The Darkest Prison. Gena ShowalterЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 brethren 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 TWO
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