On an altar in front of them lay Ashlyn, pale and panting, sweating, like a virginal sacrifice of old. Only this virgin was heavily pregnant and about to give birth. The fright he’d given her had caused her to go into labor.
Oddly enough, Galen didn’t like that she was in pain. She wasn’t a bad sort, and hurting the fairer sex had never been a particular favorite of his. He’d do it, haddone it—he’d do anything—but he never enjoyed it.
“Cut the babes from her belly,” the horned, beaked she-devil commanded him. “I would have them for my own.”
Babes? As in more than one?
“They must die,” the scarred male snapped.
“No. We will use them as barter,” one of the mountains of muscle said.
Ashlyn moaned in pain, in supplication, her glassy gaze pleading as she looked to Galen. “Please. Don’t do this.”
Begging the enemy. To do so, she must love those babies with her whole heart, even though she had yet to meet them. He thought he understood that. Nearly twenty-nine years ago, he’d inadvertently fathered a daughter; he had not learned of her existence until she was fully grown. Knowing she was of his blood had been all that was needed for him to…not love her, he didn’t think he’d ever experienced that emotion, but to feel a sort of kinship with her despite the fact that she was as different from him as he was from the Lords.
His Gwendolyn. A Harpy. A female he could not bring himself to hurt. A female who would cut him down without a moment’s hesitation. He liked that about her, felt pride in her ruthlessness.
Galen had done terrible things throughout his life. Betrayed his friends, killed for power, razed cities, purposely addicted his own people to drugs so that they would need him, follow him. He had destroyed their families when they dared to disobey him—or even so much as thoughtto betray him. He’d slept with females he shouldn’t have, in ways he shouldn’t have.
There was no line he hadn’t crossed. No line he wouldn’tcross. He had done all of that—and would do a thousand times worse—yet he had never cared about the consequences. Still didn’t. Unlike the warriors he’d been created with, he hadn’t come with a sense of honor, a bond of brotherhood or a need to help anyone but himself.
Baden, the first to be created, had gotten most of the goodness and the rest a mere trickle. Galen, the very last to be created, had gotten what remained—nothing but the cold and the dark.
Perhaps that was why he had gone after Baden first.
None of the Lords knew he had spoken with Baden before he’d sent his Bait to lure the man to his death. A private meeting Baden himself had arranged. None of them knew Galen had vowed to leave the immortal army alone, to stop the war, if Baden sacrificed himself.
Possessed by the demon of Distrust, Baden had not believed Galen’s vow, but he’d made the bargain anyway, just in case. Galen knew it was because he’d blamed his demon for his instinct to mistrust, and hoped for the best—because of Galen’s demon.
The Bait—Haidee, one of the keepers of Hate—had gone to the warrior, unaware that her victim knew where she would lead him. Baden had not wanted his friends to know he willingly rushed to his grave. He had not wanted them to witness the event, either, but of course they had followed him. There had been no stopping the war after that, even if Galen had wanted to. Which, of course, he hadn’t.
“Gaaaaaleeeen.” A low, pained moan echoed as Ashlyn writhed atop the stone. Her face was red, swelling, her breaths coming in shorter puffs.
“Don’t look to me for aid, female.” The next half hour was mission critical, and he could not allow her to distract him. “I told your man what he must do to save you.”
“Please. Pleeeease.”
A pang in his chest. If he told her the only way to ensure he would give the babies to their father was for her to crawl to him, she would find the strength to do so. She’d even kiss and lick his boots. She would do anything and everything he asked, no matter how vile.
Oh, yes, she loved her children. They were flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood, and they would love her in return.
Nothing and no one had ever belonged to him and only him—except Legion. Not that she would do anything necessary to save him, nor would he do anything necessary to save her. But. Yeah, there was always a but with him. He had been her first lover—and he wanted to be her last.
He wasn’t sure what had happened to her during her forced stay in hell. Didn’t know what she had welcomed, and what she hadn’t. But she would no longer be his alone, that much he knew. Something else to punish her—to punish all of them—for.
“The babes,” the female Unspoken said again. Was that…yearning he detected in her voice? Did she actually crave a chance at motherhood? “Give. Me.”
The males turned on her, scowling, tossing obscenities, arguing over what should be done versus foolish desires. Whatever happened to the mother, Galen decided in that moment, he would not allow the Unspoken Ones to have or hurt those children.
Finally, a decent act on his part. One of goodness, without guile or selfishness. Never let it be said he was all bad all the time.
“G-Galen. I am h-here, as requested.”
Every muscle in his body went taut, his blood instantly firing, blistering through him. A hallucination? He sniffed, taking in the earth, a hint of hellfire and the subtlest trace of sea salt. No hallucination.
Legion was here.
The wealth and variance of emotion he felt nearly overwhelmed him as he spun to search her out. And there she was, a few feet away. She stood at the edge of the temple grounds, trees stretched out behind her. She was lovely, though not exactly as he remembered. Tall, buxom, with a fall of pale hair and eyes of the smoothest brown. Her lips were chapped, as if she’d been chewing them, and she’d lost so much weight her T-shirt and sweatpants bagged on her.
The Lords hadn’t taken proper care of her. For that, they would suffer more than he’d originally planned. She was to be punished, yes, but by his hand and only his hand. Anger became the front-runner inside him.
“Are you armed?” he asked, not expecting the truth.
“I—” Her hand fluttered to her throat, and her gaze skittered past him, widened. “Ashlyn.” She raced forward, only to jolt backward when he stepped in her path, her desperation to avoid him palpable.
“You will stay where you are.”
“L-let her g-go.” The stutter told him more than her words. She was afraid of him. “You said y-you would.”
“Legion, gooooo!” Ashlyn screamed, speaking through a contraction. “Tell Maddox—”
“Silence!” Galen snarled. He would accept no interference in this matter.
Legion grabbed her stomach, her skin taking on a greenish tint. Her chin trembled.
This fear of hers scraped at his nerves. Before, she had been brave and full of the fire she had been raised in.
“The warriors are almost upon us,” one of the Unspoken said. “We will whisk them here the very moment we can. Now, give the females into our care, so that you may fight without distraction.”
That had been their plan, and one he’d pretended to agree with. Then and now, the thought of allowing anyone to touch his woman grated. And when he noticed Legion’s reaction to the idea—a cold wash of horror in eyes glassy with unshed tears—he was decided.
“Back away,” he told her. “Stand in the rubble at the edge of the trees. And if you so much as think about flashing away or running, I’ll hurt the human.”
The tears finally fell, but she did as commanded. He hated the increased distance between them, and blamed the Unspoken Ones.
“What are you doing?” one growled.
“Give them to us,” another shrieked.
They had only one weakness that he knew of. They could not take what they wanted; it had to be given to them. Usually they used trickery to ascertain free will, as they had done to obtain the Cloak of Invisibility from Strider. When trickery failed, they resorted to scaring their victims into submission.