PROLOGUE
Reyes, once an immortal warrior for the gods, now possessed by the demon of Pain and living in Budapest, entered his bedroom. He was drenched in sweat and panting from the force of his workout. Because he could not experience pleasure without physical suffering, the burn in his muscles had excited him.
As always, his gaze sought out his woman and he palmed the blade they preferred to use during their loveplay. She was sitting at the edge of their big bed, lovely features drawn tight as she studied the canvas in front of her. A canvas sheâd propped on an easel and lowered so that she had a direct view. Blond hair fell to her shoulders in wild disarray, as if sheâd tangled her fingers through the thick mass multiple times, and she was chewing on her bottom lip.
Sex could wait. She was troubled, and he would be unable to think of anything else until heâd solved this dilemma for her. So he sheathed the blade.
âSomething wrong, angel?â
Her eyes lifted and landed on him, worry in their emerald depths. She offered him a small smile. âIâm not sure.â
âWell, why donât I help you figure it out?â Anything that bothered her, he would dispatch. Â No hesitation. For her happiness, he would do anything, kill anyone.
âI would like that, thank you.â
âShall I shower before I join you?â
âNo. I like you just how you are.â
Darling woman. But he didnât like the thought of dirtying her pretty clothes. He quickly grabbed a towel from the bathroom and rubbed himself dry. Only then did he settle behind his woman, his legs encasing hers, his arms wrapping around her waist. Breathing deeply of her wild storm scent, he rested his chin in the hollow of her neck and followed the direction of her gaze.
What he saw surprised him.
It shouldnât have. Her paintings were always vivid. As the All-Seeing Eye, an oracle of the gods and one of their most cherished aides, she could peer into heaven and hell. And did, every night, though she had no control over what she witnessed. Past, present, future, it didnât matter. Every morning, she painted what sheâd seen.
This one was of a man. A warrior, clearly. With that muscle mass, he had to be. A gold collar circled his neck, cinching tight. He was on his knees, legs spread. His arms rested on his thighs, palms raised. His dark head was thrown back, and he was roaring up at a domed ceiling. In pain, perhaps. Maybe even fury. There was blood smeared all over his chest, seeping from multiple wounds. Wounds that looked as if his skin had been carved away.
âWho is he?â Reyes asked.
âI donât know. Iâve never seen him before.â
Then they would reason this out as best they were able. âWas he from heaven or hell?â
âHeaven. Definitely. I think heâs in Cronusâs throne room.â
A god, then? A few months ago, Titans had overthrown the Greeks and seized  control of the divine throne. So, if this man was in Cronusâs throne room, chained up, hurt, and Cronus was leader of the Titans, that must mean the warrior was a Greek. A slave who had been punished, perhaps?
âYou saw only this image?â Reyes asked. âNot what got him to this point?â
âCorrect,â Danika said with a nod. âI heard him scream, though. It wasâ¦â She shuddered, and his arms squeezed her in comfort. âI felt so sorry for him. Never have I heard so much rage and helplessness.â
âWe can summon Cronus.â Cronus wasnât too fond of Reyes and his fellow Lords of the Underworldâthe very men who had opened Pandoraâs box, unleashing the evil from inside. The men who had then been cursed to carry that evil inside themselves. But the god king hated their enemy, the Hunters, more, because Danika had seen Galen, the leader of the Hunters, chop off Cronusâs head in a vision. Now the god king was determined to