The Darkest Promise. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ not going home. Not until I find the goddess of the Afterlife and—” She pressed her lips together.

      And...what? Or who? If she sought another man, Lazarus would—

      Nothing.

      “Your moods change lightning fast,” she said. “Are you manstruating?”

      He suppressed a laugh. Then he probed the outer recesses of her mind a final time, nearly grunting with relief and triumph when he realized she had inadvertently lowered the shield.

      She also searched for Pandora’s box.

      He experienced a flare of guilt. Should he admit she’d come close to finding it? The last time they were together, the artifact had been inches away.

      He’d stopped her from making a play for it, and in the process stopped its guardian from awakening, and Cameo from dying, her spirit forever stuck in the phantom realms.

      Lazarus would have been stuck with the key to his downfall.

      So he’d led her away from the box, knowing he could return for it at any time. He’d even played with the idea once or twice. But why mess with a working system?

      He ignored the guilt, remained silent and dug deeper into her mind. Well, well. She had secrets of her own. The little minx hadn’t mentioned the box because she didn’t trust him and she didn’t know how he would react to Misery. She actually believed he would seek her destruction.

      Deeper still. She—

      Screeched with fury and horror and shoved him out of her thoughts. Then she erected the shield.

      She raised her fist, as if to hit him. Their gazes collided as he clasped her wrist. The delicacy of her bones, so different from his, the warmth and softness of her skin. The feel of her wild pulse hammering against him...

      “I know you’re demon possessed,” he told her. “I’ve always known, and I don’t care. I’m not a human with limited views. I’m the Cruel and Unusual.”

      The tension drained from her, leaving a gale-force of surprise.

      Surprise would taste delicious on her lips.

      The tingling in his legs worsened, grounding him. With this woman, pleasure and doom would forever walk hand in hand.

      He released her and stood. “Stay here. I’ll send a servant to help you.” Every time she moved, the rips in her shirt gaped, coming dangerously close to revealing her breasts.

      I want her breasts in my hands. Her nipples in my mouth...

      “I’ll gather your daggers and boots and take you to your friend.” His voice was a silken rasp.

      “She’s here?”

      “She is.” Get out while you can. He exited in a hurry, slamming the door behind him.

      Two males stood sentry. “No one enters the room, and no one touches the girl. If she leaves, one of you will follow her, the other will summon me.”

      “Yes, sire.”

      He continued on. The first female servant he happened upon, he sent to Cameo’s room, with explicit instructions. He wanted her wounds tended, and specific scents placed in her bath.

      As he turned a corner, he opened his mind, sending his awareness through the entire palace...finally bumping against the object of his search. Rathbone the Only.

      The bastard waited in the throne room.

      Once inside, he dismissed every guard with a wave of his hand. Booted footsteps rang out. The doors shut, one after the other, sealing him inside. He saw no hint of the leopard who’d stolen Cameo’s belongings, but the dark presence remained, a thorn inside his mind.

      Like Cameo, Rathbone had erected a shield, hiding his thoughts.

      “Show yourself. I know who and what you are.” He’d realized the truth at first glance.

      The leopard appeared in a puff of smoke, a wide grin revealing razor-sharp teeth. He approached Lazarus slowly but methodically, his form shifting into a very tall, very muscled man with long black hair, eyes like diamonds and skin as dark and red as blood.

      He wore no shirt, but black leather pants sheathed his legs. He had thousands of tattoos, even more than Lazarus, who was covered. While Lazarus had thorny roses to represent the ones found in the Garden of Perpetual Horror, skulls to represent the enemies he’d slain—and would slay—as well as butterflies and sky serpents to represent his followers, every image on Rathbone was the same. A closed human eye.

      An odd choice. A distinctive choice. Lazarus had guessed correctly. This was Rathbone the Only, one of nine kings of the underworld. He’d earned his moniker by being the last man standing in every battle he’d ever fought. He could shape-shift into any form, no matter how big or small. Animal, human and even inanimate objects.

      Lazarus had heard the male once shifted into another man’s wrist cuff, forcing him to beat his entire family before beating himself.

      “You have much to answer for, warrior.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

      “That’s Majesty to you.” A careless shrug. “I always have much to answer for.”

      “Cameo’s weapons and boots. Give them to me. Now.”

      “And cheat the vendor who bought them from me? For shame.”

      “You’d rather cheat my woman?”

      When the words escaped, he cursed. My woman. He’d just struck a powerful verbal claim and offered sufficient ammunition for any enemy intent on overseeing his destruction. He’d also proved he’d done a deplorable job of resisting Cameo’s carnal appeal.

      Perhaps the bastard wouldn’t notice.

      Rathbone’s smile widened. Oh, he’d noticed. He wisely chose to remain quiet on the subject.

      “I know why you’re in my realm.” Lazarus traced his fingertips over the hilt of the kris.

      “Do tell.”

      “The war between Hades and Lucifer brews hotter.”

      The very reason Lucifer continued to send emissaries. Every leader of every immortal army had to pick a side. “Who do you fight for?”

      “With. I fight with Hades. And so do the Lords of the Underworld.”

      Meaning Cameo fought for Hades. Meaning, siding with Lucifer would make his μονομανία his enemy.

      Isn’t she already?

      Lazarus stalked a circle around Rathbone, a predator deciding the fate of his prey. The male remained in place, never turning. But then, he had no need to turn. Those eyes were tattooed all over his back as well, and as Lazarus moved behind him, the lids flipped open, the irises following his every movement.

      A stab of envy. Such a singular СКАЧАТЬ