The Darkest Kiss. Gena Showalter

would not survive. Lucien should have taken her soul that very moment, but he had been unable to force himself to do it.

      For weeks, the sickness ravaged her body, destroying her piece by piece. The longer he’d waited, hoping she would heal, the more she’d suffered. Toward the end, she’d begged, sobbed and screamed for death. Heartsick, knowing they would never again be together, he’d finally broken down and done his duty.

      That was the night he’d obtained his scars.

      Lucien had carved himself to ribbons using a poisoned blade; every time the wounds had tried to heal, he’d prayed for scars and carved himself up again. And again. He’d even burned himself until the skin no longer rejuvenated. In his grief, he’d hoped to ensure that no female would ever again approach him, that he would never again have to suffer the loss of a loved one.

      He’d never regretted the action. Until now. He’d ruined any chance of being a man Anya could truly desire. A woman as physically perfect as she deserved a man equally so. He frowned. Why was he thinking like that? She had to die. Desire on either side would only complicate matters. Well, complicate them more.

      Once again, Anya’s image etched itself into his mind, consuming his thoughts. Her face was a sensual feast and her body a sexual high. As a man, he howled with rage at the thought of destroying that. As an immortal warrior, well, he howled, too.

      Perhaps he could convince Cronus to rescind his command. Perhaps… Lucien snorted. No. That would not work. Trying to bargain with Cronus was more foolish than ignoring him. The king of gods would only order him to do something worse.

      Damn this! Why did Cronus want her dead? What had she done?

      Had she spurned him for another?

      Lucien ignored the haze of jealousy and possessiveness that fell over his eyes. Ignored the mine ringing in his ears.

      “I am waiting,” Reyes said, breaking into his thoughts.

      He blinked, trying to clear his mind. “For?”

      “For you to tell me what happened out there.”

      “Nothing happened,” he lied smoothly, and hated himself for the need.

      Reyes shook his head. “Your lips are still bruised and swollen from kissing her. Your hair is in spikes around your head from where she plowed her fingers through. You stepped in front of her when we meant to take her, and then she disappeared altogether. Nothing happened? Try again.”

      Reyes had enough to worry about without having to carry Lucien’s burden, as well. “Tell the others I’ll meet them in Greece. I won’t be traveling with them as planned.”

      “What?” Reyes frowned. “Why?”

      “I’ve been commanded to take a soul,” was all he said.

      “Take a soul? Not just escort it to heaven or hell? I don’t understand.”

      He nodded. “You do not need to understand.”

      “You know I hate when you turn cryptic. Tell me who and why.”

      “Does it matter? A soul is a soul, and the outcome is the same no matter the reason. Death.” Lucien slapped Reyes’s shoulder and pushed to his feet. Before the warrior could utter another word, Lucien strode out of the club, not stopping until he reached the very place he’d kissed—and lost—Anya.

      In an unwieldy corner of his mind, he could almost hear her moaning. He could almost feel her nails digging into his back and her hips rocking into his erection. An erection that had not dissipated. Despite everything.

      Need still clawed through him, but he shoved it aside and closed his right eye. Surveying the area with his blue eye—his spiritual eye—he saw a rainbow of glowing, ethereal colors. Through those colors he could interpret every deed that had occurred here, every emotion ever felt by visitors. Sometimes he could even determine exactly who had done what.

      Having done this infinite times before, he easily sorted through the morass to find signs of the most recent activity. There, against the freshly erected and painted boards of the brand-new building, were sparkling stars of passion.

      The kiss.

      In this spiritual realm, Anya’s passion appeared a blazing pink. Real. Not faked, as a part of him had assumed. That pink trail glittered with a dazzle unlike anything he’d ever seen. Had she truly desired him, then? Had a creature so physically perfect found him worthy? That did not seem possible, and yet the proof was shining at him like a pathway to salvation in the middle of a storm.

      His stomach tightened, heat shooting through him. His mouth watered for another taste of her. His chest ached, a sharp and hungry throb. Oh, to hold those breasts in his hands again and feel the nipples stiffen against his palms. To sink his fingers into her wet sheath this time and pump in and out, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She would come, maybe even beg for more. He groaned.

      She has to die by your hand. Do not forget.

      As if he could, he thought, hands fisting. “Where did you go?” he muttered, following the sparks to where she’d stood when she’d pushed him. Blue winked at him. Sadness. She had been sad? Because he’d said she did not matter? The knowledge filled him with guilt.

      He studied the colors more closely. Interspersed with the blue was a bright, pulsing red. Fury. He must have hurt her feelings, and that in turn must have angered her. The guilt intensified. In his defense, he had assumed she’d been playing with him, that she hadn’t really wanted him. He hadn’t thought she would care whether he wanted her or not.

      That she had utterly amazed him.

      As he continued to sort through the colors, he found the faintest trace of white. Fear. Something had scared her. What? Had she sensed Cronus? Seen him? Known he was about to deliver her death sentence?

      Lucien didn’t like that she’d been scared.

      Every muscle tensed as he followed the muted trail of white. As he moved, he allowed his body to fuse with the demon of Death, becoming nothing more than a spirit, a midnight mist that could flash from one location to another in an instant.

      Anya’s essence led to his fortress, he was startled to find. His bedroom, more specifically. Clearly she hadn’t stayed long, but seemed to have paced from one side of the chamber to another, then had flashed away to—Maddox and Ashlyn’s bedroom. Lucien’s brow furrowed in confusion. Why here? The couple was asleep in bed, twined together, cheeks rosy and flushed from a recent sexual marathon, he was sure.

      Lucien tried to tamp down a sudden rush of envy before picking up Anya’s trail and flashing—Into an apartment he did not recognize. Moonlight seeped inside through cracks in the black window coverings. Still dark. Was he still in Budapest, then? The furnishings here were sparse: a brown, threadbare couch pushed against the wall, a wicker chair with slats that had come unraveled and would poke the sitter in the back. No TV, no computer or any of the other modern luxuries Lucien had grown accustomed to over the years.

      From the next room echoed the clatter of one dagger slapping against another. It was a sound he knew well. He allowed himself to float toward it, knowing whoever was inside would not be able to see him.

      He reached the doorway and gaped, waves of shock pummeling through him. Danika, the doomed woman Reyes lusted after, was thrusting two daggers repeatedly into a mansized dummy hanging from the wall. A dummy that, surprisingly, looked like a cross between Reyes and Aeron.

      “Kidnap me, will you?” she muttered. Sweat trickled down her temples and chest, soaking her gray tank to her body. The long length of her blond ponytail was plastered to her neck. To work up such a sweat in so cold an apartment, she must have been at the exercise for hours.

      Why had Anya come here? Danika was—or had been—in hiding. Temporarily letting her go had been the only way to give the mortal some semblance of a life before Aeron hunted her down on the wings of Wrath as the gods had ordered. And he would. It was only