The Darkest Secret (12 page)

The subject he hated more than any other. His curse. The only person he'd ever discussed the particulars with was Anya, and then only because they'd been cell neighbors inside Tartarus, and he'd needed something to do while the centuries ticked by. When they'd later escaped, he'd made the mistake of showing her the book that detailed everything he'd told her, as well as his only chance for salvation.

He shouldn't have been surprised when the naughty goddess had stolen that book—and now threatened to rip the pages out every time he pissed her off. Nor should he have been surprised that she'd given Gilly a peek. Anya had taken over the girl's care, too, and knew how the sweet little human felt about him. But damn it, his secrets were his own.

“Liam?”

Resisting was pointless. And gods, he was pathetic. To not even put up a fight? Sickening. “The book is written in code,” he explained. A roundabout fuck-you from Zeus, he mused. A “here's your salvation—not.” He had yet to find the key to unlocking that code. He knew it was out there, though. It had to be out there. He couldn't believe other
wise. Even though he was afraid to find the key, afraid to know more about his curse.

“Yes, but
how
are you cursed?” she repeated.

He shouldn't tell her. He knew what she was doing. Trying to find a way to save him. Still. She needed to know the truth. Maybe then her crush would at last crash and burn. “All I know is that the woman I fall in love with will unleash—” He pressed his lips together. The woman he fell in love with would unleash every evil being he had ever created. And he had created some monsters.
That
, he wouldn't tell her. “She will kill me,” he finished. That, too, was the truth.

Her eyes widened as she lifted her gaze to his face. “I don't understand.”

“The curse isn't completely mine. I share it with her.” Whoever she was. “Once I fall in love with her, she'll lose her mind. She'll think only of my demise, and she'll make sure it comes to pass.”

Another gift courtesy of that too-cocky shit, Zeus. Good news was, the joke was on the now deposed king. William had never fallen in love and never would. There was only room in his heart for one, and
he
was that one.

“I would never hurt you,” Gilly said softly. And before he could reply, not that he had any clue as to what to say, she added, “Let's backtrack a little. The book contains a way to save you? And her?”

“Maybe.” He gently chucked her under the chin. “Don't even think about it, Gumdrop. The curse is one of blood, which means
someone
has to die. If I'm saved, the one who saves me will be the one to die in my place. That isn't going to be you. Understand?”

She didn't speak, but she didn't nod, either. Nor did her gentle expression change. That scared him. The thought of dying should have freaked her out. The thought of her dying did freak
him
out.

With more force than he'd intended, he said, “Be a good girl, and go get some rest. You've got circles under your eyes, and I don't like them.”

Finally. A reaction. Her mouth pressed into a mulish line, and as well as he was coming to know her, he prepared himself for pure, unbending stubbornness. Whoever she ultimately ended up with was going to have his hands full. Poor bastard.

Dead bastard. William might kill him just for fun.

Don't go there.

“I'm not a little girl,” she gritted out. “So stop treating me like one.”

“You
are
a little girl,” he replied easily, rolling his eyes for good measure. She was, and that was a fact.

She stuck her tongue out at him, proving his claim. “The boys at my school don't think so.”

He would not react to the sight of that tongue. Or to the provocative words. “The boys at your school are dumb.”

“Hardly.
They
want to kiss me.”

A flicker of rage took residence in his chest. “You better not encourage them,
little girl,
because I will hurt them if they ever try anything with you. You're not ready for that kind of relationship.”

“And I suppose you get to decide when I'm ready?”

“Exactly.” Smart, his little gumdrop. “In fact, as soon as I think you're old enough, I'll let you know. Until then, keep your lips to yourself or you'll regret it.”

“Oh, really? Give me a hint, then.” There was steel in her voice rather than amusement. “What age do you consider old enough and just how will I regret disobeying you?”

A wiser man would have kept his fat mouth closed. “Three hundred. Or so,” he added, giving himself room to work. “And believe me, you do not want to find out.”

“First, I'm human,” she snapped. “I'll never be that old.”

“I know.” And he didn't like that fact, he realized. She had eighty years, give or take a few, but no more. And that was only if she wasn't run over by a car. Or beheaded by a Hunter.

Damn it. If he had to sign on with the Lords for a permanent place in their army just to look after her, he was going to be annoyed. He had shit to do, places to be.

“Second, I'm not afraid of you.”

She should be. The things he'd done over the years…. The things he would do in the years to come…. “Let's forget the fear for now. By your own admission, you're a puny human. Which is another reason you need to rest.” He gave her a “gentle” push off the bed. “Go. Get out of here.”

She hit the floor with a
hmph,
then popped to her feet. She peered down at him for a long while. He let her look, silent, knowing what she saw. A black-haired, blue-eyed stunner who had broken more hearts than he could count. He prayed that she, like all the others before her, wouldn't overlook the fact that
his
heart had never been breached. That she wouldn't see him as a challenge, as tamable…as worth any risk.

His phone beeped, disrupting the quiet and signaling a text had come in. She glanced at the phone on the nightstand, then at him.

“Go,” he said more firmly.

“Fine.” She spun and strode from the room, leaving William with an odd, hollow feeling in his chest. Damn it, he thought again.

Another beep sounded. He pushed Gilly to the back of his mind and lifted the little black device to read the screen.

Screen name “Stridey-Man” asked, Want 2 vacay w/me?

William snorted as he typed. Romantic getaway for 2? UR not my type, dickwad.

Only a few seconds passed before the second message arrived. Fuck U. I'm everyone's type. So U in or out? 'Cause I'm thinking about hooking up w/P, wherever he is. U'd just B extra baggage.

Leave the fortress. Leave Gilly and her dark, too knowledgeable eyes. Leave her staggering hope for something he couldn't, wouldn't, give her. Leave her probing questions, her gentle touch. Some 1 taking UR place here at fort? he typed. Much as he wanted to escape, he wouldn't leave her helpless.

K & C are gonna come back. Last chance. In or out?

This time he didn't hesitate. In. Stridey-Man: Knew U couldn't resist me. B ready in 5.

Right on. Make it 10. I want 2 style my hair for U. U know, just how U like it.

Stridey-Man: ASSHOLE.

He snickered, having more fun teasing Strider than he'd had in a long, long time. ?? U up for a lil stop before we play??

Stridey-Man: Where?

Locale deets later. Alls U need 2 know is I plan 2 murder Gilly's fam.

He'd wanted the deed taken care of long before now, but his little jaunt into hell had altered his plans. The demons down there had nearly eaten through his arm, and the stupid limb had only recently healed. Plus, Amun had promised to go with him and tell William about the mom and stepfather's deepest secrets and fears so that William could make the road to dead frightening and painful.

Only, Amun was still whacked out of his mind and William was tired of waiting.

Stridey-Man: Rock on. But now U only have 8 minutes 2 do UR hair.

Trust the cocky Strider to agree to a brutal massacre without asking dumb questions like “why” and “how.”

William untucked the covers and stood, making a mental list of everything he'd need for the coming trip. A few blades, serrated and nonserrated. A vial of acid. A bone saw. A spiked paddle. A cat-o'-nine-tails. And a bag of Gummy Bears.

Gods, but this was going to be fun.

H
AIDEE LUXURIATED IN THE
now-familiar warmth enveloping her, branding her all over again, as the hazy dream took shape in her mind. Moonlight surrounded her, illuminating the veranda she stood upon, as well as the pond she studied in the courtyard. Fireflies hovered over the clear, dappled water like fallen stars that had finally found a new perch. A cool breeze ruffled the wild tumble of her hair, and her lavender robe—her
wedding
gown—danced at her ankles.

She could hardly believe this day had arrived.

Solon had actually married her. After a rocky start and courtship, he'd vowed to love and cherish her in front of his friends and family. Even though he was a powerful noble, she was not, and he could have kept her as a slave. But that arrangement was unacceptable, he'd said. As his wife, no one would ever hurt her again. Even after he died.

For that alone, she would have fallen in love with him. Except, she'd already loved him. He was older than she by sixteen years but strongly built nonetheless. He had only ever regarded her with kindness, had never raised a hand to her in anger, even though his first reaction to her had been one of tension, and had never allowed his visitors to abuse her.

He'd begun to cosset her soon after buying her at the slave market, some eleven years before. She'd been a child then, still devastated by the loss of her family, terrified by the new fate that awaited her and confused by the numbing
cold that had never left her. A cold that had saved her from being raped, time and time again. Most men couldn't stand to touch her.

And perhaps that was why Solon had never demanded sexual favors in return for his kindness. At least, that's what she had assumed. Until six weeks ago, when he had asked for her hand in marriage.

“Are you nervous, my sweet?” a familiar voice asked from behind her.

She turned, heart accelerating with dizzying speed. Leora, friend and equal until this very day, was now supposed to be her servant. Gray hair frizzed around her aged features, and she wore the same coarse sack Haidee was used to wearing.

If Leora was here, that meant the time had come. That meant her husband had summoned her, was ready for her. Her
husband
. “I love when you call me that,” she replied sincerely. “Especially since you did not like me at first.” No one had. For that matter, no one ever did.

“No. But that soon changed, did it not?”

Yes. Just like with Solon. “It did. And yes, yes. I'm nervous, but excited, too.”

Finally, she would be allowed to show Solon the depths of her gratitude for him.

Leora arched a too-thin brow. “And you know what a man does to his new wife on their wedding night?”

“Yes.” At least she thought so.

She had squeezed her eyes tightly closed when the guards at the market had raped the other slaves. The screams, though… Haidee shuddered, momentarily lost in the pain and humiliation she had been helpless to stop, no matter how much she had struggled against her chains, no matter how much she had prayed and cried and hated.

Deep down, she knew bedding Solon wouldn't be
like that. He would be tender, patient. He was kind and sensitive, and he would ease any fears she harbored.

“Then I will not keep you a moment longer,” Leora said with a soft smile. “Your man awaits.”

The old woman turned, her bones creaking, and ushered dream Haidee inside a torch-lit hallway, toward the gynaeceum. The master's bedchamber. Alabaster columns stretched on each side of them, the arching doorway—their final destination—looming closer…closer still…

Real-life Haidee cried out, reaching for the innocent girl she'd been, trying to grab her, halt her. “No. Don't go in there.” She had never remembered what had led to this point of her memories, but she suddenly knew what waited beyond that entrance. “Stop! Please, stop!”

Neither female paid her any heed. Closer…

Haidee.
A male's hard, determined baritone filled her head. Equally hard bands wrapped around her forearms, white-hot and inexorable, shaking her.
Wake up.

Haidee fought the voice, just as she fought the dream. “No!” Her arms flailed, her legs kicked. If she could prevent herself from going inside that bedroom, she could save herself thousands of years of guilt and pain. “Don't go in there!
Please!
”

Closer…

As Leora slowed her steps, she glanced over her shoulder and offered Haidee another sweet smile. They had finally reached the door. Leora stepped aside. A trembling, unsuspecting Haidee reached out—

—was somehow floating, suspended—

—was tightening her fingers around the edges of the curtain—

—was being straightened out, placed on her feet—

Before she could enter the room, cold water hit her full-force, soaking her from head to toe and shocking her
into reality. Haidee sputtered, blowing droplets out of her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered open.

Out of habit, she immediately took stock of her surroundings. She stood inside a shower stall. Unfamiliar. Spacious, tiled, the faucet speckled with gold filigree. She glanced down at herself. She still wore the new T-shirt, jeans and underclothes Strider had given her before chaining her. Her feet were still bare. Dark arms ripped with muscle were wrapped around her waist, holding her upright.

She stiffened, began to struggle. Panic gave her weakened body strength, her heart pumping blood through her veins at an astonishing rate. Yet, no matter what she did, she couldn't budge those meaty arms.

Easy. Easy now. Are you okay?

Amun's voice, steady though concerned, uncompromising though tender. He was the one holding her, she realized. Instantly the fight abandoned her, and she sagged against him, resting her head in the hollow of his neck.

If he was standing, that meant he had recovered. She was so relieved she could have sobbed. She'd spent several days trapped beside his bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. His stupid friend had carted her in and out, in and out. Just when Amun would stop thrashing, about to awaken, Defeat would move her. When the bastard would finally take her back, Amun would be worse than before. Each and every time.

Now he was aware, lucid. For good. Now she was free.

Now they were touching.

Nightmare?
he asked.

“Yes,” she managed to croak past the sudden lump in her throat. “How did we get here?”
Later.

She thought she remembered vowing that she wouldn't
allow herself to touch him again. Wouldn't allow him to touch her. Both were dangerous. And maybe she had, maybe she hadn't. Nothing seemed real just then. But when one of his arms moved away from her, she had to cut off a whimper.

To her surprise, he didn't abandon her. He merely reached forward and twisted the faucet before straightening and holding her again. A few seconds later, the temperature of the water warmed considerably.

Tell me about the nightmare,
he said, gripping the hem of her T-shirt and lifting.

She could have protested. Instead, she raised her arms and allowed him to whisk the material over her head. This moment was so steeped in fantasy, so…necessary, she wanted only to follow it to its end. “I saw the vision you showed me the other day. The one on the veranda.”

I thought that was a good thing.
He unfastened her jeans and pushed them to her ankles, then picked her up and kicked the denim out of the tub, leaving her in her bra and panties.

“I saw what came after.” Another croak.

With one hand snaked around her waist, propping her up, he used his other hand to palm a bar of soap and began lathering her skin.
But you were so happy at the beginning.

So intimate a task, so shattering a topic. Yet, despite who and what he was, she had never felt more comfortable with another being. He didn't try to arouse her as he cleaned her, careful of her cuts and bruises; he merely performed a basic task.

“Yes,” she said.

Tell me,
he repeated. Once her skin was washed free of dirt and grime, he massaged shampoo into her hair. The scent of sandalwood bonded with the rising steam.

She opened her mouth to obey, but the words tangled
on her tongue. If she spoke them, she realized, she would fling herself back to the past, back to that dark, dark day that had forever changed the course of her life—and his. She would lose the tranquility of this moment.

Tranquility she desperately needed.

“No,” she finally said. “Not now. Later. Please.”

Our later is filling up.

“I know.”

She expected him to push for answers, but he merely ducked her head under the spray of water and rinsed the suds from her hair. Clearly he understood a woman's needs because he coated the thick strands with conditioner, gave the cream time to do its job, then gently rinsed her hair again.

There. All clean.

“Thank you.”

He didn't switch off the water or even move from where he stood behind her. He simply continued to hold her, strong fingers tracing circles just below her navel, his chin resting atop her head.

Still he didn't try to arouse her. Not once did he pluck at her pebbled nipples or brush his fingertips over her sex. Yet, with every second that passed, her skin became more sensitized, a primitive need unfurling inside her and overshadowing that thick cloak of fantasy.

Reality was better.

Still. She had to resist. For every reason she'd already noted and the thousand others she hadn't yet considered.

Took every ounce of strength she possessed, but she stopped herself from lifting her arms, curling them back and digging her fingers into his scalp. Stopped herself from angling her face up to his for a kiss. Bottom line, despite everything else, he didn't desire her. He couldn't. Not when she was practically bare, covered only by thin
strips of white cotton, and he'd had his hand all over her, yet had never tried to arouse her.

Suddenly that wasn't the comfort it had previously been.

Had he figured out exactly who she was? Was that why he no longer wanted her?

No, he couldn't know. Otherwise, he wouldn't be taking such good care of her. Most likely he'd just decided kissing a Hunter, any Hunter, was wrong.

“Amun, I have to—” she began, stopping when he stiffened. What had she said?

You know my name?

Her nerve endings flared with trepidation. “Yes,” she whispered.

So you know who and what I really am.
A statement of fact, not a question.
You know I'm not your Micah.

No reason to deny the truth. “Yes.” Another whisper.

And yet you of all people let me hold you like this?

Something about the absolute confusion in his tone alerted her. She replayed his words. “You of all people,” he'd said. Oh, God. She'd been wrong, she thought dizzily. He knew. He'd already known she was a Hunter, yes. She'd told him. Now, however, he knew the rest, the worst of the details. He knew about her part in Baden's death.

Why hadn't he killed her already?

The moisture in her mouth dried, and her knees began to tremble. “Defeat—Strider told you who I am. What I've done.” She was proud to note that no emotion filled her voice, only arctic steel.

No. I discovered the truth on my own. You were Hadiee then, but are now Haidee. Whoever you were, whatever you are, you were there when Baden was slain.

Confirmation. “And yet you of all people hold me like this?” As she snapped the question, understanding dawned. This was the calm before the storm. He'd merely shown her
the pleasure she could have had but now would be forever denied.

A bitter laugh escaped her. In a lifetime of regret and pain, he had no idea that denying her would simply be more of the same. That he wouldn't break her. Wouldn't ruin her. No matter what he did, she'd already experienced worse.

Amun spun her around before severing all contact. Their gazes locked, black fire glittering down at her. She gasped as another realization struck. He hadn't been unaffected by touching her. Far from it. Lines of tension branched from his eyes and mouth. His lips were pulled taut over the straight white pearls of his teeth. His breath emerged shallow and fast, his nostrils flaring.

Wait. Did he want her? Or was he simply pissed?

The swelling had gone down in his face, revealing a rough beauty that shocked her further. His skin was like the richest coffee mixed with the slightest dollop of cream. Those gorgeous black eyes were framed by a thick fan of silky lashes, lashes longer even than hers. He had an aquiline nose, regal and proud. His cheekbones were so sharp they could have cut glass. Lips that would have been considered cruel if not for their soft pink color glistening with moisture.

His chest was bare, scabbed in striking patterns of four. Claw marks, she thought with a shiver. His own? Hers? His nipples were small and brown, beaded. Rope after rope of muscle descended the torso of a man who had honed his strength on the battlefield rather than inside a gym.

He wore sweatpants that hung low on his waist, revealing the barest hint of dark, springy curls on his groin. And when she saw that the rounded head of his penis stretched past the material, semen pearling from the slit, she swallowed, her gaze jerking back up to his face.

He was the gentle one, Strider had said. Yet she'd never seen a man look quite so fierce.

How did you get me mixed up with him?

“You guys look a lot alike. Weirdly alike.”

Was he immortal?
Pause.
You know I'm immortal, right?

“Yes, I know, and no, he's not. Believe me, I would have known. He was injured time and time again, but he healed as slowly as any human.”

So our likeness is a mere quirk of fate? Doubtful. I was created by Zeus, fully formed, and I've often wondered if the former king had simply looked down from his perch in the heavens, picked out a face he liked and boom. But that creation happened thousands of years ago, so my face had to come first.