Page 39 of Paris and the Reaper

Paris took advantage of the opportunity, leaning forward and licking a stripe up the column of his throat. “No, baby, this is you fucking me, and it’s far from hell.”

“So far,” Mac keened as Paris lifted up, then slammed back down on his dick.

Three more times, an admirable couple of seconds longer than Paris had estimated, before all of Mac arched, his back bowing off the bed as his warmth flooded inside Paris.

As the bond between them flooded with so much more.

Desire. Gratitude. Hope. Love.

The last one making Paris gasp, making him wobble off balance.

And in the next blink, he was on his back, the shifter previously beneath him flexing his speed, hovering over him with burning violet eyes. “Let me know if I do something wrong.” And then he was kissing a path down Paris’s torso, making a beeline for his dick. He didn’t take long getting there, didn’t approach with the same caution he had their first kiss. No, he swiped his tongue around the head once, then swallowed himuntil he gagged. A quick readjustment later, and he was sucking his cock like he was made for it. And then his fingers entered the picture, pushing into his dripping hole, and Paris was lost.

To the hot mouth greedily taking his cock, to the demanding fingers that found the sensitive spot inside him and worked it relentlessly, drawing pleas of “harder” and “faster” out of him, to the bond that sang between them, knitting their souls together tighter, spinning the threads of pink and red throughout Mac’s aura.

And as Paris’s orgasm barreled into him, as he squeezed shut his eyes and gave himself over to the explosion of pleasure, he was sure if he looked into a mirror, if he could see his own aura, it would be the color of the sunsets he loved to paint so much. Red and pink, his feelings for Mac, orange for the power and momentum he’d put in Paris’s hands, and yellow for the confidence and hope he would have never found without him.

TWENTY-ONE

Paris was cold.

Not as cold as he had been locked in that awful freezer, but down here in the violet dark, it wasn’t much better.

Violet.

He froze and reevaluated his surroundings. Not pitch-black, a purple hue coloring the edges. A dream—or memory—he had fallen into. Whose was it? And where was it?

He inhaled and smelled earth and brine, shifted his feet and felt water lap at his ankles, and when he stretched his arms out wide, his fingertips brushed walls of dirt and mud, tree roots and rock.

The tunnels beneath the Huimen Enclave. While he’d never been there before, he was sure that was where he was now, in the network of underground tunnels Mary had shown him.

Splashing echoed from somewhere in the tunnels, growing louder, coming closer. Paris flattened himself against one side of the tunnel and inched along the wall, careful not to splash, until he found the next junction and rounded the corner, plastering himself to a different cold dirt wall.

And waiting.

The splashing grew louder, accompanied by that horrible voice Paris would never forget. “You can’t save her, warlock!” bellowed the giant who’d tortured and tried to sacrifice him. Who couldn’t see him now, Paris reminded himself as the splashing footsteps stopped right outside the tunnel where he hid. He was here for a reason; he had to keep his eyes and ears open for clues.

He peered around the corner and spied two people in the main tunnel, the warlock’s green magic faint but bright enough to light his and the woman’s face. He recognized Quinn Paxton from the photo Mary had shown him—tan skin, dark hair, green eyes, compact body—but he was all skin and bones, his hair limp, his eyes dull, and his clothes too big for his emaciated frame.

Paris didn’t recognize the woman with him. She wasn’t much older than him, with tan skin and big brown eyes, and like the victim from the Portola parking lot, her face was bloodied and bruised. But unlike that woman, this stranger was pregnant, one arm in a makeshift sling, the other wrapped protectively over her round belly.

“Go,” Quinn said, with a nod toward the tunnel where Paris hid. “I’ll hold him off.”

“How?” she said. “You’re weak already. Vincent made sure of that.”

“I’m strong enough to give you a head start.”

“You’re mine,” the giant shouted, ever closer. “Both of you.”

“Please, Pati, go,” Quinn urged the woman.

Pati, Pati, Pati, Paris repeated to himself, committing her name to memory.

She clasped Quinn’s hand in hers. “I’ll name him Pax, after you.”

He laid his other hand on her belly, a mist of green shimmering around them. “It would be my honor. Now go!”With a final sideways hug, he directed her into the tunnel, and she splashed past Paris, into the dark.

Just in time as the giant sent a barrage of fireballs down the tunnel. They exploded against a shield of green, one after another until the giant was right in front of Quinn. The worst night of Paris’s life, his nightmares since, come to life again.

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