Fading sunlight trickled in through the only window in his room, but his overhead light was on, illuminating his friend. Paris’s hair was multihued, and each of those hues gleamed brightly. His skin was pale, yet it held the shimmer of a pearl.
Now, Gideon might have acted like a pussy, but Paris looked like one, he thought with the first threads of humor returning.
“You fell asleep before we could tell you not to and must’ve met our new guest.”
The girl. “Who isn’t our guest?”
“Scarlet’s her name, and she’s a Lord of the Underworld. Or Lordess, I guess.”
They’d actually found one of the missing links and brought her here? “What’s she not a keeper of?” He would have scrubbed a hand down his face to clear away the remnants of sleep, but couldn’t.
Paris sensed his need and wiped his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “Nightmares, apparently. Pretty thing, if you like ’em rough, but evidently she’s as crazy as the Hunters.”
Nightmares. For some reason, the word alone was nearly enough to give his own demon an orgasm. And Gideon, well, he was suddenly wondering why the girl had seemed so familiar to him.
Stay, stay, stay, Lies demanded inside his mind.
“Olivia helped us capture her, and she’s locked in the dungeon,” Paris continued.
“She’s hurt, right?” he demanded, throwing his weakened legs over the side of the bed.
“What are you doing, man?”
Gideon managed to stand, swaying but thankfully not falling, his gaze sweeping over his body. He still wore those boxers, was dirty from the sweat and probably smelled.
It wasn’t vanity that propelled him unsteadily toward the bathroom, he told himself, but a sense of politeness. No reason to torture the girl—Scarlet, Paris claimed—when she had yet to do anything wrong. Well, kind of. His newest wounds hurt, dripping blood all over his clean floor. Her fault?
Aeron, housecleaner extraordinaire, would be pissed, a prospect that had his lips twitching. If nothing else, that’d be fun to watch. Aeron with a mop. Classic.
All the Lords had assigned chores. A great thing for his friends, sure, but Gideon kind of excelled at freeloading. A title he’d once worn with pride. Then Paris had guilted him into helping with the shopping. They’d taken turns, each going to the grocery once a week, Paris at the beginning of the week and Gideon at the end.
He wondered if someone else had taken over the chore since his injury and if so, what he’d have to do instead once he recovered fully. Probably help Aeron with maid-service.
His lips stopped twitching.
“So what’d she do to you?” Paris asked, sidling up to him and acting as his crutch the rest of the way to the bathroom. Once there, Paris even started the water. Scalding hot, just as Gideon liked it. “You mentioned a small, hairless mosquito and I gotta tell you, I have no idea what that means.”
With a little more help, Gideon managed to strip. He stepped under the spray. He’d never been modest and he knew Paris, who’d been with thousands and thousands of women, and even the occasional man over the years, wouldn’t care.
For a long while, he simply stood immobile, stubs braced on the wall in front of him, broken arm throbbing as the water poured over him, burning his face and body. Then his good wrist was captured, his bandage upturned and a bar of soap placed atop it.
“No thanks,” he muttered. How was he going to manage this?
“It lives,” Paris muttered back. “You never answered my question. What’d she do to you with those mosquitoes?”
“Nothing,” he said, meaning something.
“I know that. Start talking.”
As he scrubbed himself with the soap as best he could, considering he was handless and reduced to using only his right arm, he explained in Gideon-speak. His meaning was clear—Awake, I got to party with my favorite thing ever—even without having to resort to the truth.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Paris asked grimly.
“Yeah.” No. What the hell? His brain must be addled. All he could think was that Scarlet knew how to conjure insects, but then, a three-year-old could have figured that out by now.
“She knew what scared you most. Only logical conclusion is that the woman can sense our deepest fears and present them to us while we’re sleeping. Hence, nightmares.”
Great. Exactly what his life had been missing. “I’m not going to pay her a visit.”
That earned a No, thanks from Lies.
“Now hold everything.”
“You’re totally going to be able to talk me out of this, so I wouldn’t shut up if I were you.” Took him a bit, but he managed to switch off the water. “Don’t get me a towel.”
A growling Paris tossed a fluffy white bath mat at him. Gideon missed, his bandaged nubs simply not fast enough. He bent down and after several attempts, managed to lift the material. His arm throbbed. Stupid broken bones! He tried to dry himself, he really did, but he didn’t do too good a job.
Finally Paris snatched the cotton and patted him dry. “You’re worse than a baby, you know that?”
“Don’t grab me some clothes.”
Shaking his head, Paris disappeared into the room. A dresser drawer slid open, slammed shut, then another, and then he was striding back into the bathroom, holding out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
Gideon had already stepped from the stall. He could have dressed himself, but that would have required the rest of his energy. “I’m not going to let you do it.”
Another shake of that head. “You’re going to go see her, at least take some weapons.” Paris tugged the shirt over his head and helped him pull his arms through. He only cringed once. “Like me.”
“Sure.” Gods, this was embarrassing. Being this helpless. His friend was so matter-of-fact about it, though, that some of the sting eased.
Paris rolled his eyes as he held open the shorts for Gideon to step into. “Just because she’s locked up doesn’t mean she’s harmless.” His gaze dropped pointedly to the still-bleeding wound in Gideon’s thigh.
Gideon shrugged. “Could you have picked anything more masculine for me?” he asked with disgust as he eyed himself. If he hoped to impress Scarlet—which he didn’t, he assured himself—he would fail. A plain white shirt too small for him and gray running shorts. Fabulous.
Paris crossed his arms over his chest. “So you’re thinking about going without me?”
“No.” Alone, she’d said. If he brought a friend, she might zip her pretty lips, and that he wouldn’t tolerate. He wanted answers, damn it. Namely: how the hell did he know her? He wouldn’t be averse to listening to her apologize for slicing him, either.
“Gideon,” Paris warned.
“She’s not locked up, right?” He lumbered into the bedroom, throwing over his shoulder, “I’ll be in danger the entire time.”
“Frustrating ass. Fine, but be careful,” Paris called.
“Won’t.”
After two winding hallways and a flight of stairs, he had to prop himself against a wall to remain standing. Along the way, he’d run into several of his friends, and each had tried to help him back to his room. He’d shooed them away as politely as possible. They were worried about him, and he loved them for it. Not that he could ever tell them that. “I hate you” was the best he could do. But he wasn’t backing down for this.
He forced himself back into motion. As he crossed the threshold into the dungeon, the air changed completely. It was dirty now, laden with blood, sweat and even urine. Hunters had been tortured here, over and over again. How disgusted the girl must be. Perhaps huddled in a corner, shaking. Crying.
What would he do if that were the case? Probably run screaming, he mused. Only thing worse than spiders were feminine tears.
Grappling with dread, he turned the final corner. At last she came into view, and he stilled. Awareness consumed him. First thing he noticed: she wasn’t crying. Or scared. Second: she was far lovelier in person than she’d been in his dream.