The Darkest Prison

The Greeks were defeated and now locked exactly where they’d locked the Titans. Atlas had volunteered to oversee the realm and had thankfully been placed in charge. Finally, his day of vengeance had arrived. Nike would forever bear his mark.

“You should be grateful you’re alive,” he told her.

“Fuck you.”

He smiled slowly, evilly. “You’ve done that, remember?”

Her struggles increased. Increased so viciously she was soon panting and sweating right alongside his men.

“Flip her over,” he ordered them. No mercy. Atlas didn’t have the patience to wait until she tired. “I’ll just keep tattooing until my name is clear enough to satisfy me.”

With a frustrated, infuriated screech, she finally stilled. She knew he spoke true. He always spoke true. Threats were not something he wasted his breath uttering. Only promises.

“That’s a good girl.” Atlas strode forward and ripped the cloth from her back. The skin was tanned, smooth. Flawless. Once, he’d caressed this back. Once, he’d kissed and licked it. And yes, being with her had been more satisfying than being with any of the others, but he would not be ruled by his dick and release her before branding her, all in the hopes that he could get her into bed again. He would do this.

“That’s not what I did to you,” Nike rasped. “I didn’t mark your back.”

“You would rather I brand your lovely breasts?”

At that, she held her tongue.

Good. He didn’t want to mar her chest. Her breasts were a work of art, surely the world’s finest creation. “No need to thank me,” he muttered. He held out his hand and someone slapped the needed supplies in his palm. “At least you won’t have to look at my name every day of your too-long life.” As he had to do.

“Don’t do this,” she suddenly cried. “Please. Don’t.” She turned her head and there were tears in her brown eyes.

She wasn’t a beautiful woman. Could barely be called pretty. Her nose was a little too long, and her cheeks a little too sharp. She had ordinary brown hair cut to hit her too-wide shoulders, and the body of a warrior. But there was something about her that had always drawn him.

He rolled his eyes. “Dry the fake tears, Nike.” And he knew they were fake. She wasn’t prone to displays of emotion. “They don’t affect me and they certainly don’t become you.”

Instantly her eyelids narrowed, the tears miraculously gone. “Fine. But I will make you regret this. I vow it.”

“I’m looking forward to your attempts.” Truth. Sparring with her had always excited him.

Without a single beat of hesitation, he pressed the ink gun just below her shoulder blade. His grip was steady as he etched the outline of the first letter. A. Not once did she flinch. Not once did she act as if she felt a single ounce of pain. He knew it hurt, though. Oh, did he know. To permanently mark an immortal, ambrosia had to be mixed into the colored liquid and that ambrosia burned like acid.

She remained silent as he finished each of the outlines. Silent, still, as he filled in the letters. When he finished, he sat back on his haunches and surveyed his work: A.T.L.A.S.

He expected satisfaction to overtake him, so long had he waited for this moment. It didn’t. He expected relief to overwhelm him; vengeance had been achieved. It didn’t. What he didn’t expect was a white-hot sweep of possessiveness, but that’s exactly what he experienced.

Nike now belonged to him. Forever. And all the world would know it.

CHAPTER TWO

Nike paced the confines of her cell. A cell she shared with several others. Knowing her temper as intimately as they did, they were careful to stay out of her way. Still. Roommates sucked. She could feel their eyes boring into her robe-clad back, as if they could see the name now branded there.

If they dared say a single word about it …

There hadn’t been enough cells to contain all of the Greeks, so they’d been crammed into each chamber in groups. Male, female, it hadn’t mattered. Maybe the Titans hadn’t cared about the mixing of the sexes, or maybe they’d done it to increase the torment of each prisoner. The latter was probably the case. Husbands had not been paired with wives and friend had not been paired with friend. No, rival had been paired with rival.

For her, that rival was Erebos, the minor god of darkness. Once, Erebos had treated her like a queen. Once, she’d really liked him. Had even considered marrying him. But then she’d fallen in love with Atlas—that womanizing, lying bastard Atlas—so she’d cut Erebos loose. Then she’d discovered that Atlas had never really wanted her, that Atlas had only been using her. Love had quickly morphed into rage.

The rage, though, had eventually cooled. She’d forgotten him. For the most part. Now, with his name decorating her back, she hated him with every fiber of her being.

Maybe—maybe—she’d overreacted when she’d done the same to him. Branded him forever. Impulsiveness had always been her downfall, after all. For years, she’d even regretted her decision. Not that she would ever admit such a thing to him. Regret was not what she felt now, however.

She hadn’t lied to him. She would kill him for this.

First, she would have to find a way to remove the stupid collar around her neck. As long as she wore it, she was powerless. Second, she would have to find a way to escape this realm.

The first, in theory, should have been easy. Yet she’d already tried clawing and beating at it, and had even attempted to melt it from her neck. All she’d done was cut her skin, bruise her tender flesh and singe her hair off. The second, in theory and reality, seemed impossible.

Her gaze circled her surroundings. After the Titans escaped, they’d reinforced everything. How, she didn’t know. The prison was supposedly bound to Tartarus, the Greek god of Confinement who’d once kept guard over the Titans, and when he’d begun to weaken for no apparent reason, the realm had weakened, as well. Everything in it became structurally unsound. But now, Tartarus was missing. The Titans didn’t have him and no one knew where he was. There was no reason the realm should be as strong as it was in his absence.

The walls and floor were comprised of godly stone, something only special godly tools—tools she didn’t have—could break through, and yet, even without Tartarus’s presence, there was not a crack in sight.

The thick silver bars that allowed a glimpse of the guard’s station below had been constructed by Hephaistos, and only Hephaistos could melt such a metal. Unfortunately, he resided somewhere else. As with Tartarus, no one knew where. Still, without Tartarus, she should have been able to bend that metal. She couldn’t; she’d already tried.

“Could you settle the hell down?” Erebos grumbled from one of the cots. From his dark hair to his dark skin, from his handsome features to his strong body, he was the picture of unhappy male, all of that unhappiness pointed at her. “We’re trying to plan an escape here.”

They were always planning an escape.

“Besides,” he continued, “your ugly face is giving me a headache.”

“Go suck yourself,” she replied. Though she’d been the one to hurt him all those centuries ago—unintentionally—he’d repaid her a thousand times over. Purposefully. Not emotionally, but physically. He liked nothing better than to “accidentally” trip her, bump into her and send her flying, as well as to eat what little portion of food was meant for her before she could fight her way to the front of the line, starving her. If she hadn’t been wearing the collar, he never would have been able to do those things. She would have been too strong. Another reason to despise her captivity.

“Sucking myself would probably elicit better results than when you did it,” he retorted.

The handful of gods and goddesses around him snickered.

“Whatever,” she said, as if the taunt didn’t bother her. Except, her cheeks did flush. She was the epitome of strength—or she was supposed to be—and she’d always been more mannish than feminine. That was why Atlas’s attention had so surprised and delighted her. That gorgeous man could have won anyone, yet he’d chosen her. Or so she’d thought. And she’d fallen for his act because he’d somehow made her feel like a delicate, beautiful woman.

Just then, Atlas strode into the guard’s station. She didn’t have to see him to know. She felt him. Always she felt his heat. When her gaze found him, she discovered that he had his arm wrapped around a leggy blonde. A blonde who cuddled herself into his side as if she belonged there—and had rested there many times before.

The thought angered Nike. It shouldn’t have; she despised Atlas with all of her being and didn’t care who he slept with. Didn’t care who he pleasured. And yes, he would have pleasured the blonde with those talented hands and seeking lips. He was an amazing lover whose touch still haunted Nike’s dreams. But there it was. Anger.

She didn’t mean to, but found herself striding to the bars and gripping them for a better, closer look at him. Three other guards stood around him, all talking and laughing. While prisoners wore white, guards wore black, and he wore that darkness well. It was the perfect complement to his dark, chopped hair and sea-colored eyes.

His face had been chiseled by a master artist, everything about him perfectly proportioned. His eyes were the perfect distance apart, his nose the perfect length, his cheeks the perfect sharpness, his lips the perfect shape and color and his chin a perfect, stubborn square.

She should have known he was playing her the moment he’d turned those dangerous eyes on her and they lit with “interest.” Men just didn’t look at her like that. Not even Erebos had, and he had loved her.

“Bastard,” she muttered, the curse for both the men in her past.

As if he heard her, Atlas lifted his gaze. The moment their eyes met, she wanted to release the bars. She wanted to step away, out of sight. But she didn’t allow herself that luxury. That would have been cowardly, and this man had seen her weak one too many times.

Just to taunt him, and hopefully make him feel as out of control as he always made her feel, she allowed her attention to fall to his chest, exactly where her name rested. She smiled smugly before raising her gaze and arching a brow. Score. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

What does your lover think of your mark? she wanted to shout. What does the blonde think of my name on your body?