The Darkest Seduction

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DAZED, SIENNA WALKED down a long hallway. Just as her past had played along the walls of the castle, Paris’s past played here, a concerto of colors, faces, voices…limbs. On both sides of her, above and below her, women writhed, so many women. At first, she saw them smiling, heard them laughing, each one eager for what he offered, quickly falling for his charming facade.

Why wouldn’t they? Whatever they wanted, he gave them. A touch, a kiss, a lick. A gentle ride. A rough pounding. He made love to all of them, knew exactly where to stroke and taste for maximum pleasure. He knew precisely the right amount of pressure to use as he kneaded their breasts, their thighs. Soft for some, firm for others.

He knew what position to place them in. On their backs, their hands and knees, right side up, upside down. Knew some wanted slow, and some wanted fast. They loved him for it, their pleasure unparalleled.

Then he left them and they cried with gut-wrenching sobs, their bodies heaving, their hearts breaking as the grief overcame them. Interspersed throughout the females were males. Paris had been with men, too, and he’d left them in the same condition as the women. They wanted him, and though they were not his preference, he took them so that he might survive. Afterward, they asked him to stay and he bailed.

One woman, Susan, was a beauty he’d truly cared for. He’d tried to make a relationship with her work, but Paris, being Paris, had hurt her in the worst way, choosing survival, as always, over her heart.

When Sienna caught an image of herself, she stopped, gasped. There, practically overshadowed by the other images, Paris was strapped to her boss’s table, naked, the lights dim, and she was on top of him. She didn’t need the vision to serve as a reminder. She would never forget.

She had been unable to see him, needing the darkness to relax, and he had alternated between snapping at her, hating her, hating himself, and aiding her, moving his hips to increase her pleasure. Now, however, she saw into his mind. Part of him had hoped to punish her afterward. Part of him—the deepest, most secret part—had wanted to hold on to her and never let go. To him, she had been a balm unlike any other.

Nausea rose, threatening to erupt. He had thought such beautiful things about her, and still she had condemned him.

Wrath slammed into her frontal lobe, urging her forward. To see more, to see all. She stumbled along, her feet as heavy as boulders.

Other scenes bled into the image of her and Paris, and someone must have cranked the volume control because suddenly she heard grunts, groans, moans and screams. Screams of pleasure, of pain and even of fury. Accusations were hurled, followed by pleas.

The pleas were followed by curses.

Sometimes, when Paris could find no one willing to be with him, his strength would wane, his will to live would wither and his demon would pull free of his reins. A dark, rich scent would seep from Paris’s pores, intoxicating everyone nearby, luring them closer. These people would flock to him, regardless of their previous reservations about him or their disgust for casual sex. They would take him, or allow him to take them.

When this happened, Paris always battled intense guilt, because he knew the dastardly thing he was doing—but he took whatever was offered anyway.

These bedmates did not cry when he left. They watched him through narrowed eyes, detesting him, shamed by what they’d done with and to him, horrified by what they would soon lose. A loved one’s respect.

He had broken up marriages, had committed adultery and performed sexual acts that left him cold and shaken. He then allowed those same sexual acts to be performed on him. A self-imposed punishment of sorts, she thought. All of that she could have guessed. But what astonished her? He detested himself far more powerfully than any of the humans ever had or could.

Oh, Paris, she thought. He was heaven and hell, just as Wrath had said, wrapped in the same luscious package.

Sienna wanted to cover her eyes to block the sights. She wanted to scream and scream and scream to block the sounds. Everyone in the crowd was crying now. Even Paris. Their tears poured from the ceiling, raining down, battering at her. But her hands remained at her sides and her mouth remained shut, her feet moving automatically. Her body was no longer connected to her brain.

Wrath wanted her to know, and so she would know.

The volume cranked up another notch, a shriek resounding at her left, spine-chilling, nauseating. All of the tears ceased. Another shriek sounded, then battle scene after battle scene came to life. Blood, a canvas of scarlet. Blades glinting with menace. Guns firing one after the other. Bombs exploding. Limbs separating from bodies, guts spilling. Death, so much death. Each delivered by Paris.

Paris, the FedEx deliveryman of Pleasure and Fatality.

There was no guilt here, however. No shame. Only cold, hard logic. Kill or be killed. No room for emotions or regrets. No hope for something better. This was it; this was the card he must constantly play. Fight for what he wanted or curl up and die.

He would not curl up and die.

Even though Sienna’s own demon seemed to like Paris on some level, Wrath, being Wrath, still hoped to castigate him for all the wrongs he’d committed. The demon urged her to sleep with Paris and leave him. To break his heart. To make him sob and beg for another chance with her. Then, of course, would come the stabbing, hurting him as he had hurt so many others.

No! No, no, no. She jerked free of whatever leash the demon had used to bind her to his will and flattened her hands against her stomach, as if the puny action could settle the sickness still churning there.

“I will not punish him,” she shouted, proud of her strength and conviction. Paris had done all those things, yes. And no, there was no excusing him. Though he’d been influenced by the evil creature inside him, he was responsible for his own decisions. He could have found another way.

But who was she to condemn anyone? Had she yet found another way? No.

Wrath offered no argument, and she frowned. That was unlike him. Usually he threw fits until she caved. But then, perhaps Aeron, Wrath’s former keeper, had already fought and won this particular crusade. After all, Aeron and Paris had lived together for centuries, plenty of time for the demon to have either gotten a taste of what he desired or to have been berated into submission.

If ever she met Aeron—and if he could actually see her and didn’t try to kill her—she would ask. She would do anything to return Wrath to him, too, despite the fact that such an action would kill her.

“Sienna.” Warmth drifted over her cheek, sliding along the line of her jaw.

Her nerve endings perked up, firing back to life, making her skin tingle.

“Wake up for me. Come on, that’s it, that’s the way.”

Yes. That voice…sexual and primal, blatant in its masculinity…a summoning finger she must follow. Where the voice originated, pleasure awaited her. So much pleasure.

She blinked open her eyes. Things were hazy at first, but the more she blinked, the better she could see. She was inside one of the second-floor bedrooms of the castle. The air was musty and yet chocolaty and—Paris loomed above her, peering down at her.

Breath snagged in her throat. He was just so beautiful, his face flawlessly chiseled. He could seduce anyone, anywhere. His hair was the richest shade of black, the purest shade of brown, with lighter strands woven throughout like ribbons of gold. His eyes were a wanton crystal, his lashes so thick and black they weighed down his lids, keeping them at half-mast, forever come-to-bed tempting. His lips were lush and red, and perhaps the most decadent part of an already decadent man. His skin was like crushed diamonds mixed with honey and cream. Pale, yet kissed with shimmers of the sun.

He bore a few scratches and had shadows under his eyes, but neither acted as an imperfection. They simply enhanced his appeal, adding depth. Lover, warrior…protector of those of his choosing. And he was here. With her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, the words scratchy now, as if there were glass shards stuck in his throat.

Was that a note of concern she detected? If so, this must be a hallucination. Paris wouldn’t care for her well-being. Not after everything that had happened between them. With a shaky hand, she reached up and pressed her fingertips into the rose tinting his cheeks. Solid, warm. Real.

She gasped out a startled, “You really are here.”

“Yes. I… Yes.” His pupils expanded, concealing all the blue with a spiderweb of black, before snapping back into place. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” There was a slight twinge in her stomach, a definite ache in her wings, but nothing that was unmanageable. A perk of being undead as well as Wrath’s host, she supposed. No matter the severity of her injuries, death had no hold on her and she healed quickly.

“I cleaned you up, bandaged the worst of your wounds.” Guilt layered his tone, a deeper flush blooming across his cheeks. Those pupils expanded again, staying that way—nope, they snapped back.

She’d never seen eyes do that. “Thank you.” She moved her hand to her hair, grimaced when she encountered tangles. She must look like total crap. “And you? How are you?” Her question trembled with the same intensity as her hand.

“Fine,” he parroted, offering no more than she had.

He straightened, increasing the distance between them, though his hip remained pressed against hers. One of his arms slid forward and stopped beside her rib cage, taking the brunt of his weight.

They stayed like that for a long while, silent, looking at each other, then looking away.

This was…awkward. Really, really awkward. They hadn’t seen each other in so long, and the last time they had, well, things had not ended well. No one but yourself to blame, she thought sadly.

“A lot has happened since we were last together,” he began, then lapsed into silence as if contemplating all that had occurred.

“Yes,” she agreed, though she had spent too much time contemplating it already.

“I know you were given a demon. What I don’t know is how you’re handling him,” he said, staring somewhere far, far beyond her shoulder.

“We have our moments.”

“He shows you the sins of others?”

“Yes.”

“And forces you to punish the wrongdoers?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Aeron, the guy who had Wrath before you, used to hate that. He would resist for as long as he could.”

“And then Wrath would overtake him,” she grumbled.

“Yeah.”

“I have the same problem.” Usually she saw the images of a person’s sins while she was awake, and things would progress from there. She would fight the urges and win, or she would fight the urges and fail. She wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that she’d seen Paris’s transgressions while she was asleep.

Another bout of uncomfortable silence ensued. There was so much to say, but she didn’t know where to begin.

“Paris,” she breathed at the same time he sighed and said, “Sienna.”

They stared at each other now, searching, unsure. Annnd once again silence reigned, so heavy she could feel the weight of it pressing her deeper into the mattress. Her heart careened against her chest in a useless attempt at escape. If the damn thing had been hooked to a battery, she would have pulled the plug. Anything for relief from this suspended, anxious sensation, fear of sending Paris fleeing preventing her from saying all the things she’d imagined saying to him.

“You go first,” he said, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Very well. She could do this. She could. “I just wondered how you got here and why you…why you came for me.” And he had definitely come for her, and her alone. Why else would he have shouted her name like that? Did he hope to punish her for what she’d once done to him?

His eyes narrowed. “I changed my mind. I’ll go first. Tell me why you came to me, that night in Texas when William saw you at my feet. William being my homely friend.” Through those slitted lids, she saw that his irises had frosted over, the darkness still evident. His expression became granite-hard, ruthless determination cloaking him.

The man who sat before her now was not the one who’d fought the Gargl to reach her; he was not the one who’d taken such care with her wounds. And he had cared for her wounds. She’d been cleaned, bandaged, just as he’d said.

No, the man who sat before her was the one she’d first met in Rome. The one who had kissed her one minute and woken up strapped to a torture table the next. The one who had cursed her with one breath, and praised her with the following.

Whoever he was, she wouldn’t lie to him. She would never lie to him again. “I needed help,” she admitted, “and Wrath knew where you were, how to reach you. He had taken over, and I came to there at your feet.”

“Do you still need help?”

“With Wrath? Yes.”

He nodded, losing that knife edge of ruthlessness. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you that night.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Anyway,” he said after clearing his throat. “I figured you would have trouble adapting, though you’re doing far better than I did at this stage, so I asked Aeron if he had any tips for you. He said you’ll have an easy time of things if you feed the bastard a little bit every day. Someone lies to you, you lie back. Someone cheats you, you cheat them back. Someone hits you, you hit back.”

How willingly he offered the information. He didn’t make her beg. Didn’t taunt her because he knew and she didn’t. And Aeron hadn’t withheld the information, when he had to hate her for taking his companion—and they had been companions. Wrath had been an extension of him, still missed him to this day. But as grateful as she was for the advice…what a terrible way to live, she thought. “Thank you for that.”

“Welcome,” he said stiffly. Then, “Do you still think I’m evil and in need of snuffing out?”

“No! You’re not evil.” That she had ever placed the man in the same category as the demon… She was so very ashamed. How foolish she’d been. How gullible. “I’m sorry that I ever thought you were.”

The visual perusal he next gave her peeled away her clothing, leaving her bare, trembling. “And I should believe you?”

He would never trust her, but then, why should he? “Being paired with Wrath, well, my eyes were opened. I saw the truth for the first time. The things I did…the things I’m urged to do…you’ve been dealing with that for thousands of years, and still you fight. Doubt me all you want, but I vow to you now.” To stop herself from reaching out to him, she fisted her hands at her sides. “I will never hurt you again.”

In his hooded eyes she saw flecks of anger, a blaze of arousal. Then, nothing.

He looked away from her, gaze landing on the room’s only window. There was a crack in the thick, black curtains, a single ray of moonlight slipping inside. Then he offered a shrug of one strong shoulder. “You asked why I came for you.”

Disappointment rocked her. A response to her vow would have been nice. But then, she didn’t deserve it. “Yes.”

“I— Damn it. I couldn’t let you suffer.”

He couldn’t…let her…suffer…oh… Here was a mercy she was no longer capable of offering to others, so she knew how precious it was. Tears sprang to her eyes and tracked down her cheeks, a trickle at first, then a flood. Until her body was heaving with the same force as the women in that dream hallway. Until she couldn’t see the bedroom or Paris.

What happened to growing a pair of lady balls? Breaking down now, in front of him, was humiliating, but she couldn’t stop.

Her shame exploded, little pieces tossed into every corner of her body, saturating her. All her life, she’d only ever been able to rely on herself. Her mom’s alcoholism, which had started right after Skye’s abduction, had eaten away at any love the woman had felt for Sienna. Her dad had eventually taken off and started another family, forgetting the little girl he’d left behind.

Then in college, she’d begun dating Hugh. He’d listened to her stories about her past, offered sympathy and aid. He’d told her about himself, and his belief in the supernatural. When she expressed doubt, he promised to show her—and he had. She’d been scared yet thrilled at the same time, because then she’d had someone to blame for every single one of her troubles.

How freeing that had been. How marvelous to realize that her mother wasn’t at fault. Her father wasn’t at fault. She wasn’t at fault. How soothing to think her parents would have loved her still if not for the evil the Lords had brought into the world. So, yeah, she’d jumped headfirst into the good-versus-evil game.

And yet, the Hunters had gunned her down to get to Paris.

Paris, who hadn’t wanted her to suffer.

Her sobs emerged so powerfully, she was soon hiccupping, eyes and nose running freely, and that sent her embarrassment to a new level. Stalwart arms wrapped around her, careful not to brush against her fragile wings, lifting her, drawing her into a hot, muscled chest. His heartbeat hammered as swiftly as hers.

And wouldn’t you know, that made her cry even harder.

“Calm down,” he commanded, clearly uncomfortable. And wow. You would think a man who’d been with as many women as Paris had would know how to finesse one who was nearing hysteria, but no. He patted her back a little too roughly, then glared down at her when she failed to obey him.

How could he not want her to suffer? How could she ever have judged him so harshly?

“Sienna. Stop this.”

“Can’t…help…it. Did such…terrible things to…you. And you…you’re here. And you’re being so nice.”

A pause, as if he couldn’t quite digest her words. Then, very gently, he said, “But I did terrible things to you, too. Didn’t I?”