She stiffened. “Yes, I am.”
“No.”
“We’ve been through this already,” she snapped. If he tried talking her out of it again, he might succeed. She couldn’t let him; otherwise, he would get killed trying to save her. “We’ve controlled the risks—”
“We’ve controlled nothing.” He stopped in front of her, towering over her.
She didn’t know whether he was deliberately intimidating her, but either way, she didn’t like it.
She jabbed a finger into the middle of his chest. “So you’re saying you won’t be waiting for me in three hours?”
“Of course I will, but—”
“And if I don’t meet you, you won’t try to reach me when Miysis’s force and Samael’s soldiers start fighting, whenever that is?”
“You—”
“Or, if that fails, you won’t ever have a chance, between now and forever, to get me out? I won’t be going anywhere. Samael wants me alive, remember?”
He bared his teeth at her. “You know I won’t leave you there.”
“Good. Then there’s no reason not to go through with—”
He even stepped closer.
“There’s every reason,” he snarled, “for you not to surrender yourself to Samael.”
She opened her mouth but he spoke over her.
“We’ll find another way. There has to be a better way. I can return to Asphodel while he’s distracted by Miysis and force his healers to give up the antidote. Anything is better than you handing yourself over.”
She put a hand on his chest and pushed. Glaring at her, he didn’t budge. Then he allowed the pressure of her hand to move him, stepping back so she could move around him and into the middle of the room where he couldn’t corner her.
“How long would that take?” she asked quietly, her back to him as she stared across the room. Fear coiled in her belly like a squirming snake. “A day? What if you couldn’t find it? That’s a day I might not have.”
She exhaled slowly. “Samael needs me. He’ll give me the antidote right away. It’s the only guaranteed way I’ll get it in time. After that, I can wait as long as it takes for you to get me away from him. Samael doesn’t have the Sahar, so he won’t have any immediate use for me.”
Silence answered her. She turned around.
Ash watched her with eyes full of more than one kind of shadow. For the first time ever, traces of his past reflected in his face—countless nights of pain and terror repeated a thousand times over since he was a child.
“He’ll hurt you, Piper,” he whispered.
Her hands shook. She clenched them. “I know.”
If she could escape within three hours of getting the antidote, Ash would be waiting for her on the periphery of Samael’s army. The chances of that were miniscule, but if she did somehow manage to get away, she’d need Ash’s wings to get her out of Samael’s reach, fast. If she couldn’t escape—a far more likely scenario—she’d have another chance when Samael attacked the Consulate. In the midst of the fighting, Ash would try to grab her. It was risky, but Ash would try whether or not she gave him permission.
Most likely, both attempts would fail and Samael would take her to the Underworld. And then she would have days or weeks or months to wait until Ash found a way to get her out.
There was a chance he would never find a way. A good chance he would die trying. It wasn’t as though Samael didn’t know Ash’s strengths and weaknesses. The Hades Warlord would make certain that Piper couldn’t slip through his fingers a second time.
Yes, in all likelihood, she would never be rescued—and Samael would have a very long time to punish her for what she’d done on her last visit.
If she weren’t a coward, she would’ve let Ash try one of his other plans. He would probably fail and the poison would kill her, but that would be better than spending the rest of her life as Samael’s slave. But she was afraid to die. There was a chance, however miniscule, that Ash would save her from Samael. So she would take her chances and hope she didn’t end up regretting it.
She managed a weak smile for him. “I’ll be fine. It won’t be for that long.”
He looked at her with torment in his eyes, so still and silent. She was reminded of the way he’d stood on the rooftop of the Styx before he’d returned the Sahar he’d stolen from her—a decision he’d expected to seal his fate.
His expression hardened. “I’m going to tear Micah to pieces,” he said. “Slowly.”
“No,” she said. “I want to kill him. Slowly. Now get out of my room so I can finish changing.”
She planted her feet and gave him a commanding look.
He studied her, eyes still dangerously black, then melted into motion. He glided toward the door, movements sleek and fluid. Predatory. She remembered that gait, had watched him stalk her like that through an entire building.
An impulsive plan took form as he passed her. It was stupid, but seeing that haunted look in his eyes had scared her. She’d never seen it before and she hadn’t forgotten Vejovis’s warning that Eisheth’s collar could have done permanent harm to him. She needed to know he was strong enough for what was coming, because she seriously doubted she was strong enough.
She waited for him to pass her, then launched into motion. He heard the movement and started to turn—too late. She sprang onto his back. Grabbing his shoulder with one hand, she braced her feet on his wide belt. While he staggered from the sudden addition of her weight, she pulled a dagger from her boot and smoothly laid the flat side against his throat.
He went still.
“So,” she drawled, “in case you were thinking I wasn’t tough enough to handle Micah on my own.” She tapped his throat with the blade. “Have I convinced you?”
He was silent, maybe considering her words—maybe not. She had no idea.
“Am I convinced?” he asked.
She shuddered as his voice hummed through her. Her muscles threatened to turn to jelly from the sound.
“Not even close.”
Before she could recover from her reaction to his voice, he jerked forward so swiftly that she was flung over his head.
She managed to roll instead of face-planting, but no sooner had she leaped to her feet than he grabbed her by the back of the shirt. A seam ripped with a spectacular sound as he spun her around. She crashed into him, front to front. By luck more than skill, she managed to keep her dagger out of his grasp as he locked her other hand behind her.
She whipped the dagger up and put the blade against his throat for a second time. Sharp edge in. His hand closed around her wrist at the same instant the deadly edge touched his unprotected skin.
They froze like that.
Breathing hard, she craned her neck to look at him. Because he couldn’t look down with her dagger under his chin, she couldn’t check his eyes for shading. His grip on her other arm was tight but not painful.
“Convinced now?” she asked. She wasn’t sure herself whether she had the advantage. His hand on her wrist flexed. He could pull her hand away but there was a hypothetical chance she could cut his jugular if she bent her wrist just right. Not that she would.
“Hmm,” he pondered.
His arm pinning hers to her back tightened, inadvertently pushing her against him. Her heartbeat leaped and she fought to keep her head clear. Off limits. He was off limits. Damn it. How had her simple little plan to make sure he was up for a fight gotten so out of control?
His hand slid off her wrist and over her hand. She didn’t know what he did, but the next second he was holding the dagger instead of her. She stared stupidly at her empty hand. He tossed the dagger without looking. It hit the wall point first and stuck there. His hand captured hers and then both her arms were locked behind her back. She blinked at his neck, the part of him on level with her stunned stare.
He tightened his grip, making sure she was well and truly helpless. She met his stormy eyes, eyes that slid right through her, all iron will and steely determination.
Not even the tiniest hint of weakness in them. Looks like she’d been worried for nothing.
“Maybe you’re tough enough for Micah,” he said, his eyes darkening, “but are you strong enough for Samael?”
Fear zinged through her at the reminder. She swallowed hard. They stared at each other and she knew he was thinking the same thing as her: this could be it—the last time they saw each other. She might not survive the night. If she did, she might never see freedom again.
“Well,” she said, trying to keep her tone light; it trembled instead. She gave her arms an experimental tug but his grip was impossible to budge. “I may not be able to take Samael in a fight, but I am damn good at escaping.”
With that, she yanked both feet off the floor.
Her sudden weight pulled him off balance. They both went down. Her back thumped against the floor, cushioned by a pile of rejected clothes. Ash landed on top of her, half squashing her before he caught his weight on his elbows. Her arms were suddenly free. She grabbed his head, intending to push him off her—but that wasn’t what happened.
Was it her hands that disobeyed and pulled him closer instead? Or did he lean in?
For the briefest moment, his lips hovered over hers, almost touching. Their breaths mingled. Her heart tried to stop. Her fingers twitched.
His mouth closed over hers.
Heat swept through her. She arched into him. Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling his mouth harder into hers. He responded in kind, pushing her into the floor until all she could feel was him, his heat, his strength. His teeth nipped her lower lip, the gentle bite a dizzying contrast to the aggressive way he pinned her. She pulled on the back of his neck, demanding more. He fit his mouth over hers, his kiss fierce and ruthless. She slid her hands to his shoulders, fingers urgently digging into his flesh.
He sat up abruptly, pulling her with him without breaking the kiss. She found herself straddling him, hands still clutching his shoulders. One of his hands held the back of her head, keeping her lips tight to his, not giving her the option of pulling away—an option she didn’t want. She sucked in air as he tilted her head back, mouth unrelenting and insistent, tongue teasing hers.
His other hand, still tangled in the tear in her shirt, slid under the fabric and up her back. His arm tightened, crushing her against him. She wound her legs around his waist and sent her hands in search of the bottom hem of his shirt. If she didn’t touch him soon, if she didn’t feel the heat of his skin under her hands, she would scream.
She worked her hands down, tugging feebly at his shirt caught tight between them. Frustration flared.
“Ash,” she growled against his mouth. She gave his shirt a yank. “Now.”
He pulled his hand out of her shirt and found the bottom of his where it had somehow been eluding her. He pulled it up. She instantly slid her hands under it and pressed her palms flat against his abs. Muscle flexed beneath her touch. He sent his hand back under her shirt, slid it up her back, and grabbed a handful of her borrowed sports bra. Its seams threatened to tear. His other hand was fisted in her hair.
She worked her hands up his abdomen to his chest, the motion hiking up his shirt. Eyes closed, she traced the silky skin and hard muscle under her hands, lost in the heat burning inside her, in the sensations of him, of his hands on her, his mouth on hers, those sinfully talented lips and tongue, his body under hers, arms holding her, crushing her as if he couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t breathe without her.
His mouth moved to her throat. Teeth grazed her pulse. He worked his way down the side of her neck with slow, deliberately teasing touches of lips and tongue until she was panting. He guided her farther back, supporting her with one arm as his mouth slid to her collarbone and drifted lower. Her hands tightened in his hair.
He stilled. She had only a moment to feel his tension before he pulled his legs under him and stood, lifting her with him. She barely had her feet on the floor when he stepped back.
A second later, Lyre and Seiya walked through the wide-open doorway. Ash casually tugged his shirt down where it belonged.
“Piper, are you—” Lyre came to a sudden stop, his gaze moving sharply from Piper to Ash and back again. His eyes narrowed, shadows sliding across them.
“Are you ready?” he asked, sounding calm and unconcerned despite his darkening eyes.
“Not quite,” she said, aiming for casual as she turned back to her closet before they could see her blushing. Her heart hammered in her chest, knees weak, lungs begging for a deeper breath. “I have to finish changing.”
“Come on, Ash,” Seiya said coolly. “We have more planning to do yet.”
Piper turned back to them. “What planning?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” Seiya said, the coolness dropping toward ice.
Her brow furrowed. She looked at Ash. “What planning?”
“We need to develop our strategies,” he murmured, looking far more composed than Piper felt.
Ah. They didn’t want Samael to know about their plans for her rescue, which meant Piper couldn’t know either—not if she would be walking into the middle of the Hades army.
She swallowed hard. “Got it. Just don’t be late. Three hours.”
“Three hours,” he agreed.
She hoped she’d still be alive and capable of walking under her own power after three hours in Samael’s tender care. She turned back toward her closet and touched her lips with trembling fingers. Then again, Ash had given her one more extremely motivating reason to make it back.
CHAPTER 18
HER STOMACH twisted and her heart pounded. Dizziness made her want to collapse but she didn’t dare.
Not while in the middle of a daemon army.
The scouts had found her barely twenty minutes after Zwi had dropped her off in a dark clearing in the forest near Samael’s army. The Hades soldiers hadn’t spoken since ordering her to stand still while they took her weapons. They’d led her back through the forest—and now she was suddenly in the camp. She hadn’t seen it in the dark and had almost missed the signs. The soldiers moved with silent efficiency, invisible in the ebony night. She hadn’t been sure it was the camp until they had passed the first tent.
They headed straight for the largest tent. Black-clad guards with red eyes and gold bands around their arms stood on either side of the entrance, dim lanterns hanging above their heads. They made no move to stop her as she approached on shaking legs and pulled the tent flap aside. Her heart slammed painfully into her ribs as she stepped into the warm yellow light of the interior.
At least six more guards were stationed around the tent’s inner walls but Piper barely noticed them. Her attention was sucked straight to the man sitting behind the simple metal desk at the center of the space. Terror tightened around her chest like steel bands.
Samael reclined in his chair. As his gaze settled on her, she wondered how she could have forgotten the weight of his midnight red stare, the way it came down on her with tangible weight, like a restless ocean churning all around her, crushing her. At the same time, it cut through her, slicing like the sharpest blade, tearing away her skin to leave her soul naked to his merciless regard.
She trembled, trying hard not to show it. She focused desperately on the smaller details: the way his pale hair was braided over one shoulder and the dark, silver-trimmed military garb he wore. But the petrifying magnetism of his stare was undeniable and once again, she found herself trapped by his eyes, drowning in their force.
“Piper,” he murmured, his deep voice coiling around her like chains. “Welcome back.”
She licked her lips. He didn’t look surprised to see her. He must have known about her almost as soon as the scouts had found her. Rising gracefully from his seat, he circled to the front of the desk and leaned casually against it.
“I am very curious as to what has returned you to me, Piper,” he said softly. “What is it you desire from me?”
She bit her lip. He was too calm. Even though he said he
was curious, no sign of it touched his face or posture. He had to be angry. Not only had she almost killed him, she’d killed dozens of his guards, damaged multiple buildings, killed his chief torturer, stolen the Sahar right out from under him, saved Ash from certain death, freed Seiya, blown up the irreplaceable bridge into Asphodel, escaped with the two draconians, and then handed the Sahar over to the last person Samael would want to have it.
Come to think of it, Samael probably didn’t know about that last bit yet.
She slowly lifted one hand, aware of the guards watching her every move. She fumbled to remove her leather armguard, then turned her wrist upward and slid the sleeve of her shirt up until the Blood Kiss mark was clearly visible.
Samael glanced at the mark.
“Ah,” he said. “I see. Micah got carried away, did he?”
She nodded again and blindly put the armguard back on before her shaking hands could drop it.
“How long have you had the telltale?”
She swallowed twice to moisten her tongue. “Seven days.”
“Your face is flushed. Are you feverish?”
Her heart skipped a beat. She pressed her hand to her forehead, shocked to feel the heat radiating from her face. Her knees abruptly gave out. She sat hard on the mats lining the floor of the tent.
Samael didn’t move. He simply watched her. “You wish for me to save your life.”
“If you want to use the Sahar, you will,” she told him, her voice shaking. She touched her face again in disbelief of how hot it felt.
He made a thoughtful hum of sound. “I do not need you to use the Sahar, my dear. I see little reason to allow you to live.”
Cold seeped through her body, leaving her weak. Why didn’t he need her? He couldn’t possibly know the key to using the Sahar. He definitely hadn’t known before.
“And yet,” he continued, “recreating your unique bloodline or breaking an Overworld daemon’s will take time. Therefore, I will offer you one chance.”
She stared at him. He knew. He knew the secret to the Stone. How?
He reached over the desk and pulled open a drawer. He lifted something out and tossed it onto her lap.