friends could be obliterated. Hunters, his most hated enemy, could be made into guardians of peace and prosperity. Paris wondered if the dominoes had already been set in place for just such a reality and if only a small gust of wind was needed to begin the downpour.

What could he do, though?

Find Pandora's box, yes. That way, he and his friends couldn't be separated from their demons. It would kill them, for once they'd melded, they'd become inseparable, death or insanity their only other options.

He felt so damn helpless. He felt raw, constantly angry. He felt…empty. And all of that negative emotion was wrapped in hot threads of fury. His Sienna was dead. He'd burned her body in a funeral befitting a warrior and scattered her ashes. She wasn't coming back.

Who should he blame? The Hunters? The gods?

Himself?

Who should he punish? Who should he slay in retribution?

An eye for an eye, he'd been taught the first day of his creation. If a warrior failed to mete out the proper penalty for crimes against him, his enemy would view him as weak, attacking over and over again, never ceasing, confident in victory. What was a man to do when the enemy might very well be himself?

'Ready?' Anya asked.

Paris glanced up, pulled from his musings by her excitement. The warriors surrounding the goddess nodded at her, just as eager as she was. They were bordered by shadows, easily skipped over amid the hum of animated activity inside the temple. Humans were collecting rocks and gently scraping at moss.

'Here goes.' Anya smoothed her hands down her perfectly flared hips, fingers catching in the diamonds studded at her waist. She fluffed her long, pale hair. 'You boys had better be properly impressed by my powers and fawn over me accordingly when I'm done.'

Murmurs of 'Yes, Anya,' and 'We will, Anya,' rose among them. Even the Lords were afraid of her.

Though Anya had lost many of her powers when she had chosen Lucien over her eternal freedom, giving up her most beloved treasure to be with her man, she was still the creator of disorder and could wield a storm with only a thought.

Paris counted five Hunters among the workers, the mark of Infinity on their wrists. The mark of death, in Paris's mind. Blame them for Sienna's death. They recruited her, filled her head with their lies. Hurt them as she was hurt. His hands fisted at his sides.

'The things I do for my men,' Anya murmured, then strolled into the midst of the humans.

Paris watched as their motions slowed before stilling altogether. Conversations faded to quiet, then to utter silence. Everyone turned and stared at the magnificent beauty wearing a too-short black skirt and a transparent lace-up-corset top.

'Excuse me, but who are you?' someone finally asked. A human, no tattoo on either of his wrists. Short, balding, a bit overweight. A name badge hung from around his neck. Thomas Henderson, Global Society of Mythological Studies. 'Do you have clearance?'

'Absolutely, I do.' Her sensual lips lifted in a grin, even as she lifted her elegant arms. 'I wouldn't be here otherwise, now would I, sweetcakes.'

His brow puckered in confusion. 'What's your name? Everyone on the list is already here, and I don't remember adding another name.'

'No need to check again. A storm's coming.' Lightning suddenly lit the sky, gold in a canvas of pinks and purples. The wind kicked up, whipping Anya's hair in every direction. 'You should go home.'

All of the men were staring at Anya in awe and lust they couldn't hide.

'Mine,' Lucien said, watching her with desire in his mismatched eyes.

Paris had to close his eyes for a moment. I want one of those. I want a 'mine.'

Maddox looked at Ashlyn that way. Reyes looked at Danika that way. It was as if the women hung the moon and stars. But what had such a thing gotten Reyes? Grief, most definitely. A death sentence followed the woman everywhere she went, and more than that, Sabin believed she had joined the Hunters and was gathering information for them about the Lords and Pandora's box.

Sabin wanted her dead, like, yesterday. Had even palmed a gun last night while Reyes slept, meaning to plant a bullet in Danika's brain and save Aeron from a fate the warrior had once considered worse than death. Lucien had stopped him. Somehow, someway, Danika's presence calmed Reyes's need for pain. Since her arrival, he hadn't jumped from the fortress roof or pursued any of his usual dangerous activities. He cut himself, yes, but the death wish was clearly gone.

A Lord could not ask for more.

It's what they all craved: peace after an eternity of war and agony and blood. How could they knowingly steal that miracle from one of their own? They couldn't. So they'd left Reyes to deal with the woman alone. Well, not alone. Torin, Kane—the keeper of Disaster and a man you could not take anywhere without lightbulbs shorting out and plaster falling from ceilings—and Cameo remained in the fortress, monitoring the computers, guarding the home from invaders. Oh, and William. Not that Paris had any confidence in the man's skills.

Violence, Disease, Disaster and Misery together. Now, that should be fun, Paris thought dryly. Grinning, he shook his head. Sienna would have loved to get her delicate little hands on that information. She would have—

What amusement he'd entertained died a fast death, leaving him once more barren inside and sporting a fierce frown. He had to stop thinking of her. She was dead. Burned. A hated enemy, besides.

Fat raindrops blazed from the sky like arrows, slamming into the ground, pummeling everywhere but where the warriors stood, some hitting the ground so viciously they rebounded onto Paris's freshly polished boots. Hail soon followed, beating like fists.

'Hurry!' someone called.

'The storm's getting worse,' another shouted.

Footfalls echoed. Paris was reminded of hamsters running inside a wheel as the humans raced to their boats. With every second that passed, the rain increased in volume and intensity; the hail grew thicker, heavier. Golden bolts of lightning offered a frantic, electric dance. Thunder boomed; dust and debris filled the wind-churning air.

Anya's storm was alive, magnetic, the tiny hairs on Paris's body standing at attention. He closed his eyes for a moment, only a moment, wishing that electricity would infuse his body, killing the hardened man he'd become and returning him to the carefree man he used to be.

When the last of the humans had sped away, the storm rose…until it formed a dome around the temple. No one would be able to see past it to the warriors who would soon be searching the grounds. Not even someone in the air, camera staring down.

'Clear?' Anya asked.

'Clear,' Lucien told her.

Slowly she lowered her arms. The rain and hail thinned, catching on and staying outside that dome. The rumble of thunder died.

As the chaos around the temple faded, Paris scanned the area. He caught the glint of silver, the barrel of a gun peeking from behind one of the still-standing marble walls. Anticipation zinged through him as he palmed a gun of his own. Hunter.

For thousands of years, he'd left the battling to Sabin and his crew. He'd tried to live a good life, uneventful and repentant. After all, he'd once helped cast the world into darkness and despair by releasing Pandora's demons. He deserved nothing better.