The Darkest Seduction

—Mists and Stars

The Darkest Whisper

“If you like your paranormal dark and passionately

flavoured, this is the series for you.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4 stars

The Darkest Passion

“Showalter gives her fans another treat, sure to satisfy!”

—RT Book Reviews

Throughout the years I’ve learned that family matters. I’ve been blessed with one of the most amazing families EVER. They love me, support me, and they are always there when I need them. The bond you see between the Lords, as well as the bond between the Harpy sisters? That’s what I have with my family, and I am beyond grateful. So this one is to my husband and children, my mom and dad, sisters and brothers, in-laws (who are so much more than that), nieces and nephews, and crazy aunts and uncles. I love and adore you all!

Lords of the Underworld

In a remote fortress in Budapest, immortal warriors—

each more dangerously seductive than the last—are

bound by an ancient curse none has been able to break.

When a powerful enemy returns, they will travel the

world in search of a sacred relic of the gods—one

that threatens to destroy them all.

Gena Showalter’s LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD

continues with

THE DARKEST SEDUCTION

Also available in this series

THE DARKEST NIGHT

THE DARKEST KISS

THE DARKEST PLEASURE

THE DARKEST WHISPER

DARK BEGINNINGS

THE DARKEST PASSION

THE DARKEST LIE

THE DARKEST SECRET

THE DARKEST SURRENDER

The Darkest Seduction

Gena

Showalter

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

From family to friends, I am blessed. To Jill Monroe, Kresley Cole and PC Cast. I love you, ladies!

I speak, and the humans tremble in fear. I speak, and my people rush to obey—and yet still they seek to destroy me. My salvation rides the wings of midnight, and my burden she carries. My rage she unleashes, delivering damnation to all with a single swing of her sword. I speak.

—A passage found in the private journals of Cronus, king of the Titans

Speak all the hell you want. I’m taking what’s mine.

—Paris, Lord of the Underworld

PROLOGUE

“HIS RAGE …”

“I know.”

High in the heavens, Zacharel watched the world below him. Watched as the once genial Paris murdered yet another of his enemy, the Hunters. How many victims that made in the past hour alone, the angel could not say. He’d long since lost count. And even if he paused to do the tally, the answer would have changed a second later as yet another body fell to the slick, blood-coated blades the warrior wielded.

Of course, the panting, sweat-soaked Paris spun to engage two others, his motions fluid, lethally graceful … as unstoppable as an avalanche. At first, he played. A punch, cracking bone. A kick, smashing lungs. Laughing, spouting the worst of curses. Soon none of that was enough for the demon-possessed soldier, and he danced his blades over the tendons in their ankles, hobbling his prey for easier elimination.

Paris had made himself Bait to purposely draw these Hunters to him. They’d come eagerly, happily, intending to steal the vile demon tethered inside him and finally end him. So Zacharel could not fault the warrior for what he did to defend himself, even as several new bodies joined the already mountainous pile enveloped by a sea of crimson and black. And yet, he could not commend the warrior, either.

These were not mercy slayings or even carried out in the name of a cold and calculated vengeance birthed in the bowels of an equally cold rage. No, these were a spew of fire, hate and desperation hotter than anything hell had ever created.

“He is like a poisoned apple,” Zacharel said to the angel beside him. And because Paris was bonded to the demon of Promiscuity, his pruning belonged not to the humans he lived amongst but to the Deity’s angels, who policed different realms of evil. “Poison of this nature spreads slowly but corrupts absolutely.”

Beads of ice fell around Zacharel, as they always fell around him these days, his breath misting in front of his face. Every crystal was to be a reminder of his own crimes, so recently brought to his attention. But unlike Paris, he did not wear misery like a winter coat, hugging it close to his body, relying on it, feeding it, helping it grow. Zacharel cared for nothing, not anymore.

In his quest to destroy the demons that had ruined his life, he had slain “innocent” humans, and this was to be his punishment—to carry his Deity’s displeasure with him always.

“As succulent as others consider this particular apple,” Lysander proclaimed, “they will be willing to taste anything he offers.”