The Darkest Pleasure

He'd ticked off all the reasons she should give herself to him, as if he'd thought of every argument she could raise. 'I—I—' She'd expected to stab him. That would have disgusted her. Wouldn't it have? Now, he wanted slow and tender? No pain? 'What will you want me to do to you?' Would she be able to give him what he needed this way? Would he be able to forget her afterward?

'Love me, just for a little while.'

She groaned quietly. What if, when the loving was over, she wanted more? Craved him more? Couldn't live without him? Slow and tender could only be bad for her, endearing him to her all the more.

'Why slow? Why tender?' she found herself asking.

'In the past, women have grown to…like what they do to me a little too much,' he said. 'They then begin to hurt those around them. I do not want that for you. I thought to take another today and ensure no harm would come to the woman. If she remained as she was, I would have been free to take you without worry. If she changed, I would have known to stay away from you. But I can't stay away from you.'

Frightened, she slowly backed away from him. His arms fell to his sides, his expression tormented. She stopped, opening her mouth to say…what? She knew what she should say. No. They should wait until he needed pain again, because it was the best way to get him out of her fantasies. That she would never long to hurt someone. But she recalled the time—was it only a day ago?—that she had bitten him. She'd liked it.

You know what you're up against now. You're prepared.

Already her nipples were hard, her limbs trembling. Moisture was pooling between her legs; warm flutters consumed her belly, stretching and awakening every cell, every organ.

'Tonight,' she said. 'Only tonight. Tomorrow…'

He released a breath she hadn't known he'd been holding. 'Tomorrow you can hate me again.'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

PARIS HAD TOLD THE OTHERS about the images he'd seen at the temple, and everyone believed he'd been the one to see them because it had been his blood to first mix with the rain. Lucien had flashed back to the fortress, but he hadn't returned. Sabin had tried to call Reyes a thousand times—no answer— and had finally given up and contacted Torin, who informed them that the warrior was out dancing.

Dancing? Wasn't like the usually somber Reyes, Paris thought, and wondered if Danika had anything to do with it. How would Reyes respond to the news that his woman was going to play an integral role in finding Pandora's box?

Pacing the floor of his temporary bedroom, Paris tangled a hand through his hair. The others were seeing to their rented home's defenses. He should be with them, should be helping. He had more reason than most to guard against Hunters. Yet his friends had realized he wasn't watching the monitors as ordered but was lost in thought, so they'd disgustedly sent him away.

He'd left the busy living room without protest, happy to grab some time for himself. His mind was chaotic, churning and struggling with a single thought. What if. What if Sienna could be brought back? What if he simply had to ask the gods?

Since the Titans had escaped Tartarus and overthrown the Greeks, reclaiming the heavens, they had caused him and his friends nothing but grief. They had commanded Aeron to kill human women, and then cursed the warrior with a crazed bloodlust when he'd refused. They'd chased Anya relentlessly and marked her for death. They'd allowed Sienna to die.

No, you allowed her to die.

There was no denying that, but damn, he hated the reminder.

Most likely, the new gods didn't have his best interests at heart any more than their predecessors had. But unlike the aloof Greeks, the Titans yearned for worship and adoration. And Paris could give it to them. For a price.

Stop pacing. Act.

Heart pounding with urgency and excitement, he fell to his knees. The shag carpet abraded his bare legs. He'd removed all his clothing, wanting nothing to offend the fickle gods. If one—or two or three—did indeed come to him, and he offended in some way, he could be punished. More than I already am. He could be banished to hell, killed or asked to do something he didn't want to do.

'Worth the risk,' he muttered to remind himself of his goal. He gripped a dagger in his left hand, his knuckles so tight around it they were in danger of snapping apart. Now or never.

He raised the dagger as high as possible. The silver metal glistened as the candle on the nightstand burned. Who shall I try and summon? His mind whirled with possibilities, flashing the names of the beings he'd studied and learned this past week in preparation for searching the temple.

Cronus, the warrior king? Cronus would understand power and respect it. But he seemed to hate the Lords, and he'd been the one to order Anya's death.

Rhea—wife to Cronus? Paris knew nothing about her. Geae, mother of the earth? She would, perhaps, show the most concern for his plight. Oceanus, the god of the water? Tethys, who loved Oceanus? Mnemosyne, goddess of memory? Hyperion, god of light and father of the sun? Themis, goddess of justice?

No, Themis was in prison, he recalled Anya mentioning. She had aided the Greeks all those thousands of years ago, helping them defeat the Titans. Immediately upon regaining the throne, Cronus had locked her up.

Who else could he approach?

There was Phoebe, goddess of the moon. Atlas, who had once held the entire world on his back. Epimetheus, the god of afterthought. He was supposedly the stupidest of all the gods. Prometheus, god of forethought. Now there was a god who'd understand unrelenting torment. He'd spent thousands of years having his liver eaten every night, only to regrow so that it could be eaten again.

Mythology was tricky. What humans knew was bits and pieces of the truth twisted together with falsehoods. Paris, exiled from Olympus all those centuries ago, didn't know what to believe. Didn't know who was strongest, who was loved and who was hated. If he called the wrong name…summoned an enemy…He might be wise to summon a female, for hardly anyone could resist the demon of Promiscuity. But if he tried to seduce the wife of a god…Anya had told him William had slept with Hera, and as punishment Zeus stripped William of his ability to flash or be flashed. That way, William could never again escape from a bedroom he was not supposed to be in. He would have to remain—and deal with the enraged husband.

No females, then.

He pushed out a sigh, his mind turning once more to Cronus. Might as well go for the gold. The god king was the most enigmatic of the bunch, hard and embittered. But he had brought Lucien back to life recently, and that was the type of ability Paris needed.

If the temple did not have humans swarming all over it, he would have returned and performed the coming ritual there. As it was, he would have to make do. Closing his eyes, he called, 'Cronus, king of gods. I summon you.'

Several seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Paris hadn't expected the god to appear right away, had known a sacrifice would need to be offered to even tempt such a being to his presence. So he lowered his arm, slowly, deliberately, and slashed the blade's tip across his chest. The flesh ripped open inch by inch and warm blood flowed down his stomach, pooling in his navel.

Still, the seconds passed with no result.

'God King, I need you. I beg an audience.'

The crimson continued to flow…and flow…He'd set a glass of water on the floor before deciding to continue the ritual. Just in case. It was Anya's rainwater, the tears of the earth.

Paris soaked one of his hands inside, then wiped the droplets across his wound. Blood and water mixed, the crimson fading to pink as it slid along the ropes of his stomach and onto the floor.

'I beg for a glimpse of you. I humbly wait on my knees.' He raised his hand again, the dagger still clutched there, before slashing another wound on his chest, a direct crisscross. Pleading was more difficult than he'd imagined. Last time he'd fallen to his knees like this, his cries had been ignored and a demon shoved inside his body. 'I will wait forever if you so deem.'