The Darkest Secret. Gena Showalter

seemed to calm him rather than hurt him further. The thrashing became less violent, and he eventually relaxed against the mattress. Haidee moved to the other side and freed his other wrist. By the time his ankles were unchained, the slightest hint of a smile curled his lips.

      Her chest contracted at the sight of it, both an agony and a blessing. He was damaged, but he was alive. Would he be grateful for that, though? He might never be able to fight again.

      Didn’t matter. She had to save him.

      Biggest problem: she couldn’t carry him. He was too heavy. And he certainly couldn’t walk. She didn’t have a medical degree, but she’d bet a fortune that half the bones in his body were broken. Still. She couldn’t leave him behind, either.

      She studied him more intently, praying for a solution. Instead, what she found had her gasping in outrage. Those bastards! Of all the cruel things they’d done, this was the worst. They’d branded him. Etched a jagged-winged butterfly—the mark of their demons—into his calf. Just to taunt him.

      “I’ll make them pay, baby.” Her hands coiled into tight fists, ready to strike. “I swear it.”

      At the sound of her voice, he shifted, angling toward her. He even tried to reach out, the muscles in his forearm bunching with the strain. The action proved to be too much for him, and the arm hung uselessly. A second later, the thrashing started up again.

      Cooing, Haidee eased beside him and smoothed away the hair sticking to his brow, just as she knew he liked. The first moment of contact, she experienced a jolt of undiluted heat. The ice that was her constant companion, a part of who and what she was, cracked. Droplets melted, dripping. Instantly Micah calmed, his sweat drying as if he’d absorbed her deepest chill.

      Nothing like that had ever happened before, and the sensation disconcerted her. A side effect of what had been done to him, perhaps?

      Bastards, she thought again, her molars gnashing together. In this life or the next—and she was always given a “next”—she would punish them.

      Spiderwebs suddenly wove in front of her eyes, gossamer threads laced with a shot of fatigue. Determined, she swept them away. She couldn’t deteriorate. Not now. Micah needed her.

       Haidee?

      His voice startled her, but she quickly recovered. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

      A soft sigh echoed, a whisper of contentment. The breathy sound stroked her—even though his mouth had never moved and his lips had never parted. Impossible.

      Right?

      “Micah? How are you talking to me?” Sweet, sweet, Haidee.

      Again, his mouth hadn’t moved, but again, she’d heard him. And she knew she wasn’t imagining his voice. She couldn’t be. She’d heard him before ever entering the room.

      That could only mean … Her eyes widened in astonishment. He was speaking inside her mind. Had been speaking inside her mind the entire time. That was new for them, too, and far more disconcerting than the heat.

      How was he doing it? How could the Lords have caused this?

      Reason it out later. “I’m going to look for weapons, okay? Something, anything.” Could she even stand? Her muscles were vibrating, her veins filling with sludge. “And then I’m going to find a way—”

      No! Don’t leave. There was a panicked pause. Need you. Please.

      “I won’t leave the room, I swear, not without you, but I have to—”

      No! No, no, no! Babbling now, his body tensing. You have to stay.

      “Okay, baby, okay. I’m here. I’ll stay.” Soft, gentle, the promise left her before she could consider the consequences. Not that they would matter. She would rather hand herself over to Defeat, gift wrapped on a silver platter, than cause this man any more grief. “I won’t budge from this spot. Promise.”

      Need you, he said again, barely audible this time.

      “You’ve got me. You’ve always got me.” She stretched out, mindful of his injuries, and curled herself around his fragile frame, offering what comfort she could. She knew what it was like to suffer alone. She didn’t want that for him. Ever.

      Perhaps this was even a blessing in disguise. Micah probably wouldn’t survive his wounds if he left the bed anytime soon. And this way, when the demons returned—and they would return, they wouldn’t leave her for long—she would be here to fight them, to keep them from hurting him even more.

      Yeah, they’d strike back and probably kill her. And yeah, she gagged, thinking of what would happen to her after that death, a fate so much worse than being stabbed, shot, or even burned alive. All of which she’d endured before.

      She’d told herself she wouldn’t consider what happened after she died, but she didn’t stop herself this time. Not even when fear swept through her, consuming her, chilling her.

      If she managed to kill any of the Lords, they would be eternally lost, but she would be reformed, returned to the age she was now, minus any good memories she’d built of this lifetime, consumed only with the bad, with the hate. It was an agonizing process that made her scream and beg and pray for an eternal death of her own.

      A process that had taught her to avoid death at all costs. But this time … she would die willingly, eagerly, taking as many Lords as she could with her. And then, then she could return for the rest of them.

      Then she could avenge Micah.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      AMUN BLINKED OPEN HIS EYES. Or tried to. The action proved difficult, since his lashes felt as if they’d been glued together. And maybe they had been. If one of his friends had punked him, he was going to retaliate. With scissors. He kept tugging and finally managed to separate top from bottom. Immediately his eyeballs burned and watered, everything around him seemingly smeared with Vaseline.

      Worse, the light seeping in from the only window still managed to lance his retinas like blade-tipped lasers. He turned his head away from the reflective glass and studied his surroundings as best he could.

      He frowned—and damn, that hurt, tugging and splitting multiple cuts on his lips. He was in his own bedroom, but … there was a hole in the wall. A hole that led into the chamber next door. A hole he hadn’t made, and to his knowledge, his friends hadn’t, either. He liked to think they would have asked his permission before redesigning his room like that.

      How was he here, anyway?

      Last thing he remembered, he’d been deep inside hell, fire crackling all around him as he fought evil spirits and basically got the shit kicked out of both his body and his mind. Demon thoughts and human memories had bombarded him, like bombs going off inside his head, and they—

      Were still there, he realized, frown deepening. The dark thoughts and memories were still there, but though they were churning, agitated, they remained at a distance, as if afraid to gain his attention. Why?

      A feminine moan stroked his ears, shocking him into concentrating.

      Amun stiffened, his attention shifting again, this time landing on his mattress. Or what should have been mattress. Beside him was a woman. A very beautiful woman who was curled on her side, facing him, her warm breath caressing him. One of her arms was bent over his stomach, as if she couldn’t bear to let him go, with her hand resting over his heart. Monitoring the beat?

      That arm was tattooed from wrist to shoulder, completely sleeving her. He saw faces—human—each one glowing with life and love. Numbers, too. And dates, maybe? Though, if so, some of those dates were from way back. There were also names: Micah, Viola, Skye. And phrases: Darkness always loses to light and You have loved and been loved.

      He knew her. Somehow