The Darkest Promise (Lords of the Underworld #13)

He missed Cameo. Missed her wit and ferocity. Craved her sweet kisses and decadent taste. Hungered for her seductive purrs of arousal. He yearned to have her nails in his back once again, her legs wrapped around his waist. Dreamed of the way she soaked her panties for him. Even the way she’d fought those Harpies...

Most of all, he needed to see her smile again, rare as it was. He was now a junkie in need of a fix, twitchy and trigger-happy, ready to rip to shreds anyone who dared get in his way.

He saw her for who she was—strong, intelligent, brave—all of this and more. She deserved to be his partner, not just a pretty decoration at his side.

He’d almost stepped into the shadows, his personal vendetta against Juliette and Hera forgotten, just to watch her. She’d wielded a sword as expertly as she’d made one from scrap metal, the weapon an extension of her arm. She had moved like ripples in water, so smooth she’d seemed harmless until far too late.

Yesterday he’d broken down and summoned the Sent One with rainbow-colored eyes. Bjorn. The oldest.

“Do I have your word this conversation will go no further?” Lazarus had asked.

“You do,” the Sent One had replied. Unable to lie, he’d effectively bound himself to silence on the subject.

Which was the only reason Lazarus had continued. “You’ve been alive a long time. As long as I have. What do you know of Hera? Of...my father?”

“Very little about your father. Hera and your mother, I knew. At one time, they were friends.”

Friends? The news had come as a shock. How could one friend mercilessly murder another? “When did they become enemies?”

“When your father abducted your mother.”

A simple case of jealousy? Had Hera wanted Typhon? Why?

He had turned the tide of the conversation, saying, “Do you know a way to remove Cameo’s demon and keep her alive?”

Bjorn had tapped his fingers to his chin. “An empty vessel withers. That’s why she will die when he is removed. If you managed to revive her afterward, which isn’t a guarantee, her spirit would have to be patched—or healed—and refilled. Love for hate. Joy for sadness.”

It made sense, but it was too risky. Neither he nor Cameo knew how to love. And had he ever known joy? True joy?

Lazarus paced through the bedroom he’d shared with Cameo and grimaced as tender, regenerating flesh rubbed against his leathers. He should let her go now rather than later. He should turn his efforts to building an army. Yes, he should. But staying away from the keeper of Misery was looking less and less like an option for him.

He’d told her he would help her control the demon. He’d told her he would protect her, even from herself.

Must protect her.

Fool!

He was thousands of years old. Had experienced the best and worst life had to offer, and yet he had no defenses against Cameo. Her mere existence made her enemy one. Without her, he would live. He would be strong, a leader among men. But without her, he would not live well.

I am my father’s son.

Never! He would never take Cameo against her will.

He would romance the hell out of her.

Damn it! Need for her threatened to supersede his will to survive. He’d craved her before; she’d been a temptation. Now she was a necessity, essential to his existence.

Was this how his father had felt about his mother? Crazed? Had this been the beginning of the end for Typhon?

Make or break time, Lazarus realized. He had to decide. Walk away from Cameo for good, or go all in. Accept the crystals, and the end result—a life in the shadows, unable to fight—or eschew the crystals and win his personal wars.

If he chose the first, there could be no half measures. He’d made that mistake before, demanding Cameo accept a one-night stand. As many times and as many ways as she’d been hurt, she needed security from her man. She deserved to know she was adored. Only then would he win her trust. Only then would she share her body...and choose to remember her smile.

In return, she could help Lazarus achieve his vengeance. What better warrior to have at his side? He could have it all, his woman and his vengeance, before the crystals overtook him.

But. Always there was a “but.” If Lazarus planned to spend what remained of his days with Cameo, he had to tell her about Pandora’s box. He had to tell her before she challenged Juliette for information the Harpy did not—could not—have.

What if she used the box to hurt herself?

He could destroy the box and simply show her the remains.

She would hate him.

And what about the Morning Star? The apple hung from his neck once again. He wrapped his hand around it and squeezed. If he destroyed Pandora’s box, he might destroy the Morning Star, as well. Or would the mysterious being finally go free?

Could the Morning Star save Cameo?

If there was even a chance, he couldn’t destroy the box. The risk outweighed the reward. That meant he couldn’t tell Cameo about it, no matter how much she deserved the truth.

Can’t jeopardize her well-being. Or her future. And he wouldn’t feel guilty about this anymore. He wouldn’t! She meant too much to him, and what he did, he did for her.

He protected her. End of story.

New plan, next move. He would kill Juliette before Cameo had a chance to chat her up. Then he would turn his attentions to Hera, beat his father’s location out of her and finally kill the woman who’d murdered his mother as well as the man who’d enslaved her. He would act fast. Then he would spend the rest of his days with Cameo, basking in the contentment only she could give him.

A sound plan.

“Hello, Lazarus.”

The familiar voice drifted from the space behind him, every muscle in his body knotting. Palming a dagger in each hand, he spun—

And came face-to-face with Hera.

Lazarus cast an illusion, hiding his fury behind a blank mask, erasing any sign of the apple underneath his shirt and the weapons strapped to his body. Let her believe he was unarmed.

The years had been kind to her, making her more beautiful than ever. Her hair resembled a fall of moss intermixed with lush pink flowers. Her eyes were, in essence, an aerial map of the Earth, blue with spots of green and brown. The perfect complement to the beautiful sienna hue of her skin.

She wore a gown made entirely of enchanted rose petals, the flowers’ sweet perfume wafting from her.

A bitch like her should smell like brimstone and sulfur!

He had not expected her to come to him. Hadn’t expected her to remember the little boy she’d orphaned. As Lazarus had grown into a man, he’d kept his intentions for her to himself.

“Hera. I have long dreamed of seeing you again.”

“You were beheaded. I find it difficult to believe you dream at all, let alone live,” she said conversationally.

“Haven’t you heard? I cannot be killed.”

“Makes sense, I suppose. You are, after all, your father’s son.” Her lips pursed. “Typhon. Such a slippery little pig who has managed to evade death...so far.”

Did she realize she’d just confirmed his father’s survival? “You killed my mother. Your friend,” he finished with bite. “Who’s the true pig in that picture?”

Rage darkened her features. Then he detected a crackle of power similar to his own—to his father’s—and her expression blanked. Did she have the ability to cast illusions, too?