Ruthless--A Paranormal Romance Read online

  Praise for the novels of Gena Showalter

  “One of the premier authors of paranormal romance. Gena Showalter delivers an utterly spellbinding story!”

  —Kresley Cole, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “I love this world and these alpha males—this is Gena Showalter at her best!”

  —J.R. Ward, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on Shadow and Ice

  “Gena Showalter never fails to dazzle.”

  —Jeaniene Frost, New York Times bestselling author

  “Showalter...rocks me every time!”

  —Sylvia Day, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Showalter writes fun, sexy characters you fall in love with!”

  —Lori Foster, New York Times bestselling author

  “Showalter makes romance sizzle on every page!”

  —Jill Shalvis, New York Times bestselling author

  “A fascinating premise, a sexy hero and non-stop action, The Darkest Night is Showalter at her finest.”

  —Karen Marie Moning, New York Times bestselling author

  “Sexy paranormal romance at its hottest! The Gods of War series is my new obsession.”

  —Christine Feehan, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on Shadow and Ice

  Ruthless

  Gena Showalter

  To the usual suspects: Jill Monroe and Naomi Lane, who went above and beyond, reading and offering feedback even though their own lives were at maximum business. You are both heaven-sent!

  A huge thank you, thank you, thank you to editor Michele Bidelspach, who rallied the troops and kept us all on track after I broke my foot and underwent surgery in the midst of this book’s production.

  And to the members of Gena Showalter’s Legions. What a blessing you are! Supportive, kind, caring, hilarious, all-around wonderful human beings. May love fill your hearts, laughter abound, peace reign and your admiration for me never fade. (What?)

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  EXCERPT FROM THE IMMORTAL BY GENA SHOWALTER

  PROLOGUE

  Astaria, the fae realm

  FIVE-YEAR-OLD VIORI DE AOIBHEALL raced to her parents’ bedchamber, frantic. A thick, overpowering odor infused the air, stinging her nostrils. Death comes...

  Tears welled as she placed a bowl of fresh water on the nightstand, next to her beautiful doll, Drendall. Viori’s most beloved possession. There was no lovelier sight than Lady Drendall, with her colorful porcelain face and lacy pink gown. A treasured birthday gift from her favorite person in all the realm, her older brother, Kaysar.

  Fighting for calm, Viori grabbed a clean rag from the nightstand’s top drawer. She dipped the shabby fabric into the cool liquid, uncaring when droplets splashed her dress. For weeks, her parents had suffered with “the crimson sickness.” A plague that had decimated half their village.

  As pixiepetal harvesters who worked public land, Momma and Papa made little money. But that little kept their family of four fed. No money, no food. Already supplies ran low, with only a few potatoes left.

  To make up for the loss, twelve-year-old Kaysar now spent the whole of his days slaving in the fields. A backbreaking job too difficult for one person. And yet, he never complained.

  Agonized moans whisked her back to the present. Momma and Papa lay side by side, a sheet tangling as they thrashed. Unnatural heat radiated from them, cooking both from the inside out.

  Viori swallowed a barbed lump, pasted on a smile and hurried to her father. She wrung water into his mouth, telling him, “Don’t worry, Papa. Everything will be all right.” Kaysar had promised, and he never lied.

  The frail man coughed up blood.

  More tears welled as she hastened to her mother. Trembling, she squeezed the rag directly over Momma’s chapped lips.

  Before this, anyone who’d met Viori and her mother had called them twins. They sported the same auburn hair and green eyes. Same delicate features and golden skin. No longer. Momma’s face had become a travesty of sunken sockets and hollowed cheeks, framed by a sallow complexion.

  Do not sob. Viori tenderly cleaned the blood from the woman’s nose, then returned to her father. An ox-strong charmer too beautiful for words, admired by too many ladies in town, according to Momma. With thick black hair, darker, dusky complexion and rich brown eyes, he resembled an older version of Kaysar. Or he used to. Like his wife, he looked ready for a grave.

  As gently as possible, Viori wiped his brow. He cringed from her touch, the slightest pressure seeming to bring him incomparable suffering.

  Do. Not. Sob.

  “Heal...us,” he rasped, his voice wretched. “Please. Must...try.”

  Distress choked her. She gave her head a violent shake. “I... I can’t.” Every day Kaysar had warned her: Do not even consider it, love. Not yet.

  He believed her glamara—a fae’s strongest supernatural ability—mirrored his. That she must only speak a command to force others to obey. And maybe he was right. But she had rarely practiced. With good reason!

  Fear, sadness and anger delivered a bad outcome for Kaysar. The listeners might obey him, but they did it...wrong.

  Her brother had explained it this way: Words are vessels containing everything we feel. Our secret and not so secret intents. When we speak, we unleash a creative force no one can outrun. A gift, if we use it right.

  Before she dare attempt to control a fae, she must first harness her emotions.

  “Please, darling,” her mother echoed, barely audible. “Can’t make it worse. Dying, anyway.”

  “No! You aren’t allowed to die.” To stop herself from agreeing to sing, Viori mashed her lips together. Do not even consider it. Except, she had brought birds, cats and deer back to life.

  What if she could do this?

  What if she couldn’t? She’d helped the animals only after she’d calmed. A process that had taken days.

  Momma issued a louder moan, almost a scream, and Viori sniffled. Did she have time to calm? Could she calm? Whenever she tried, she ended up hiding under her covers. But...

  What if she could save her parents and didn’t? Could she live with the guilt? Could Kaysar?

  What if he grew to hate her? What if she grew to hate herself?

  If she succeeded, all became right, exactly as he’d promised. Momma would smile again. Papa would ruffle her hair and tell her she wasn’t allowed to marry until she reached the age of two hundred and fifty—at least! Kaysar could finally return to his studies. How he must long to do so. No one enjoyed books and learning more.

&nb
sp; And if she didn’t succeed?

  Did it really matter if emotion warped her commands at a time like this? If she was her parents’ only chance, shouldn’t she offer one?

  Indecision gnawed at her. She wrung her fingers and glanced out the window, where a dirt path led to the pixiepetal fields. Should she speak with Kaysar first? A ten-minute sprint to the closest field meant another ten-minute sprint home. And if he labored in the second field, twenty minutes away? Neither of them possessed the ability to flitter—moving from one location to another with only a thought. Not yet, anyway.

  If he refused to help?

  “Please, darling,” Momma beseeched. “Never hurt so bad.”

  Tremors starting up again, Viori pressed clammy palms against her belly. What use was her gift if she couldn’t help the people she adored? “V-very well. I will try.”

  She trudged to the foot of the bed and drew a deep breath in, out. Like Kaysar, her glamara strengthened when she sang. Unwilling to hesitate, she closed her eyes and released the first note.

  A soft melody floated over the chamber. Her parents went quiet. She freed the second note and peeked through a slit in her lashes. Peace fell over the pair, their thrashing easing.

  I’m doing it? Relief poured through her. She increased her volume, commanding the couple to feel no pain.

  Neither moved, yet ripples disturbed the bedsheet. Odd, but not jarring. With the animals, she’d felt a wind that wasn’t there.

  Viori sang even louder, utilizing the full power of her glamara. And oh, wow. Black dots wove through her vision. Threads of weakness invaded her limbs, nearly toppling her. But she refused to stop until the last vestiges of the sickness faded from her parents.

  Had the pair healed at all? She focused on their expressions—and gasped, stumbling back as horror torched her relief. Momma screamed in silent agony, blood leaking from her eyes, nose and ears. Papa gritted crimson-smeared teeth. The sheet had somehow risen, taken the shape of a fae and sat with crossed legs between them. The creature had a hand wrapped around the throat of each patient.

  Viori smashed her lips together, ending her song.

  What is...? How can...? Impossible! And yet, she felt a connection to the sheet, as if it were somehow a member of her family. Her child, like Drendall. She even knew its name—Fifibelle.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. Bit by bit, life drained from Momma’s and Papa’s eyes. “Stop that!”

  The sheet held on, seemingly proud of a task well done.

  “S-stop this, Fifibelle. Please.”

  Too late. One parent expelled a final breath within seconds of the other, both peering into an afterworld Viori couldn’t see.

  Weakness intensifying, she tumbled to her backside. At the same time, Fifibelle lost substance and whooshed into a puddle, reverting to a simple mound of cotton.

  Trapped sobs escaped. Momma and Papa were...dead? She’d killed them?

  Must know. Legs quaking, she lumbered to her feet and approached the bed. Slowly, she stretched out her arm to flatten a palm against her mother’s chest. The spot Viori loved to rest her head when they told bedtime stories to Drendall. No heartbeat. Ice-cold skin.

  The moisture in her mouth dried. Vision blurring, she stumbled over to check her father for signs of life. Finding none.

  Realization heralded shock. Yes, they were dead. And it was her fault. She’d killed her parents with a song. Had viciously murdered the pair.

  “I’m so sorry. So sorry. So—” Another sob cut her off. Tears rained freely, scalding her cheeks. Over and over Kaysar’s warning replayed in her head. Like Fifibelle, Viori had refused to listen. Now she must suffer the consequences.

  And so must her brother.

  He would hate her now. If he didn’t, he should. Her voice wasn’t a gift, but a curse.

  Overcome by grief, she snatched Drendall from the nightstand and sank to the floor. With her friend clutched tight to her chest, she curled into a ball and rocked back and forth. Why had she done this? Why, why, why?

  What if she did it again? She buried her face in Drendall’s soft hair. Was Kaysar to be her next victim? What if Viori harmed him when she tried to explain? What if Fifibelle awoke? What if she created something worse?

  Panic collided with desperation, both exploding inside her. Can’t harm Kaysar. Not him. Anyone but him.

  But what if she did it? Soon, he would return to the cottage...

  She squeezed Drendall tighter. Must be quiet. Mustn’t say anything else.

  Ever.

  Eight months later

  “WHY DON’T I sing to you, hmm?” Kaysar led Viori through the Forest of Many Names. He kept a firm hold on her hand, as if he feared she might dash away.

  Viori clung to Drendall, refusing to speak. Won’t harm my brother. Not now, not ever.

  Morning sunlight filtered through a canopy of gemstone-colored leaves. A narrow brook rushed over moss-covered rocks. Wind blustered, whirling specks of dirt into tiny funnels.

  “I’ll sing anything you wish,” he added with a twinge of regret. “Something about a princess and her prince, perhaps? Or what if I sing to Drendall instead? Would she like a song all her own, do you think?”

  Insides compressing, she looked anywhere but in his direction. His ragged condition would only wither the pieces of her broken heart. Thanks to Viori, he had no family or home. No job. No way to earn money. He was forced to shuffle her from village to village, stealing food and clothing whenever possible, bunking in any halfway stable shelter.

  Yet, not once had he blamed her. Though he should. She deserved blame.

  When her chin trembled, she retreated to a deep, hidden chamber of her mind. The safest place for her. A dreamland without thoughts or memories, words no longer needed.

  As they marched on, she lost track of time. At some point, Kaysar drew her out of seclusion, beseeching, “Tell me how I can help you.”

  His anguished desperation pulled a response to the edge of her tongue. Or had he used his glamara? Either way, she resisted the urge to speak and won. Say nothing.

  A group of pixies flew past, snagging Kaysar’s attention.

  Dread prickled her nape. There are no better troublemakers than pixies, her mother once said. They’re thieves, the lot of them. You see one, you go in the opposite direction.

  Homesickness assaulted every cell in her body. Miss you so much, Momma.

  “One second, love.” Her brother halted and released her to study the map he’d drawn on his forearm using a metal claw and blood-ink. A necessity. No one survived the winding maze of gnarled trees, invisible interrealm doorways, fae-hungry trolls, organ-starved centaurs and poisonous foliage without aid.

  He sucked in a breath, strain emanating from him. The tips of his pointed ears twitched. Did he hear something?

  He dropped into a crouch, pulling Viori down with him. When seconds ticked by without incident, he straightened enough to pull her to her feet, and swept her in the opposite direction.

  Her stomach’s growl stopped him. Looking wrecked, he shifted his gaze between Viori and the path they’d abandoned. With a curse, he reversed course, steering her toward the brook. Specifically, a knotted patch of poisonvine with a hollow center.

  The sweetest scent coated her airways, courtesy of the foliage. Her brother encouraged her to sit amid the mess without brushing against it, then settled Drendall in her lap.

  “You know I’ll always protect you, yes?” Bleak eyes searched hers. “Stay here and remain unmoving.” He whispered the command as he placed the satchel filled with their meager belongings at her feet. “I’ll find out what’s going on. While I’m gone, I want you to remember how much I love you. All right? I’ll return shortly.”

  The admission of love heaped buckets of coal upon her guilt.

  Cupping her cheeks, he kissed her brow. Then he
kissed Drendall’s brow and darted off, never looking back.

  Viori yearned to shout for his immediate return. As much as she hated being a drain on Kaysar’s life, she hated being without him. He and Drendall were her everything.

  Say. Nothing.

  Hours ticked by, sunlight waning. Finally, full darkness arrived, cloaking the forest in writhing shadows and bringing bone-numbing cold. Tremors plagued her. Her teeth chattered, her thin dress no match for the weather. Howls and growls reached her ears, and her gaze darted. But she didn’t stray from her spot.

  Where was Kaysar? Why hadn’t he come back yet? When would he return?

  Would he ever return?

  By morning, everything inside her screamed, Find him! Help him! But still she stayed put. Won’t go against his orders. Not again. Never, never, never. She would rather rot.

  She didn’t move the next day or night, either. Nor the next. Her empty stomach seemed to eat itself. Fear came and went. During daylight hours, she overheated. At night, she froze. But Kaysar did not return.

  Dizzy and weak, eyelids heavy, so heavy, she teetered in place and smacked a swollen tongue. Wait. Was that...? Clutching Drendall tight, she squinted into the distance. Though her vision proved blurry, she thought she spied a hazy glow. Her breath caught. Had Kaysar returned—Excitement died in an instant. Two burly centaurs trotted closer.

  A full armory of weapons draped them. From the swords strapped to their backs, the bow and quiver of arrows hanging at their sides and the spears gripped in hand. Bear fur draped muscular torsos. One had dark fur, while the other was white with spots.

  Wizened features brightened when the pair spotted her. They stopped mere feet away, and her heart thudded. Too terrified to move, she forgot to inhale. Centaurs were far worse than pixies. To gain immortality, they ate fae alive, both young and old.

  “My, my, my,” the tallest said. “Look what we have here.” He nudged his speckled friend. “Told you I smelled something tasty.”

  “That you did,” Spots replied with a grin.

  Acting on instinct, she shrank back. A mistake. Her elbow grazed a stalk of poisonvine, and agonizing pain ripped through her. Muscles spasmed, paralyzing her limbs. A temporary condition supposed to last two endless minutes, but she needed to hide now, now, now.