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He’d never been faithful. Could never be faithful. No matter how much he wanted to be. No matter how much his many conquests screamed and ranted at him, desperate for something he couldn’t give them. Something…more. His lovers were his demon’s food, that was all. He couldn’t let them be anything else. And really, he didn’t want them to be anything else.

He just wanted Sienna.

If he could find her, if he could touch her, if she no longer despised him—which didn’t seem likely, especially after the things, people, he’d done up here—would she give herself to him?

So many ifs.

He’d been up here off and on ever since her disappearance, and he’d kept his ear to the ground—aka he’d screwed the information out of anyone close to Cronus. See? Unfaithful. He was here for one woman, but had slept with another. And another. And another.

Buck up. Otherwise, he’d start wanting that ambrosia.

Hell, maybe he should just give in.

Or maybe he should leave. Cronus was going to pop a vessel when he discovered Paris’s whereabouts. Would definitely punish him. Because…to hide his activities, Paris had to wear a necklace—a manlace, as Torin called it—the god king had given him. A manlace he was only supposed to wear to hide himself from Rhea. Using it to conceal himself from Cronus as well was a small crime, sure, but couple that with Paris’s intentions…

You’re close. Closer than you’ve ever been. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t give up. So, no ambrosia and no leaving.

“I’m so hot,” one woman said. She lay on a velvet recliner, naked and glistening, arching her back as she traced her fingertips between her large, tawny-tipped breasts. “So needy.”

“Me, too,” another said. She licked her lips as she searched for a partner.

Oh, yes. They had sensed Paris at last.

His friends were used to him, used to his scent and the need it caused, and were mostly immune. Plus, he’d over-indulged Sex, so the demon had rarely acted out like this. Paris wasn’t yet used to it.

“I’ve never been this aroused,” another female said.

Then, it was on. Moans of pleasure resounded as an orgy broke out. Multiple writhing bodies, hands stroking, legs spreading. The sight failed to arouse even the barest flicker of need. Been there, gotten tired of that.

They were distracted, at least. He studied them, searching for the telltale “long, braided white hair” he’d been told Arca possessed. Another tidbit he’d learned: she was responsible for the children’s story about Rapunzel. Once, when she’d delivered a godly message to a human king, he’d become captivated by her beauty and thought to keep her. And he had very nearly succeeded. Not just because he’d used black magic, but because his timing had been impeccable. The Greeks had gained control of the heavens, locking the Titans away. Arca had been forgotten.

Paris didn’t know if the rest of the story held true. If she had been rescued by a mortal prince. If the mortal had been killed in front of her when the Greeks at last remembered her and dragged her up to the heavens, locking her in another, stronger prison. And he wouldn’t let himself care.

What he did know? Arca had been grabbed right off a golden street and tossed here. Paris could work that to his advantage. She had to despise the king, had to crave revenge.

Also, she wasn’t in this section of the palace. Please be in another.

He slinked along the wall. He could have stripped and presented himself as a slave, or a new addition to the harem, but he refused to relinquish his new weapons. No doubt he’d need them.

He reached a corner, paused, listened, looked. Heard no footsteps. Saw no shadows moving along the marble floor. He inched forward, leaving the bathing area completely. Curtained doorway after curtained doorway greeted him, and he gnashed his teeth. If he had to screw someone just to find out which room belonged to Arca—

A slave strode from the room at the far end of the hallway, a silver tray balanced in his hands. He spotted Paris, but didn’t issue an alarm. No, his tanned, naked body reacted instantly, his belly quivering. He set the tray on the floor and practically skipped over, as if in a trance.

He probably was. Paris hadn’t fed his demon for twenty-three hours. He wouldn’t start weakening for another hour, yet Sex’s pheromones—or whatever it was the bastard released from Paris’s pores—would continue to strengthen until they’d come inside someone.

A few times, Paris had let himself become so weak he couldn’t move. Yet those pheromones had drifted from him, so damn potent that humans had fallen on him, unable to help themselves, lost to lust. A few times, before Paris had reached the point of total weakness, he had lost control of himself and fallen on humans.

The slave reached him. “Who are you, beautiful?” Callused, overworked hands whisked along his chest, caressing.