The Darkest Craving. Gena Showalter

here?”

      “Seven days.”

      “Seven days,” he gasped out.

      “Yes. We spent most of our time playing incompetent doctor and ungrateful patient.”

      A dark scowl contorted his features, and oh, it was a scary thing to behold. The books hadn’t done him justice. “Seven days,” he repeated.

      “I didn’t miscount, I assure you. I’ve been crossing off the seconds in the calendar in my heart.”

      He gave her the stink eye. “You have a smart mouth, don’t you?”

      She brightened. “You think so? Really?” It was the first compliment she’d received from someone other than herself since her mother had died, and she would cherish it. “Thank you. Would you say my mouth is extremely intelligent or just slightly above average?”

      His jaw fell, as if he meant to reply, but no sound emerged from him. His eyelids were closing … opening … closing again, and his big body was swaying from side to side. He was about to go down, and if he hit the floor, she would never be able to lift him onto the bed.

      Josephina surged forward, reaching for him with gloved hands. Though he teetered backward, he slapped her arms away, wanting no contact between them. Smart man. (As smart as he thought she was?) Down he fell, slamming into the carpet with a loud thud.

      As she scrambled to her feet to rush to his side—and do what, she didn’t know—the motel door burst open, shards of wood raining in every direction. A tall, thickly muscled warrior with dark hair stood in the center of the gaping hole, his features bathed in shadows. Menace lanced from him. Maybe because he gripped two daggers—and they were already stained with blood.

      Another warrior moved in behind him, this one blond, with … oh, someone save me. Guts hung from his hair.

      Her father’s men had found her.

       CHAPTER TWO

      KANE BATTLED A tide of pain, humiliation and failure. He’d been created fully formed, a warrior to the depths of his core. Throughout the centuries, he had fought in countless wars. He had slain enemy after enemy, and had walked away with many a blood-drenched injury—but he’d walked with a smile. He’d fought, and he’d won, and others had suffered for coming after him. And yet, here he was, on the floor of a dirty motel, too weak to move, at the mercy of a beautiful, fragile female who’d seen him at his worst: chained, violated and carved open after yet another round of torture.

      He wanted those images cut from her mind, even if he had to reach inside and remove them with a blade.

      Then, he would cut them out of his own. The Hunters, blaming him for every disaster they’d ever faced. Their bomb. A trip into hell. A horde of demon minions attacking, killing the Hunters and secreting Kane away. Day after day of torment.

      Shackles. The drip, drip of blood. Satisfied grins, bloodstained teeth. Hands, everywhere. Mouths, seeking. Tongues, licking.

      A soundtrack played quietly in the background. Moans of pain—his. Moans of pleasure—none his own. The slap of flesh against flesh. The scrape of nails, digging deep. A bark of laughter.

      Terrible scents filled his nose. Sulfur. Arousal. Dirt. Old copper. Sweat. The pungent sting of fear.

      One brutal emotion after another bombarded him. Disgust, rage, feelings of utter violation. Sorrow, humiliation, sadness. Helplessness. Panic. More disgust.

      He moaned, a tragic sound. Desperate to avoid a breakdown, he erected a brick wall around his screaming mind, blocking the worst of the emotions. Can’t deal right now. Just … can’t. He was free at least. He couldn’t forget that. Rescue had come.

      No, not a rescue. Not at first. Warriors had stolen him from the minions, only to tie him down for their own special brand of torture.

      Then, the girl had arrived, demanding he help her with the vilest of tasks.

      “What have you done to him?” a male voice roared. “Why were there Fae soldiers ready to sneak into this room?”

      “Wait. You’re not with the Fae?” she demanded.

      “Who are you, female?”

      Kane recognized the speaker. Sabin, his leader, and the keeper of the demon of Doubt. Sabin was a male who wouldn’t hesitate to snap a woman’s neck if he thought that woman had hurt one of his soldiers.

      “Me?” the girl said. “I’m no one, and I’ve done nothing. Really.”

      “Lies will only make it worse for you.”

      Another speaker Kane recognized. Strider, the keeper of the demon of Defeat. Like Sabin, Strider wouldn’t hesitate to harm a woman in defense of a friend.

      Kane should have been comforted by their appearance. They were brothers of his heart, the family he needed, and they would protect him, whisk him to safety, and do everything within their power to ensure he healed. But he was scabbed, bruised and emotionally naked, and they were now witnesses to his shame, too.

      “Oh, sweet heat. Why didn’t you step into the light sooner? I know who you are,” the girl gasped out. “You’re … you’re … you.”

      “Yes, and I’m also your doom,” Sabin snapped.

      The warrior assumed the black-haired girl was responsible for Kane’s condition. A mistake. He tried to sit up, but the muscles in his stomach were useless, not yet completely woven back together.

      “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” said the girl, “but that’s got to be the lamest thing anyone’s ever said to me, and Kane here has said some doozies. You’re a magnificent warrior known throughout all the lands for your strength and cunning. I know you can issue a better threat than that.”

      More than once, the silly things that had come out of that candy-apple mouth had made him want to smile, despite the pain relentlessly battering him. Now was one of those times. He didn’t understand it.

      “There’s a right way to take that?” Sabin snapped. “Guard the door,” he said to Strider. “I’m going to tear her from limb to limb.”

      “No can do, boss. I’m calling dibs.”

      “Does that mean we’re battling to the death?” she asked casually.

      “Yes,” both men replied in unison.

      “Oh, well. Okay, then. Let’s get started, shall we?”

      Kane stiffened.

      “Is she serious?” Sabin.

      “No way.” Strider.

      “I am,” she said. “I really am.”

      Big talk for such a tiny girl.

      A girl who confused Kane in every way.

      She had tended him gently, tenderly, and yet he had hurt from more than just his injuries. And not a good hurt, either, to let him know he was alive, but a sharp throb that rode the waves in his veins, reaching him at a cellular level, like a disease, a cancer, eating at him, demanding he get away from her as quickly as possible. And yet, inside, deeper still, where primal instinct jerked at a flimsy leash, a desire to grab her, to hold on and never let go, consumed him.

      She was beautiful, funny and sweet, and he heard one word every time he looked at her. Mine.

      Mine. Mine. MINE.

      It was a constant stream of noise, undeniable—unstoppable. It was also wrong. His “mine” would never cause him pain. And he didn’t want a “mine.” Any time he’d tried to make a go of a relationship, the evil inside him swiftly destroyed it—and the female. Now, after everything that had happened to him …

      A rise of the disgust,