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Sienna severed visual contact and collapsed at his side, her trembling fingers working at one of the metal bands. He could have freed himself. Or hell, William could have freed him, but Paris liked having those soft, elegant hands on him. They were his favorite part of her body, every movement an exotic dance.
On a raspy catch of breath, she said, “They’re tasked with chaining anyone who survives the walk from drawbridge to castle, and once that’s accomplished, they lose interest. You’ll be free to move about the place as much or as little as you want.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting her voice drift through his mind. Husky, low, a caress he’d missed more than he’d realized. He could listen to her forever.
Did part of him still hate her? Yeah. Definitely. Hated what she’d done to him, hated what he’d done for her. Hated how strongly she affected him. And beneath all the hate, he resented that she hadn’t seen beyond her own hatred to choose him all those months ago, the way he’d chosen her.
He would have taken her home. He would have pampered her. At least, that’s what he told himself now. He wouldn’t contemplate what he would have done to her before the pampering commenced. Wouldn’t think about the interrogation he’d planned or the chains he’d imagined buying for her.
“I’m having trouble … I can’t … The fall must have hurt worse than I realized.” Her voice had thinned to a mere wisp of sound, barely audible. “So … sorry …” Her hands fell away from him, and she slumped forward, her slight weight resting on his chest.
“Sienna?” he demanded, but there was no response. Anyone who could see and touch her could injure her spirit form; he knew that. And the gargoyles had certainly been able to see and touch her. But without a heartbeat or need to breathe, she should rebound quickly. Right? Except, the bloodstains around her mouth … how had she bled? he wondered now.
“Must have fainted from the sight of my beauty,” William remarked with a sigh. “There goes the tickle fight I had planned.”
Ignoring him, Paris yanked one of his arms, ripping the chain from the wall. He wrapped that arm around Sienna’s waist, holding her against him, keeping her steady.
She fit him perfectly.
After he ripped the other arm free, he eased her to her back and peered down at her, his heart causing a riot of sensation in his chest.
Her head lolled to the side, and she was pale, paler than before. Another rip, followed by another, and his ankles were free. Then he jerked at the cuffs themselves until they fell away. Then he did what he’d wanted to do since the first moment he’d seen her. He touched her, smoothing the hair from her brow. Her skin was as soft as it appeared, and warm, so wonderfully warm. He’d craved a moment like this so desperately, had dreamed of it over and over again, and had nearly killed himself a hundred times over to have it. To his delight, reality was so much better than the dream. More than feeling her heat, he smelled her scent all around him, enveloping him. The wildflowers, the coconut sweetness of ambrosia, both creating a heady musk of arousal.
Why ambrosia? He couldn’t get past that. Was she a user? If so, he’d bet someone, like, say, Cronus, had forced her to become one. She wasn’t the type to willingly fall into drugs. From what little he knew about her, she liked order and craved control.
I’ll protect her from further abuse, he thought next. She was his. For just a little while, she was his.
Sex jumped up and down. Take her, take her, take her.
Instinct demanded he obey. Still he resisted. Not like this. Not while she’s out.
A sigh of frustration, maybe even a muttered you’re no fun as Paris looked her over, shielding her from William’s gaze as he moved her clothing out of the way to check for injuries. Every newly revealed inch of skin acted as a lick of flame to Sex, causing the demon to hiss and shake. Or maybe you are fun.
Though Paris admired the body beneath him just as fervently as his dark companion, he hissed and shook for a different reason. Another rise of darkness, another increase of boiling rage. Beneath fading bruises, his woman was as fang-and-claw-mark-ridden as he was, blood oozing from her in tiny rivers of pain.
His next mission crystallized. Finding out how to hurt the gargoyles and then making them pay for every mark.
Really making them pay, he decided when he spied a deep, angry gouge in her side. He sucked in a breath to try and calm himself down, but he inhaled so sharply his lungs felt like mini-vacuums, drawing the air in with commando force. His muscles tensed, his head fogged all over again and his mouth watered. He could actually taste the ambrosia in the air. Frowning, he bent down and sniffed along the line of her neck. The closer he was to her, the stronger the scent became.
“Kinky,” William said.
“Can you be serious?”
“I was being serious. I always figured you for the in and out type. Kinda stealthy, leaving the girl wondering whether you’d even been there or not. But I didn’t know you were quite this stealthy.”
“Nice to know you’ve considered my sex life,” he grumbled.
“Hasn’t everyone?”
“Screw you.”
“Again, hasn’t everyone?”
“This is pointless.” Another sniff. The fog thickened, Paris’s brain practically swimming through it. Could the fragrance originate in Sienna’s blood? Yet another sniff, another infusion of that ever-thickening fog. Yeah, it was definitely in her blood—and a lot of it. More than even an addict could handle. Her scent was as strong as if she were actually growing in an ambrosia field.
Which should be impossible. Right? Ambrosia was harvested in special meadows elsewhere in the heavens, as far from this dark realm as the moon was from the earth. Lavender petals were plucked from the foliage, the clear, intoxicating liquid squeezed out before those petals were dried and turned into powder. No one could handle the liquid, not even immortals, and humans certainly couldn’t handle even the powder.
But Sienna wasn’t human anymore, was she.
He was ashamed to admit he was tempted to bite her, to drink her down and savor every drop. He’d walked the path of addiction, sprinted it, really, but he had somehow managed to skirt the edge of need during his journey here, knowing his wits were required to succeed. If only that would lessen the sweet, tantalizing lure of her right now … but no.
“As interesting as this is, and honestly, I don’t mean to interrupt your seductive process,” William said, air-quoting the last two words, “but are you gonna get to the good stuff or what?”
“I thought I told you to shut it.”
“No, you told me to screw you, and that was five minutes ago. A lot’s changed since then. Like, I’m currently bored.”
Biting his tongue until he tasted copper, Paris finished his search for injuries. And shit, there was another shot of desire—his own rather than his demon’s. He shouldn’t notice those lovely pink nipples, shouldn’t notice the soft dip of her belly or the trim length of her legs. Shouldn’t be counting her freckles, already planning his tongue’s attack. (He would start with the darker ones on her stomach, and work his way to the lighter ones on her thighs.) He was a bastard. He was sick, disgusting. He should be whipped.
When she woke up, she’d take care of that for him, he would bet.
Hate myself. “She’s already dead,” he gritted out. He noticed her right wrist no longer bore the tattoo of infinity, a symbol the Hunters used. “Why is she bleeding? Shouldn’t she heal as quickly as we do?”
“Oh, now you want to talk to me?” the warrior quipped.
“Just answer the question before I cut out your tongue and nail it to the wall.”
“You’ve really lost your sense of humor, you know that? But okay. Fine. I’ll play along. She’s dead, yes, but she’s also possessed by a demon that is very much alive. His heart beats for her. His blood fills her veins. I shouldn’t have to explain demon physiology to you. And what the hell is that smell? It’s mouthwatering. A real party for my—”
“Stop breathing!” Paris didn’t want anyone else breathing her in.
“O-kay. Possessive much?”
“Let’s get back to the subject that won’t get you maimed. She’s possessed by a demon, yes, but she’s also a dead human spirit. So …”
“So, you’re still able to touch her.”
To borrow the bastard’s phrasing: Obvious much? “What I’m asking is, will she heal?”
“Yeah, because her demon will heal. And here’s a little tip for the next person held captive by your stunning conversation. You should have started with that and saved us time and trouble.”
Okay. Okay, then. Good. She would heal. Paris scooped her up in his arms—pissed all over again with the gargoyles. What they’d left on him … was now on his woman.
Sex adored the contact and purred his approval.
“I’m taking her upstairs, looking for a bedroom.” Paris would clean and bandage her. If she didn’t wake up and demand he leave her the hell alone first. “You’re not invited.”
As much as he wanted her awake, looking at him, talking to him, he hoped she slept through the cleaning. He was desperate to get his hands on her, really on her. Yeah, he was a sick, sick bastard. But that wasn’t the main reason, he told himself. He didn’t want her to feel any pain while he doctored her.
He studied the chains for a split second, thinking it might be a good idea to tie Sienna to a bed while he had the chance. That way, she couldn’t run until after they’d discussed a few things. But he hadn’t come all this way, done all those things, only to enslave her himself. His goal was, and had always been, her freedom.
And shit. She might not run from him. Earlier she had ignored him, had watched as he’d passed her, but a few minutes later, she had rushed to his rescue. Whatever the reason for the change, she hadn’t sought to get rid of him.
He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, luxuriating in the feel of her silky hair before carrying her out of the cell. The gargoyles hadn’t bothered shutting the iron bars that would have kept him and William inside. At least until they’d picked the lock, that is.
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