RAGE. ABSOLUTE RAGE FILLED Atlas. He released his companion—he couldn’t recall her name—and she gasped in protest at the abruptness of his actions. He didn’t bother explaining what he was about as he stomped away from her. The rage continued to spread as he climbed the stairs that led to the prisoners’ cages and to the cell holding Nike.

His name was on her back. How dare she allow another man to put his lips on her?

When he reached his destination, he raised his arm, and the sensor he’d had embedded in his wrist caused the bars to slide open. Several prisoners were seated against the far wall. Rapturous longing colored their faces as they watched the minor god of Darkness and the goddess of Strength clean each other’s tonsils. So absorbed were they, in fact, that they didn’t rush Atlas and try to escape. Or maybe that had something to do with the pain they would feel if they did so. He had only to press a button, and their collars would ravage their brains.

Nike moaned, as if she really liked what was being done to her. Red flickered through Atlas’s vision. How. Dare. She. Teeth grinding, he grabbed Nike by the collar of her robe and jerked her into the hard line of his body, away from Erebos.

A gasp escaped her. Unlike when the blonde had gasped, he did not remain unaffected. He wanted to swallow the sound—and do something, anything, to cause Nike to make it again.

What’s wrong with me?

“Hey,” Erebos snapped, foolishly reaching for her to finish what had been started. “We were busy.”

Scowling, Atlas kicked him in the chest. The smaller man flew backward, slamming into his fellow prisoners. The minor god jumped to his feet to attack, saw who had rendered the blow and stilled, nostrils flaring, hands fisting.

“Touch her again,” Atlas said calmly, though he was gritting the words out as if they were being pushed through a meat grinder, “and I’ll remove your collar. Right along with your head.”

The god paled, perhaps even whimpered. “I won’t go near her. She wasn’t worth it, anyway.”

Atlas might kill him for such an insult, as well. Her kisses were heaven, damn it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nike demanded, suddenly coming to life and drawing his attention. She whirled on him, glaring up at him. “I can sleep with whoever I want. And hey, guess what? I might even pick one of your friends. What do you think of that?”

Despite her heated claims, she wasn’t breathless as she would have been if Atlas had been the one kissing her, and her cheeks weren’t flushed. Her nipples weren’t even hard.

Finally, something cooled the hottest flames of his rage.

“Just zip your mouth.” He latched on to Nike’s upper arm and dragged her out of the cell with him. Automatically, the bars closed behind him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said again, tugging against his hold. She’d never been one to obey him.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he countered. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he stopped. The blonde, who just happened to be the goddess of Memory—damn it, what was her name? Kneemah? No, but close. Nee Nee? Closer. Mnemosyne. Yes, that was it—Mnemosyne, as well as the three other warriors chosen to guard Tartarus today, were gaping at him.

“What?” he snapped. At least Nike stopped resisting him. She stilled at his side, attention darting from him to the others, the others to him.

“You can’t just remove a prisoner,” Hyperion, god of Light, said. He was a handsome man, though as pale as his title suggested, and Nike had better not be eyeing him as a possible bedmate.

“I’m not removing her,” Atlas replied stiffly. “I’m relocating her.” To a cell of her own, where no one could put their dirty, disgusting lips on her. Where no one could put their roving hands on her body. There was nothing…possessive about this decision, either. He simply didn’t want her experiencing any type of pleasure. She didn’t deserve it.

“Why?” Mnemosyne regarded him curiously, not a single thread of upset or jealousy in her expression.

Why? he wondered himself. Mnemosyne been eager to date him for months, summoning him constantly. Last night, she’d even shown up at his home naked. She was beautiful, yes, and he’d almost given in and slept with her. His body had been worked into a frenzy after what had transpired with Nike, after all, and he’d been desperate for release. But before he sealed the deal, he’d sent the determined goddess away. He’d felt too guilty to continue. As if he were cheating on Nike. Which was ridiculous. The only relationship he had with Nike was one of hate.

Besides, who wanted to spend time with a female who would never forget your mistakes? A female who would remember your every transgression? A female who could spin new, false memories into your mind, making you believe whatever she wished. Not him. Yet he’d flashed to Mnemosyne’s home this morning and asked her to spend the day with him, just so he could bring her to the prison this morning. He’d been strangely jubilant at the thought of parading her in front of Nike.

So again, he wondered why Mnemosyne did not feel as if Nike were a threat. Most females didn’t, he knew. He’d heard them talk. Nike was too tall, too muscled, they said. She was too hard, and too coarse. But those were the things that had first sparked his interest in her. She could handle his strength. She gave as good as she got. She would never wither under his glare. She would never run from his anger. She would always face him head-on. And he liked that. A lot. No other female he’d ever encountered had that kind of courage.

And she was pretty, he thought. Yes, only yesterday he’d thought her barely so, but, just now, that seemed wrong on every level. Only a short while ago, when he’d first walked into the prison, he’d felt her gaze on him and had looked up. For a second, only a second, her defenses had been lowered. She hadn’t known he’d been watching her, so she hadn’t guarded her expression. An expression that had been soft, wistful, her eyes luminous.

The sight of her had heated his blood as if he’d been caught on fire.

That still didn’t mean he desired her, his enemy. The fact that his name was spelled across her back was simply playing havoc with his mind, he was sure.

“Well,” Mnemosyne prompted.

“Yeah,” Nike said. “We’re waiting for an answer.”

“Shut up, prisoner,” Mnemosyne snapped. She was sister to Rhea, the god queen, and an elitist. Always had been. She loved power and strength above all else, and viewed most people as beneath her.

He wanted to scold her for using that tone with Nike, but didn’t. They were waiting for an answer to what? he wondered, thinking back over the conversation. Oh, yeah. Why was he moving Nike? He raised his chin, refusing to look down at her. Not that he would have had to look far. At six feet, she was nearly as tall as he was. “I don’t need a reason. I’m responsible for this prison and everyone in it. Therefore, if I want to move you, I can.”

The last was meant for the Titans. They would do well not to question him.

Without another word, he dragged Nike away.

“But Atlas,” Mnemosyne called.

He ignored her. Where should he take Nike? There were not many private places in this doomed structure. All of the cells were filled to capacity. That left—his office, he decided.

“You’re lucky I don’t have that bastard slain,” he said when they snaked a corner and he was sure the others couldn’t hear him.

Nike didn’t have to ask who “that bastard” was. “What for? He did nothing wrong.”

Nothing wrong? He touched what’s mine. “He didn’t have permission to consort with you.” There. An answer to pacify. Truthful, yet misleading. Atlas snaked another corner, and there at the end of the hallway was his door.

“Consort with me?” She laughed without humor. “Oh, wait. I get it. You can screw anyone you want, but I can’t.”

Good. They were on the same page. “That’s right.” He pushed his way inside, kicked the door shut and finally released her. His hands itched to return to her, but he kept them at his sides. Rather than settle behind his desk, he faced her, placing them nose to nose. “You are to suffer in solitude.” Gods, she smelled good. Like passion. Pure, white-hot passion.

“As if. I have more fun with myself, anyway.”

The image those words evoked nearly sent him to his knees. He should back away from her. Before he did something foolish.

Her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t changed, you know. You’re as much of an ass now as you were years ago.”

“However,” he continued, as if she hadn’t just insulted him. Foolishness be damned. She was here, and they were alone. “If you need to be kissed, I’ll take care of it.”

And, godsdamn it, that was the absolute truth.