The Darkest Seduction

her blood heating to the point of boiling, her skin shrinking over her bones.

Don’t think about it, and you’ll be fine.

He set the baggie aside, stared at it for several minutes, and released a ragged breath.

Wanting to give him time to come to grips with whatever was bothering him, she studied the knife he’d given her. The crystal blade was jagged, rainbow shards trapped under the clear exterior. The handle was a dull copper, solid, and warm with his body heat.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said.

“And you never will again. There are only two in the world, and I’ve got the other one. That baby will kill anything, even a god of this world, and do whatever you command, as long as it’s in your hand. Like, if you need to hide it, grip it and think invisible.”

Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. “I can’t accept this. The two are obviously a matched set and —”

“Don’t argue with me.” His tone was hard, uncompromising. He withdrew a small flask from his other pocket, picked up the plastic baggie and dumped half of its contents inside.

She’d told him where she was going when they parted, and who she would be with. He had clearly forgotten, or he would be insisting she give the crystal back and pretend she’d never seen it.

“Paris, listen to me. I’m going after the leader of the Hunters. Do you understand what I’m telling you? You can’t risk something like this falling into enemy—”

“Don’t. Don’t say another word right now. I’ve decided you’re not going near that psycho, and that’s that, so just take the knife and say thank you.” He swirled the liquid in the flask before lifting the small round rim to her lips. “Now drink.”

“You’ve decided? You can’t—”

“Drink.”

She had no choice but to obey; he’d already begun pouring the contents down her throat. And sweet heaven, she loved the taste. A diluted version of what Cronus gave her, but delicious all the same. She gulped back one mouthful, then another and another, the warmth sliding into her, dancing through her, easing her pain faster than a blink.

“Enough.” He removed the flask before she could start licking at any stray droplets.

She moaned her disappointment, then closed her eyes for a moment and savored. Her skin plumped back up, and wow, she could have floated away on a cloud of bliss, forever lost.

“What is that stuff, anyway?” Cronus had never told her.

“Ambrosia.”

Huh. A substance consumed by the immortals, she recalled reading, used for pleasure and the reaffirmation of power. As she now knew, myths often misled, straight-up lied or barely touched upon the truth. “Why do I —”

“Nope. No questions about this particular subject right now.” He hooked the flask to one of her belt loops and tucked the baggie carefully in her pocket. “When you feel yourself going into withdra—I mean, when you feel yourself getting weak, take a few swigs. You’ll perk right up.”

“Clearly.”

He met her gaze, the blue of his eyes frosting over in seconds, turning the ocean into a river of glass. “You said you could go a week with what Cronus brought you, right?”

So. She couldn’t question him, but he could question her? She could have refused to answer, or demanded they trade answers. She didn’t. “Yes.” The change in him upset her, and she wouldn’t add to his obvious stress.

“What you just drank should last a few days.” He gripped her forearms and shook her. “I need you to listen to my next words. If you retain nothing else I say, retain this.”

“Okay,” she repeated, tensing as his anxiety bled into her.

“Never, under any circumstances, are you to allow someone to taste your blood. Do you understand? They do, and you are to kill them before they can escape you.”

“Who would want to taste my blood?” Humans? Impossible. They couldn’t see her or even sense her. Vampires? Maybe. The nocturnal creatures existed, but they wanted everyone’s blood. Why target a ghost of a woman?

A muscle ticked in Paris’s jaw, a sign of his growing anger. “You’d be surprised. Now promise me. Promise me you’ll kill anyone who does.”

“I promise.” Her hands fluttered to his shoulders, an offering of comfort. He was trying to tell her something without freaking her out. She knew it, sensed it. Trying to protect her, even though they were destined to part.

He released her to shove his hair off his brow. There were dark smudges on his fingers, she saw. Wanting to help him, even in so small a way, she took one of his hands and rubbed at the inklike spots. They remained. She frowned.

“They won’t come off. They’re tattoos,” he explained, no inflection in his voice. He’d gone very still, had even stopped breathing at her first touch.

Why would he tattoo smudges on his fingertips? Her eyes met his, a tangle of confusion and an ever-present desire. She ignored the first and concentrated on the latter, lifting the tip of his finger to her mouth and sucking.

His pupils did their pulsing thing, stretching, snapping back into place, stretching again. The scent of dark chocolate and expensive champagne drifted from him, enveloping her, fogging her thoughts, electrifying her already sensitized nerves. She bit his pad lightly, and a hoarse groan left him.

“Do you have any children?” she asked, then had to fight a wave of sadness. I can’t. Never again. To distract herself, she sucked his finger deeper than before, swirling her tongue at the root and sliding the appendage out with a pop.

The sudden topic switch didn’t faze him. “No. I always know when a woman is…I mean, Sex knows, and he wants her that much more, but impregnating a stranger is one of two things I’ve never let him force me to do.”

Her head tilted to the side. “What’s the other?”

“Lie with someone under the age of consent.”

How vigilantly he must have to fight for such concessions. She knew firsthand how powerful a demon’s compulsions could be. “Do you want them? Children, I mean. One day, with a woman you love?” Stop this. It’s too painful.

He offered a casual shrug, or tried to. The lifting of his shoulder was stiff, jerky. “I want you, here and now,” he said. “Let me have you. One more time before we head out.”

One more time, a thought as arousing as it was depressing. Refusal, however, was not an option. She hadn’t lied earlier. She would take him however she could get him. “Yes.”

A slight whistling behind her, a cold splash through her, and then Paris’s entire body jerked. His eyes widened, and his hands fell from her. He frowned, looked down. A blade hilt protruded from his chest.

Sienna screamed and whipped around, using her own body as a shield for his. Except, one blade had already gone through her, as if she were nothing more substantial than mist. For whoever had thrown the weapon, she wasn’t. He could not see the dead, nor touch the dead, so neither could his blade.

The culprit was a large—really large—guy with pink hair and tattooed teardrops of blood under one of his eyes. He stood in the entrance of the cavern.

His punked-out features blazed with hatred. “How’s that for not fighting fair?” he snarled.

Paris shoved her behind him, and she stumbled from the force he used, falling into the water and sputtering. Her heart raced out of control as the two men slashed each other with their eyes. A physical slashing would follow, no question. Both were familiar with the dance of death, an undeniable truth as they got into position.

“How’d you find me? You know what, never mind. I don’t care. You tossed that dagger at my woman. For that I’m taking your throwing hand.” With a tug and a grimace, Paris removed the blade from his chest. His eyes glowed bright red, casting a crimson spotlight on the man he clearly wanted splayed on the chopping block.

“Your woman?” A snort, a sneer. The newcomer reached up and slid two serrated blades from a crisscross at his back. “What woman? It’s just you and me, demon.”