The Darkest Passion

He didn’t want to admit that he just wanted to be with her, so he held up his bandaged hands and waved them. “There’s so much more I could be doing right now. Like fighting with my friends.”

“Injuries wouldn’t stop a real warrior.”

Ouch. “Yeah, ’cause a real warrior likes to get in everyone’s way and actually aid the enemy.”

“A real warrior succeeds despite his handicap.” She snorted. “I said handicap and you don’t have hands.”

Yeah. Funny. “If I didn’t have all my fingers, I totally wouldn’t be flipping you off.”

“The action of a man with more bark than bite. Figures you fall into that sad, sad category.”

What’s your problem? he wanted to demand, but the words would emerge as something like: Why don’t you have a problem with me? and he didn’t want to hear her say, Stupid question. I do have a problem with you. He’d say: Well, I don’t want to know what it is, and she’d say: Good, because I didn’t plan to tell you.

He’d had similar exchanges in the past. He was already frustrated, confused, curious, eager, and each emotion was pushing him closer and closer to the edge. An edge that always urged him to say things he didn’t mean and do things he couldn’t reverse.

“How’d you lose the hands, anyway?” This was asked grudgingly, as if she didn’t like that she wanted to know.

Her curiosity pleased him, and he lost some of his frustration. “The hands, well, they didn’t disappear through torture.”

“You break?”

“Of course.” There was pride in his tone. He hadn’t broken. Hadn’t spilled a single secret.

“Just as I suspected.”

His jaw clenched. Somehow she knew he was Lies. Had known all along. She also knew he couldn’t tell the truth, yet she continually pretended to take his words at face value. Just to piss him off? Because she was angry with him? An anger he still didn’t understand.

“Hunters do it?” she asked.

“No.”

“How’s that going, by the way? The war with them?”

So she knew about that, as well, when he’d never heard of her involvement. How? Actually, she knew a lot that she shouldn’t. “We’re losing.” Winning, but just barely. Two artifacts against one. The liberation of all those halfling children the Hunters had created through hideous means. The discovery of their Buda hideout. Not that he could explain that to Scarlet. “Since you don’t seem to know me, I’m wondering if you didn’t come here for me.”

“Whatever,” she sputtered. “Look, I told your friend I just wanted you guys to leave me alone. I knew you were searching for me. I wanted you to stop. That’s all.”

No. That wasn’t true. Couldn’t be. Only, he couldn’t prove it. Lies still wasn’t helping. “How do you not know me? How do I feel like I don’t know you when I’ve met you before?”

Her gaze flicked to him, narrowed and once more filled with that anger. “You don’t remember me?” Okay. Anger wasn’t a strong enough word. Outrage had layered every word. “You don’t remember specifics?”

“I do no—” Lie, lie. He shouldn’t have had to remind himself, damn it. “Yes. I do.” But he couldn’t have met her. He would not have forgotten a woman like her. Beautiful, wild, a predator. Blunt, hard yet somehow vulnerable.

Yeah, he’d been with a lot of women over the years. Mostly one-night stands. Women didn’t come back for more when the man they were with constantly told them how ugly and stupid they were. Or when the man didn’t speak at all. And no, he didn’t remember all their faces, but as he’d already reasoned out, this was not a woman he would have forgotten.

“We were lovers,” he said to get them started, “so that’s in.” Out.

“Ha!” Her gaze returned to him and lingered, perusing him up and down. “I’m not sure I approve of the packaging, so no, we weren’t lovers.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said, because he did know. She didn’t like the looks of him. His hands fisted. “For your information, I’m as ugly as they come.”

There was something smug in her eyes as she said, “Yeah. I know. That’s what I just said.”

He ran his tongue over his teeth. I’m sexy, damn it! Yeah, his appearance was a little unorthodox. Blue hair, a few piercings. Tattoos—although nothing on the scale of Aeron’s. Boy was covered. Gideon, at least, had himself and the ink under control. He’d chosen designs that meant something to him.

A pair of black eyes he saw every time he closed his eyes. A pair of bloodred…lips… He sat up with a jolt, staring over at Scarlet. Who had black eyes. Who had bloodred lips.

“What?” she snarled. “I know I’m gorgeous, unlike you, but come on. Show some manners, for gods’ sake.”

For as long as he could remember, he’d had images in his mind. Black eyes, red lips, even a phrase he thought of only during the darkest time of night: TO PART IS TO DIE. Bright red flowers curved beneath them.

In his mind, he’d seen those words and flowers wrapping around a woman’s waist. His heart accelerated every time he thought of them, so he’d had the words—and yes, the flowers—tattooed around his waist, as well. Girly of him, and something many people had teased him about, but he didn’t care.

“I don’t want to see your lower back,” he told her starkly.

She stilled completely, not even daring to breathe. “Not just no, but hell, no.”

“I’m not willing to beg.” He had to see. Had to know. “I haven’t seen you before. I don’t know that you have a tattoo of flowers there.” She did, he knew she did.

“You’re wrong. I don’t.”

Lie, surely. “Don’t prove it, then.”

“I don’t have to.”

Argh! Frustrating woman. He pushed to his feet. He’d been sitting so long, his muscles ached in protest and his knees shook.

“What? You don’t get your way so you’re leaving? Fine. Go sulk like a child.”

First she’d wanted him to leave and now she threw a tantrum because she thought he was doing so. Women.

Bandaged as his wrists were, it was hard to grip the hem of his shirt, but after several agonizing minutes, he managed to do so. He raised the material and turned, offering Scarlet his back. At first, she gave no reaction. Then he heard a sharp intake of breath, a rustle of clothes, the patter of footsteps.

Warm fingers met his flesh, and he had to bite his bottom lip to contain his pleasured moan. Her skin was callused—from using weapons?—and abraded deliciously as she traced every word, every petal.

She could have had a blade hidden, could have stabbed him while he was distracted, but he couldn’t make that matter. She was touching him. It was more arousing, more…everything than being inside another woman.

“To part is to die,” she whispered brokenly. “Do you know what it means?”

“Yes. Don’t tell me.” Please, gods, please.

“I—I—” Her hand fell away. One step, two, she increased the distance between them.

Gideon whipped around. For a moment, he forgot about the bars and reached for her. His wounds hit the metal, and he cringed. Scarlet blanked her expression as she danced out of reach.

“Don’t tell me,” he commanded.

“I told you to go away, Gideon.”

Gideon. For the first time, she’d used his name. It affected him deeply. Slithered through him, burning each of his organs—especially his speeding heart. Because…because…while this was the first time she’d said his name during their conversation, it wasn’t the first time he’d ever heard her say it.

Just then he knew, knew, that he had heard her say his name before. Somewhere, sometime. She’d shouted his name in passion; she’d whispered his name in entreaty. She’d growled his name in