The Darkest Touch. Gena Showalter
around this one woman.
And this wasn’t the first time it had happened. Anytime she’d spoken, no matter the words she’d uttered, the huskiness of her tone had always carried a promise of absolute pleasure. As if there were nothing she wanted more than to kiss, lick and suck on him.
Masculine instincts he’d spent countless years denying shouted, Come, little moth. Come closer to my flame.
Or I’ll come to you....
He strode to the bars and, like a thousand times before, willed the shadows between their cells to part. But it did no good. Her appearance remained a mystery.
Somehow his sick obsession with her only intensified...and he thought that, for just five minutes of that kissing, licking and sucking, he would have happily risked a worldwide plague.
Hate myself. Someone should string him up by the collarbone and cane him. Again.
“Mari!” his obsession said. “Please.”
Disease whipped into a frenzy, banging against Torin’s skull, suddenly desperate to escape.
Escape her? Another unusual reaction. Usually the demon adored such close proximity with a potential victim.
How the fiend had laughed at Mari....
Hate him, too.
“Mari can’t talk right now,” Torin said. Or ever.
The admission...like pouring salt over my wounds.
Bars rattled. “What did you do to her?”
Nothing...everything.
“Tell me!” the female shouted.
“I shook her hand.” The words exploded from him, bitter and cutting. “That’s it.” But he’d done far more than that, hadn’t he.
He’d put a lot of time and effort into charming her. Feeding her. Talking and laughing with her. Eventually she’d felt comfortable enough to remove one of his gloves and intertwine their fingers. On purpose.
Nothing bad will happen, she had said. Or maybe her gaze had said it. The details were hazed by the fog of his eagerness. You’ll see.
He’d believed her. Because he’d wanted to believe her more than he’d wanted to take his next breath. He’d held on to her so tightly, a thirsty man who’d just discovered the last glass of water in a world burning to ash, nearly brought to his knees by the force of his physical response. Sensation after sensation had overwhelmed him. Feminine softness so near his masculine hardness. A floral scent in his nose. The ends of her silky hair tickling his wrist. Her warmth blending with his own. Her breath intersecting with his.
I experienced an instant connection, immediate bliss, and very nearly creamed my damn jeans. From a handshake.
She’d died from it.
With him, it never mattered if the touch was accidental or intentional, or if the victim was human or animal, young or old, male or female...good or evil; any living creature sickened soon after contact with him. Even immortals like himself. Difference was, immortals sometimes survived, becoming carriers of whatever illness they’d contracted from him, capable of spreading it to others. As a human, Mari had never even stood a chance.
“Tell me the truth,” his obsession demanded. “Every detail.”
He didn’t know her name or if she was human or immortal. He only knew Mari had made a deal with the devil to save her.
The two women had been imprisoned here for centuries—wherever “here” was—for no real crime Torin could perceive. Cronus, the prison’s owner, had never really needed a reason to ruin someone’s life.
He’d certainly helped ruin Torin’s.
He had owed Torin a favor, and Torin, being Torin, had chosen to overlook the male’s shady reputation and ask for a woman who wouldn’t sicken at his touch. Cronus, being Cronus, hadn’t bothered to search for a suitable candidate and had simply recruited one of his prisoners—sweet, innocent Mari.
“Cronus made a deal with the girl,” Torin said.
“I know that.” His obsession huffed and puffed, a veritable big, bad wolf. “Mari was cursed to flash to your bedroom one hour a day for nearly a month, all in the hopes of convincing you to touch her.”
“Yes,” he croaked. And in return, Cronus had promised to set her dearest friend free—the woman currently grilling Torin for answers.
No big surprise Cronus had lied.
At least he got his in the end.
Torin had wanted to haul ass to a hospital the moment he’d realized Mari was sick, but that stupid curse had bound her to this prison with invisible chains. She’d had to return. Left with no other option, Torin had held on to her as she’d moved from one location to another in a blink, traveling with her. He’d tended her to the best of his ability.
But his best hadn’t been good enough. Would never be good enough.
“I don’t care about the whys,” the female said. “Only the outcome. What is Mari doing right now?”
Decomposing.
Can’t say it, just...can’t. Silent, he removed his gloves and used his hands as a shovel, throwing scoop after scoop of dirt over his shoulder. Not the first makeshift grave I’ve dug, but I hereby vow it will be my last. No more impromptu friendships. No more hopes and dreams for what could never be. I’m done.
“Ignoring me?” she asked. “Do you have any idea the being you provoke?”
Torin never paused in his task. He would bury Mari. He would find a way out of this hellhole. He would continue the job he’d abandoned when he’d chosen to come with the girl. The search and rescue of Cameo and Viola, who’d gone missing several weeks ago—friends who comprehended his need for distance.
“I am Keeleycael, the Red Queen, and I will be more than happy to take a coat hanger and fish out all of your internal organs...through your mouth.”
Disease went still and quiet.
That, too, was a first.
The Red Queen. The title was somehow familiar to Torin. From a children’s storybook, yes, but there was more to it than that. He’d heard it...where? An image flashed through his mind. A dilapidated bar in the skies. Yes, of course. While working for Zeus, the king of the Greeks, he’d tracked many fugitive immortals there. The words the Red Queen had been whispered behind the trembling hands of fearful men and women, right along with insane and cruel.
He’d always enjoyed pitting his skills against the strongest and vilest of predators, and such a visceral reaction to the supposed Red Queen had intrigued him. But when he’d asked the whisperers who she was and what she could do, they had gone quiet.
Maybe this prisoner was the one they’d spoken of, maybe she wasn’t. Hardly mattered anymore. He wouldn’t be fighting her.
“Keeleycael,” he said. “That’s quite a mouthful. How about I call you Keeley instead?”
“An honor reserved solely for my friends. Do so at your own peril.”
“Thanks. I will.”
A soft snarl from her. “You may call me Your Majesty. I’ll call you My Next Victim.”
“I usually prefer Torin, Hotness or The Awesome.” Nicknames to help smile through the pain. Should probably have gone with Proctalgia Fugax—meaning a literal pain in the ass.
“Why has Mari gone silent, Torin?” Keeley asked as if they were discussing nothing more important than tomorrow’s dinner menu. (Rat casserole.)
She