The Darkest Promise (Lords of the Underworld #13)

Cameo moved between them to act as a buffer. “I appreciate the macho-man routine, darkpit, but you need to know something. Juliette was here.” The people within hearing distance flinched, and yet she continued. “Thane flew away with her. If we hurry, we can follow.”

Juliette. Nearby. Vengeance at last. Sooner rather than later. Red dots winked through his vision, his rage resurfacing. Time to create a new Garden of Perpetual Horror. Juliette Eagleshield could have the honor of the first spot. Follow. Now!

No. First things first. He’d come here for Cameo, defying time, space and death to be with her. Vengeance had once been his number one priority, but here, now, his woman’s pleasure mattered more than anything else.

He would stick to his original plan. He would have his night with her, then hunt Juliette.

First, he needed a room. He blasted through the Sent One’s mental blocks. The name Xerxes hit him before countless images of the abuse and torture he’d endured in his too-long life. Lazarus gritted his teeth and pushed on until found the schematics of the club.

The bastard sensed his intrusion and shoved him out with a strength rivaled only by Rathbone.

“Do not ever—” Xerxes grated.

“Consider the sixth guest room in the west wing occupied for the rest of the night.” Lazarus squeezed Cameo’s hand and led her away from the crowd.

When they exited the public areas, it became clear the entire building was designed to confuse intruders. Armed guards paced in certain hallways and in front of specific doors, but no one made a move against him. Sent Ones could communicate telepathically, and Xerxes must have voiced his blessing. Probably because they were allies with Hades and therefore each other.

When Lazarus reached his destination, he opened the door and waved Cameo inside. She passed him, leaving a sweet-scented cloud in her wake, and he followed her in, his mouth watering.

The door closed with an ominous click.

He took in their surrounding with a swift scan. The room was small but elaborate, every piece of furniture finely made...and intended for lovers. Mirrors decorated the ceiling, and the covers on the bed were scattered with fresh rose petals.

“Hold up.” Cameo stretched out her arm to hold him at bay. “What about Juliette?”

“She can wait. You and I cannot.” He gently pushed her hand aside, consumed her personal space...and kissed her.

She welcomed him eagerly, returned his embrace passionately, with no hint of sorrow. She wasn’t just sweet; she was his favorite candy. She wasn’t just intoxicating; she was all-consuming. She wasn’t merely his μονομαν?α; just then, she was his everything.

He cupped her nape, locks of silken hair weaving through his fingers. Little mewling sounds drifted from her, and he growled in approval. His senses were heightened as her breath mingled with his, becoming necessary for his survival. His lifeline.

Arousal blistered his insides. Need clawed at him. Waves of sensation pulsed over and through him. The crystals ached, perhaps even spread, but he didn’t care.

He devoured her with abandon, afraid he would never get his fill, terrified his thirst would never be quenched, and he would only ever want more. Need more.

In so many ways, she owned him. He was more a slave to her than he’d ever been to Juliette.

The thought should have panicked him. Did panic him. And yet he stayed put, unwilling to let her go. Mine!

Panting, she lifted her head and traced a fingertip over her sexy red lips. “You found me,” she rasped.

He almost roared a denial, almost grabbed her and pulled her back for another blistering kiss. Can’t push for too much too fast. Misery would use the opportunity to strike.

“I will always find you, sunshine.”

“Because you want to have sex with me.” A trace of bitterness...a wealth of arousal.

“I do. So let’s get to it, shall we?”





17

“Always err on the side of killing.”

—Eternal Truths for Every Man

—Eternal Truths for Men Without a Woman

Shivers racked Cameo, and warm honey seemed to flow over her from head to toe. In an instant, the yearning she had fought so diligently to impede resurged with undeniable force. She trembled. Her blood heated to the boiling point. Her belly clenched. Between her legs, she ached.

Misery hissed, acting like a petulant child. He kicked at her skull again and again, causing a strange tingle to tease the corners of her mind.

I’m going to do this. I’m going to roll the dice. Going to sleep with Lazarus, and pray I retain my memory. Pray he wants me afterward.

If she lost a single memory of him...the way he’d looked at her during their reunion, as if she were everything right in a world gone wrong, the feel of his hands on her sensitive flesh, tangled in her hair, the way his lips had forced hers to mold to his...no, she would rather die.

“Take off your shirt,” she croaked. Let me see what I’m risking my sanity—my life—for.

A muscle clenched and unclenched in his jaw. “My clothes stay on. Yours come off.”

Was he kidding? He had to be kidding. But...

The mirror predicted this. As many times as they’d made love within the vision, he’d remained fully clothed.

“No way,” she said. “Strip.”

“Ladies first...gentlemen never.” He reached for the shirt he’d ripped, but she batted his hands away.

“Tit for tat,” she insisted.

“I prefer tit.”

“Too bad.” She held her ground. “You want to see mine, you’ve got to show me yours.”

“Fine.” He yanked his shirt over his head and stood perfectly still as she examined him, not even daring to breathe.

Why such resistance? He was magnificent. Rows of muscles rose high enough in places across his arms and chest and abs that they created softly shadowed valleys that mesmerized her. Tempted her. Fueled a craving in her to touch and taste and explore. From the neck down, a cornucopia of gorgeous tattoos covered every inch of skin. Thorny roses and skulls paired masterfully with creepy insects and, yes, even butterflies. Both of his nipples were pierced, and he had a dark trail of hair under his navel that ended below the waist of his leathers.

Pure masculine perfection.

Her brain melted. Her ovaries exploded.

Beneath the tattoos, shimmery lines crept over and around his biceps. Wounds, he’d once called them. They were thicker now, longer too.

As she considered them, he reached up to cover the lines with his hand. He was that self-conscious? Or did he fear being hurt worse?

“I’ll be careful with your wounds,” she assured him quietly. But, as an act of mercy, she turned her attention to the necklaces hanging between his pecs. Viola’s ring and the apple pendant Lazarus had covered with the strip of material from her shirt.

Cameo reached out...another strange pulse of power brushed over her skin, and her heart rate increased, going from sixty to six hundred in a blink.

Whatever the sensation was, it antagonized Misery. His hisses became curses.

“Why did you cover the pendant?” she asked.