The Darkest Kiss. Gena Showalter

mean she had to endure an interrogation. “All of you can just shut it. I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

      “I didn’t invite you, and Reyes told me no one here claims you as a friend,” Paris said. “Why did you attempt to seduce Lucien?”

      Because no one would freely consort with the scarred warrior, his tone proclaimed. That irritated her, even though she knew he hadn’t meant it to be rude or hurtful, was probably just stating what all of them considered fact.

      “What’s up with the third degree?” One by one, she glared at them. Everyone but Lucien. Him, she avoided. She might crumble if his features were still cold and emotionless. “I saw him, he appealed to me, so I went after him. Big deal. End of story.”

      Each of the Lords crossed their arms over their chests, a yeah-right action. They’d formed a semicircle around her, she realized then, though she’d never seen them move. She barely managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

      “You don’t really want him,” Reyes said. “We all know that. So tell us what you do want before we force you to tell us.”

      Force her? Please. She, too, crossed her arms. A short while ago, they’d cheered for Lucien to kiss her. Hadn’t they? Maybe she had cheered for herself. But now they wanted a play-by-play of her thought process? Now they acted as if Lucien could not tempt a blind woman? “I wanted his cock inside me. You get it now, asshole?”

      There was a shocked pause.

      Lucien stepped in front of her, blocking her from the men. Was he…protecting her? How utterly sweet. Unnecessary, but sweet. Some of her anger evaporated. She wanted to hug him.

      “Leave her alone,” Lucien said. “She doesn’t matter. She’s unimportant.”

      Anya’s happy buzz evaporated, too. Doesn’t matter? Unimportant? He’d just held her breast in his hand and rubbed his erection between her legs. How dare he say something like that?

      A red haze winked over her vision. This must be how my mother always felt. Nearly all the men Dysnomia had taken to bed had hurled insults at the woman when their pleasure had been sated. Easy, they’d said. Not good for anything else.

      Anya knew her mother well, knew Dysnomia had been slave to her lawless nature, as well as simply looking for love. Mated gods, single gods, it hadn’t mattered. If they had desired her, she had given herself to them. Probably because for those few hours in her lovers’ arms, she had been accepted, cherished, her darker urges sated.

      Which made the betrayal afterward all the more painful, Anya thought, eyeing Lucien. Of all the things she’d expected and yearned for him to say, unimportant hadn’t been close. She’s mine, maybe. I need her, perhaps. Don’t touch my property, definitely.

      She hadn’t wanted the same life as her mother, much as she loved her, and had vowed long ago never to let herself be used. But look at me now. I begged and pleaded for Lucien’s kiss, and he never saw me as anything more than unimportant.

      Growling, channeling all of her considerable strength, fury and hurt, she shoved him. He propelled forward like a bullet from a gun and slammed into Paris. Both men hmphed before ricocheting apart.

      When Lucien righted himself, he whipped around to face her. “There will be none of that.”

      “Actually, there’s going to be a lot more of that.” She stalked toward him, fist raised. Soon he would be swallowing his perfect white teeth.

      “Anya,” he said, her name a husky entreaty. “Stop.”

      She froze, shock thickening every drop of blood in her veins. “You know who I am.” A statement, not a question. “How?” They’d spoken once, weeks ago, but he’d never seen her before today. She’d made sure of it.

      “You have been following me. I recognized your scent.”

      Strawberries and cream, he’d said earlier, accusation in his voice. Her eyes widened. Pleasure and mortification blended, spearing her all the way to the bone. All along, he’d known she was watching him.

      “Why did I get the third degree if you knew who I was? And why, if you knew I was following you, didn’t you ask me to show myself?” The questions lashed from her with stinging force.

      “One,” he said, “I did not realize who you were until after the discussion about Hunters had taken place. Two, I did not wish to scare you away until I learned your purpose.” He paused, waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he added, “What is your purpose?”

      “I—you—” Damn it! What should she tell him? “You owe me a favor! I saved your friend, freed you from his curse.” There. Rational and true and hopefully would move the conversation away from her motives.

      “Ah.” He nodded, his shoulders stiffening. “Everything makes sense now. You’ve come for payment.”

      “Well, no.” Much as it would have saved her pride, she suddenly realized she didn’t want him thinking she gave her kisses away so easily. “Not yet.”

      His brow furrowed. “But you just said—”

      “I know what I said.”

      “Why have you come, then? Why stalk my every waking moment?”

      She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, her frustration renewed. There was no time to reply, however, as Reyes, Paris and Gideon closed in on her. All three were scowling. Did they think to grab her and keep her still?

      Rather than answer Lucien, she snapped at the men, “What? I don’t recall inviting you into the conversation.”

      “You are Anya?” Reyes eyed her up and down, his revulsion clear.

      Revulsion? He should be grateful! Hadn’t she liberated him from the curse that had forced him to stab his BFF every night? Yes, damn it. She had. But his look was one she knew well, and one that never failed to raise her hackles. Because of her mother’s amorous past and the widespread expectation that she, with her free-spirited ways, would follow suit, every Greek god in Olympus had projected that same sort of revulsion at her at one time or another.

      At first, Anya had been hurt by their smug disdain. And for several hundred years, she’d tried the good-girl thing: dressing like a freaking nun, speaking only when spoken to, keeping her gaze downcast. Somehow she’d even squelched her desperate need for disaster. All to earn the respect of beings who would never see her as anything more than a whore.

      One fateful day, when she’d come home from stupid goddess training, crying because she’d smiled at Ares and that bitch Artemis had called her ta ma de, Dysnomia had pulled her aside. Whatever you do, however you act, they are going to judge you harshly, the goddess had said. But we all must be true to our own nature. Acting as anyone other than yourself merely brings you pain and makes you appear ashamed of who and what you are. Others will feed off that shame, and soon it will be all that you are. You are a wonderful being, Anya. Be proud of who you are. I am.

      From then on, Anya had dressed as sexily as she pleased, talked whenever and however she wanted and refused to look at her feet for any reason other than admiring her strappy stilettos. No longer had she denied her need for disorder. An offhand way of saying “fuck you” to the ones who rejected her, yes, but more importantly, she liked who she was.

      She would never be ashamed again.

      “It is…interesting to see you in the flesh after all the research I’ve done on you lately. You are the daughter of Dysnomia,” Reyes continued. “You are the minor goddess of Anarchy.”

      “There’s nothing minor about me.” Minor meant unimportant, and she was just as important as the other, “higher” beings, damn it. But because no one knew who her father was—well, she did, now—she had been relegated as such. “But yeah. I am