The Darkest Surrender

They were armed, yeah. Strider wouldn’t visit a church in heaven without a few blades stashed somewhere—especially now that he knew heaven was guarded by freaking giant-ass angels—much less stroll into a building filled to bursting with guns and humans who knew how to use them. But, so far, no one had commented. Not that they could see his arsenal, hidden beneath his jacket, T-shirt and jeans as it was.

“Why did we have to be the ones to do this, again?” Paris asked. At six-foot-eight with an all-muscle frame, the keeper of Promiscuity was, to put it mildly, a big guy. Three inches taller than Strider, the bastard, but—and that was a huge but—not nearly as powerful.

Considering how many times they’d thrown down, the comparison wasn’t merely an opinion but a solid fact.

“I owed her a favor,” he said, careful not to reveal any emotion. Like the fact that he’d rather be locked in his enemy’s dungeon, torture on the day’s menu, than here. Like the fact that he didn’t want to see Kaia again. Ever. Like the fact that he didn’t want Paris to see Kaia again. For way longer than ever. “She called it in.”

“What favor?”

“None of your damn business.” He didn’t even like to think about it. And talk about it? Hell, no. Too embarrassing. Like being caught out in public with your pants down.

Wait. Bad example. “Pants down” was a good look for him. A really good look.

Ego check. He’d told himself he was going to stop patting himself on the back for all his wonderful qualities. After all, it wasn’t fair to the citizens of the world. They couldn’t help being inferior to him in every way.

“Well, I don’t owe her anything.” Paris flicked him a glance, ocean-blue eyes glinting. Tension radiated from him. Tragically, uh, fortunately, that didn’t affect his handsomeness. He had a head of hair most women would kill to own, a mass of differing shades of brown, from the darkest of midnight to the sweetest of honey, and a face most women would kill just to glimpse.

Kaia had probably fisted that hair. Had probably smothered that face with kisses.

Strider’s jaw clenched. “You slept with her. Do you really need a reminder of that?”

“No, no reminder. But when you think about it, that means she owes me. And now you owe me, too, summoning me the way you did, interrupting my quest to demand I help you.” Acid filled those words. Not because of Strider, but because of the “quest.”

Sienna, the woman Paris desired above all others, was trapped in the heavens, a slave to the god king. Worse still, she was now possessed by the demon of Wrath. Paris hoped to find her, save her and punish everyone who had hurt her.

Strider pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, remaining silent. Paris had found his “one and only,” as the stupid shithead was now fond of saying—and sounding like a pussy—yet had still slept with Kaia. A man with a one and only shouldn’t screw around, in Strider’s humble opinion. Yeah, yeah. Paris couldn’t help himself. Because of his demon, he had to sleep with a different person every day or he weakened … died.

A petty part of Strider almost wished his friend had chosen the weakening path rather than touching the Harpy.

Of course, the thought caused guilt to eat at him. Kaia was not Strider’s one and only, if such a thing even existed for him. She was too competitive, too strong and too wily to cause him anything but misery. And yes, he got the irony. He was that same way with everyone. But he was attracted to her, and as possessive as he was and had always been, he didn’t like the thought of her sleeping with anyone else.

Especially since he had to be the best at everything he did. Because of his demon, he had to win, even in bed. And as Paris had more experience than anyone he knew, there was no way Strider could compete in that arena.

Maybe he could have ignored his other reasons for rejecting Kaia’s recent and numerous come-and-strip-me glances, but he couldn’t ignore that one. Not even once. Because once a man tasted the forbidden fruit, he would go back for more. He wouldn’t be able to help himself, the tether on his sanity already broken. So Strider would keep going back, and every time he touched her, tasted her, peeled her panties away with his teeth, he would later experience agony in its purest form.

Yes, Strider was damn good in the sack. Not that he was going to pat himself on the back. He didn’t do that anymore, he reminded himself. Okay, fine. He’d make an exception because of the extreme superiority of his talent. He was far better than “good.” He was flipping amazing. But he never took on a fight he wasn’t sure he could win. Nothing was worth the physical and mental torment that accompanied a loss, and Paris was probably better than “flipping amazing.”

Fine. No probably about it, if the moans Strider had heard from the many hotel rooms Paris had rented throughout the centuries could be believed.

Now, the pleasure that came with a win … sweet gods above. There was nothing like it, not even sex. Strider was addicted to the rush the same way Paris was addicted to ambrosia, the drug of choice for immortals. In fact, he’d stab a dear friend in the throat before letting him—or her—trounce him in something as minor as a spelling bee.

The best way to spell victory? K-I-L-L.

“Anyway,” Paris said, drawing him back to the present. “What did Kaia do for you that you’d willingly indenture yourself to me?”

“I already told you. It’s none of your damn business.”

“Yeah, but I figured if I kept asking, you’d cave.”

“You were wrong. News flash, I’m a little more stubborn than most. And by the way, I didn’t indenture myself to you. In exchange for your help tonight, I agreed to go to Titania with you to hunt for Sienna.” Titania. Dumbass name. But Cronus, the egomaniacal god king, had renamed Olympus to piss off the now incarcerated Greeks who had once reigned there.

Took a real set of titanium cojones to name a location after yourself. Or maybe Cronus was simply overcompensating for something.

Not that Strider and his beloved cock, which he’d modestly nicknamed Stridey-Monster, knew anything about that. They were perfect in every way.

Ego check. Damn it. How many would he need in one day?

“Dude, you totally indentured yourself. You also agreed to kidnap that shithead William and take him with us,” Paris said.

“I also agreed to kidnap that shithead William and take him with us, yes.” A fact that still pissed him off. William, a sex-addicted immortal who wanted to sleep with Kaia. Unfortunately, Willy was also the only person who could actually spot Sienna, being as how Sienna was dead and he had that whole I-see-dead-people thing going on.

Also, it helped that the guy could now flash. For whatever reason, the abilities the gods had once stripped him of were now returning.

Anyway. Something Strider and his cohorts had recently learned was that “dead” didn’t necessarily mean “gone forever.” Not for humans and certainly not for immortals. Far from it, in fact. Souls could be captured, manipulated … abused. Sienna was of the abused variety, and Paris was desperate to save her.

The besotted warrior shifted from one booted foot to the other. Behind the counter, a female groaned as if the movement was torture—for her. “You agreed to help me knowing you’d have to find Sienna, no matter how long it takes, or you’ll hurt. Bad.”

As far as Strider was concerned, the longer it took them, the better. The more distance between him and Kaia, the better. He had to prove to himself that he could walk away and forget about her.

He’d done it before. Only problem was, now he knew her better and the attraction was stronger.

“You’ve been in the heavens for weeks and made no progress,” he said. “You needed me.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t need me. Not for something as simple as this.”

Actually, he did. He needed to see Paris and Kaia together. Needed to remind himself why he couldn’t have her, why he had to stop thinking about her all the damn time. Why she was bad news. Preferably before his demon decided they had to have her—or else.

Besides, Strider had needed to escape Budapest, his home not-really-sweet home, as well as put some distance between himself, Amun and Amun’s new girlfriend, Haidee. Strider had laid his semi-best moves on her, but she’d wanted nothing to do with him. Sure, he’d also insulted her at every turn and threatened to decapitate her, but give a guy a damn break. He’d had excellent reasons.

Haidee had once been a Hunter, had killed his best friend, Baden, keeper of Distrust, and had attempted to savage his home.

Yet still he’d desired her. And now, every time he looked at her, he was reminded of his failure. His loss. The ensuing pain. But … and here was the kicker. He’d never had a problem resisting her. He’d kept his mouth, hands and favorite appendage to himself without any difficulty.

Kaia, however, wouldn’t be extended the same courtesy if they spent any alone time together. Already his mouth watered for a taste, his hands itched for a touch and his favorite appendage stood at embarrassing attention.

Oh, yes. He had to get as far, far away from the whole situation as possible.

“Stridey-Man. You here with me or what?”

He blinked into focus. Paris. Police station. Humans with guns. Winking in and out was stupid. He blamed Kaia for his lax concentration—another reason to avoid her. “I don’t want to talk about it,” was all he said.

Paris opened his mouth to respond, but closed it with a snap when they heard the welcome sound of high heels clacking down the nearest hallway. Then Kaia was rounding the corner, silky red hair hanging down her back in complete disarray, gray-gold eyes bright and wicked body swaying with a seductive beat Strider prayed only he could hear.

No. He didn’t want to hear it, so he wouldn’t pray that he alone could. But if anyone else heard it, he’d rip out their goddamn eardrums. Because Kaia was, despite everything, his friend. They’d fought enemies together, bled for each other. Hell, they’d joked and laughed together. So yeah, they were friends, and he didn’t like his friends being harassed. And that was the only reason, damn it. He’d do the same thing for Paris. Who’d better not hear that beat!

“Don’t you go getting into any more trouble, you hear,” the officer escorting her said with open affection, and Strider wanted to kill the guy for so blatantly harassing her—or speaking to her at all. “We love ya, but we don’t want to see you here again.”

Calm down. You’re not dating her, and you’re not going to date her. Or kiss her. All over. The cop’s flirting doesn’t matter.