The Darkest Prison (lords of the underworld)

  The Darkest Prison

  ( Lords of the Underworld )

  Gena Showalter

  Once, Atlas, the Titan god of Strength, was the Greek goddess Nike's slave. Now, he is her master. And soon these sworn enemies destined to destroy one another will be forced to risk everything for a chance at love…

  Chronologically, book 3,5 in the series

  THE DARKEST PRISON

  Lords of the Underworld Series, Book 3,5

  Gena Showalter

  Prologue

  Reyes, once an immortal warrior for the gods, now possessed by the demon of Pain and living in Budapest, entered his bedroom. He was drenched in sweat and panting from the force of his workout. Because he could not experience pleasure without physical suffering, the burn in his muscles had excited him.

  As always, his gaze sought out his woman and he palmed the blade they preferred to use during their loveplay. She was sitting at the edge of their big bed, lovely features drawn tight as she studied the canvas in front of her. A canvas she’d propped on an easel and lowered so that she had a direct view. Blond hair fell to her shoulders in wild disarray, as if she’d tangled her fingers through the thick mass multiple times, and she was chewing on her bottom lip.

  Sex could wait. She was troubled, and he would be unable to think of anything else until he’d solved this dilemma for her. So he sheathed the blade.

  “Something wrong, angel?”

  Her eyes lifted and landed on him, worry in their emerald depths. She offered him a small smile. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, why don’t I help you figure it out?” Anything that bothered her, he would dispatch. No hesitation. For her happiness, he would do anything, kill anyone.

  “I would like that, thank you.”

  “Shall I shower before I join you?”

  “No. I like you just how you are.”

  Darling woman. But he didn’t like the thought of dirtying her pretty clothes. He quickly grabbed a towel from the bathroom and rubbed himself dry. Only then did he settle behind his woman, his legs encasing hers, his arms wrapping around her waist. Breathing deeply of her wild storm scent, he rested his chin in the hollow of her neck and followed the direction of her gaze.

  What he saw surprised him.

  It shouldn’t have. Her paintings were always vivid. As the All-Seeing Eye, an oracle of the gods and one of their most cherished aides, she could peer into heaven and hell. And did, every night, though she had no control over what she witnessed. Past, present, future, it didn’t matter. Every morning, she painted what she’d seen.

  This one was of a man. A warrior, clearly. With that muscle mass, he had to be. A gold collar circled his neck, cinching tight. He was on his knees, legs spread. His arms rested on his thighs, palms raised. His dark head was thrown back, and he was roaring up at a domed ceiling. In pain, perhaps. Maybe even fury. There was blood smeared all over his chest, seeping from multiple wounds. Wounds that looked as if his skin had been carved away.

  “Who is he?” Reyes asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”

  Then they would reason this out as best they were able. “Was he from heaven or hell?”

  “Heaven. Definitely. I think he’s in Cronus’s throne room.”

  A god, then? A few months ago, Titans had overthrown the Greeks and seized control of the divine throne. So, if this man was in Cronus’s throne room, chained up, hurt, and Cronus was leader of the Titans, that must mean the warrior was a Greek. A slave who had been punished, perhaps?

  “You saw only this image?” Reyes asked. “Not what got him to this point?”

  “Correct,” Danika said with a nod. “I heard him scream, though. It was…” She shuddered, and his arms squeezed her in comfort. “I felt so sorry for him. Never have I heard so much rage and helplessness.”

  “We can summon Cronus.” Cronus wasn’t too fond of Reyes and his fellow Lords of the Underworld-the very men who had opened Pandora’s box, unleashing the evil from inside. The men who had then been cursed to carry that evil inside themselves. But the god king hated their enemy, the Hunters, more, because Danika had seen Galen, the leader of the Hunters, chop off Cronus’s head in a vision. Now the god king was determined to kill Galen before Galen could kill him. Even if that meant soliciting the aid of the Lords. “We can ask him if he knows this man.”

  A moment passed while Danika pondered his suggestion. Finally, she sighed, nodded. “Yes. I’d like that.” Then she surprised him by turning to him and offering the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. Well, all of her smiles were that way. “But it’s too early in the morning to summon anyone, and besides, I think you had other things on your mind when you entered the room. Why don’t you tell me about them?” she suggested huskily.

  He was rock hard in seconds-that’s what she did to him. “That would be my pleasure, angel.”

  She pushed him to his back, smile widening. “And mine.”

  Chapter 1

  “Be still, Nike. You’re only making this worse for yourself.” Atlas, Titan god of Strength, stared down at the bane of his existence. Nike, Greek goddess of Strength. His godly counterpart. His enemy. And an all-around grade-A bitch.

  Two of his best men held her arms and two held her legs. They should have been able to pin her without incident. She was collared, after all, and that collar prevented her from using any of her immortal powers. Even her legendary strength-strength that was not on par with his, thank you. But never had a female been more stubborn-or more determined to fell him. She continually struggled against their hold, punching, kicking and biting like a cornered animal.

  “I will kill you for this,” she growled at him.

  “Why? I’m not doing anything to you that you didn’t once have done to me.” Motions clipped, Atlas tore his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, revealing his chest, the ropes of his stomach. There, in the center, in big black letters spanning from one tiny brown nipple to the other, was her name, spelled out for all the world to see. N.I.K.E.

  She’d branded him, reduced him to her property.

  Had he deserved it? Maybe. Once, he’d been a prisoner in this bleak realm. In Tartarus, a divine dungeon. He’d been a god overthrown and locked away, forgotten, no better than rubbish. He’d wanted out, and he had been willing to do anything to see it done. Anything. So he had seduced Nike, one of his guards, using her feelings for him against her.

  Though she would deny it now, she truly had fallen a little in love with him. The proof: she’d arranged his escape, a crime punishable by death. Yet she’d been willing to risk it. For him. Only, just before she could remove his collar, allowing him to flash himself away-moving from one place to another with only a thought-she discovered that he had also seduced several other female guards. Why rely on one to get the job done when four could serve him better?

  He’d counted on the fact that none of the Greek females would want their affair with an enslaved Titan known. He’d counted on their silence.

  What he should have done was count on their jealousy.

  Nike had realized she’d been used, that his emotions had never really been engaged. Rather than throw him back into his cell and pretend he did not exist, rather than have him beaten, she’d had him held down and marked permanently.

  For years he’d dreamed of returning the favor. Sometimes he thought the desire was the only thing that kept him sane as he wiled away century after century in this hellhole. Alone, darkness his only companion.

  Imagine his delight when the prison walls began to crack. When the defenses began to crumble. When their collars fell away. It had taken a while, but he and his br
ethren had finally managed to work their way free. They’d attacked the Greeks, brutally and without mercy.

  In a matter of days, they had won.

  The Greeks were defeated and now locked exactly where they’d locked the Titans. Atlas had volunteered to oversee the realm and had thankfully been placed in charge. Finally, his day of vengeance had arrived. Nike would forever bear his mark.

  “You should be grateful you’re alive,” he told her.

  “Fuck you.”

  He smiled slowly, evilly. “You’ve done that, remember?”

  Her struggles increased. Increased so viciously she was soon panting and sweating right alongside his men.

  “Flip her over,” he ordered them. No mercy. Atlas didn’t have the patience to wait until she tired. “I’ll just keep tattooing until my name is clear enough to satisfy me.”

  With a frustrated, infuriated screech, she finally stilled. She knew he spoke true. He always spoke true. Threats were not something he wasted his breath uttering. Only promises.

  “That’s a good girl.” Atlas strode forward and ripped the cloth from her back. The skin was tanned, smooth. Flawless. Once, he’d caressed this back. Once, he’d kissed and licked it. And yes, being with her had been more satisfying than being with any of the others, but he would not be ruled by his dick and release her before branding her, all in the hopes that he could get her into bed again. He would do this.

  “That’s not what I did to you,” Nike rasped. “I didn’t mark your back.”

  “You would rather I brand your lovely breasts?”

  At that, she held her tongue.

  Good. He didn’t want to mar her chest. Her breasts were a work of art, surely the world’s finest creation. “No need to thank me,” he muttered. He held out his hand and someone slapped the needed supplies in his palm. “At least you won’t have to look at my name every day of your too-long life.” As he had to do.

  “Don’t do this,” she suddenly cried. “Please. Don’t. ” She turned her head and there were tears in her brown eyes.

  She wasn’t a beautiful woman. Could barely be called pretty. Her nose was a little too long, and her cheeks a little too sharp. She had ordinary brown hair cut to hit her too — wide shoulders, and the body of a warrior. But there was something about her that had always drawn him.

  He rolled his eyes. “Dry the fake tears, Nike.” And he knew they were fake. She wasn’t prone to displays of emotion. “They don’t affect me and they certainly don’t become you.”

  Instantly her eyelids narrowed, the tears miraculously gone. “Fine. But I will make you regret this. I vow it.”

  “I’m looking forward to your attempts.” Truth. Sparring with her had always excited him.

  Without a single beat of hesitation, he pressed the ink gun just below her shoulder blade. His grip was steady as he etched the outline of the first letter. A. Not once did she flinch. Not once did she act as if she felt a single ounce of pain. He knew it hurt, though. Oh, did he know. To permanently mark an immortal, ambrosia had to be mixed into the colored liquid and that ambrosia burned like acid.

  She remained silent as he finished each of the outlines. Silent, still, as he filled in the letters. When he finished, he sat back on his haunches and surveyed his work: A.T.L.A.S.

  He expected satisfaction to overtake him, so long had he waited for this moment. It didn’t. He expected relief to overwhelm him; vengeance had been achieved. It didn’t. What he didn’t expect was a white-hot sweep of possessiveness, but that’s exactly what he experienced.

  Nike now belonged to him. Forever. And all the world would know it.

  Chapter 2

  Nike paced the confines of her cell. A cell she shared with several others. Knowing her temper as intimately as they did, they were careful to stay out of her way. Still. Roommates sucked. She could feel their eyes boring into her robe-clad back, as if they could see the name now branded there.

  If they dared say a single word about it…

  There hadn’t been enough cells to contain all of the Greeks, so they’d been crammed into each chamber in groups. Male, female, it hadn’t mattered. Maybe the Titans hadn’t cared about the mixing of the sexes, or maybe they’d done it to increase the torment of each prisoner. The latter was probably the case. Husbands had not been paired with wives and friend had not been paired with friend. No, rival had been paired with rival.

  For her, that rival was Erebos, the minor god of darkness. Once, Erebos had treated her like a queen. Once, she’d really liked him. Had even considered marrying him. But then she’d fallen in love with Atlas-that womanizing, lying bastard Atlas-so she’d cut Erebos loose. Then she’d discovered that Atlas had never really wanted her, that Atlas had only been using her. Love had quickly morphed into rage.

  The rage, though, had eventually cooled. She’d forgotten him. For the most part. Now, with his name decorating her back, she hated him with every fiber of her being.

  Maybe- maybe — she’d overreacted when she’d done the same to him. Branded him forever. Impulsiveness had always been her downfall, after all. For years, she’d even regretted her decision. Not that she would ever admit such a thing to him. Regret was not what she felt now, however.

  She hadn’t lied to him. She would kill him for this.

  First, she would have to find a way to remove the stupid collar around her neck. As long as she wore it, she was powerless. Second, she would have to find a way to escape this realm.

  The first, in theory, should have been easy. Yet she’d already tried clawing and beating at it, and had even attempted to melt it from her neck. All she’d done was cut her skin, bruise her tender flesh and singe her hair off. The second, in theory and reality, seemed impossible.

  Her gaze circled her surroundings. After the Titans escaped, they’d reinforced everything. How, she didn’t know. The prison was supposedly bound to Tartarus, the Greek god of Confinement who’d once kept guard over the Titans, and when he’d begun to weaken for no apparent reason, the realm had weakened, as well. Everything in it became structurally unsound. But now, Tartarus was missing. The Titans didn’t have him and no one knew where he was. There was no reason the realm should be as strong as it was in his absence.

  The walls and floor were comprised of godly stone, something only special godly tools-tools she didn’t have-could break through, and yet, even without Tartarus’s presence, there was not a crack in sight.

  The thick silver bars that allowed a glimpse of the guard’s station below had been constructed by Hephaistos, and only Hephaistos could melt such a metal. Unfortunately, he resided somewhere else. As with Tartarus, no one knew where. Still, without Tartarus, she should have been able to bend that metal. She couldn’t; she’d already tried.

  “Could you settle the hell down?” Erebos grumbled from one of the cots. From his dark hair to his dark skin, from his handsome features to his strong body, he was the picture of unhappy male, all of that unhappiness pointed at her. “We’re trying to plan an escape here.”

  They were always planning an escape.

  “Besides,” he continued, “your ugly face is giving me a headache.”

  “Go suck yourself,” she replied. Though she’d been the one to hurt him all those centuries ago- unintentionally — he’d repaid her a thousand times over. Purposefully. Not emotionally, but physically. He liked nothing better than to “accidentally” trip her, bump into her and send her flying, as well as to eat what little portion of food was meant for her before she could fight her way to the front of the line, starving her. If she hadn’t been wearing the collar, he never would have been able to do those things. She would have been too strong. Another reason to despise her captivity.

  “Sucking myself would probably elicit better results than when you did it,” he retorted.

  The handful of gods and goddesses around him snickered.

  “Whatever,” she said, as if the taunt didn’t bother her. Except, her cheeks did flush. She was the epitome of strength-or
she was supposed to be-and she’d always been more mannish than feminine. That was why Atlas’s attention had so surprised and delighted her. That gorgeous man could have won anyone, yet he’d chosen her. Or so she’d thought. And she’d fallen for his act because he’d somehow made her feel like a delicate, beautiful woman.

  Just then, Atlas strode into the guard’s station. She didn’t have to see him to know. She felt him. Always she felt his heat. When her gaze found him, she discovered that he had his arm wrapped around a leggy blonde. A blonde who cuddled herself into his side as if she belonged there-and had rested there many times before.

  The thought angered Nike. It shouldn’t have; she despised Atlas with all of her being and didn’t care who he slept with. Didn’t care who he pleasured. And yes, he would have pleasured the blonde with those talented hands and seeking lips. He was an amazing lover whose touch still haunted Nike’s dreams. But there it was. Anger.

  She didn’t mean to, but found herself striding to the bars and gripping them for a better, closer look at him. Three other guards stood around him, all talking and laughing. While prisoners wore white, guards wore black, and he wore that darkness well. It was the perfect complement to his dark, chopped hair and sea-colored eyes.

  His face had been chiseled by a master artist, everything about him perfectly proportioned. His eyes were the perfect distance apart, his nose the perfect length, his cheeks the perfect sharpness, his lips the perfect shape and color and his chin a perfect, stubborn square.

  She should have known he was playing her the moment he’d turned those dangerous eyes on her and they lit with “interest.” Men just didn’t look at her like that. Not even Erebos had, and he had loved her.

  “Bastard,” she muttered, the curse for both the men in her past.

  As if he heard her, Atlas lifted his gaze. The moment their eyes met, she wanted to release the bars. She wanted to step away, out of sight. But she didn’t allow herself that luxury. That would have been cowardly, and this man had seen her weak one too many times.