clasped on her arms as he crouched
down in front of her. She couldn’t stop
the wracking anguish, no more than she
could keep herself from pitching
forward into his arms, clinging to him as
she wept.
He held her there, for how long, she
didn’t know.
She only knew that after she didn’t
think she could cry anymore, or hurt any
worse, he was still holding her. Still
keeping her upright when the rest of her
world was crumbling all around her.
“Why?” she murmured into his
bulky shoulder. “My God, he knew this.
He was so afraid he was going to die
soon. Who would do this to him? Why?”
Lazaro gently pulled her away from
him, his ebony brows knit in a tight
scowl. “Your father feared for his life?”
Confusion flashed across his features,
then settled into suspicion. “Damn it.
Why didn’t he tell me this? We spoke
several times before the meeting. He had
plenty of opportunity to say something if
he felt he was in danger in any way.”
Melena shook her head, heartsick.
“He didn’t know who he could trust.
He’d been having premonitions, sensing
some kind of betrayal. He knew he was
going to die soon. He didn’t know when,
or where the betrayal would come from.
He wasn’t sure of anyone anymore.”
“Not even me,” Lazaro replied.
“Jesus Christ, why didn’t he cancel the
damned meeting? He could have made
any excuse.”
“I told him the same thing. But it
was too important to him. And he didn’t
know what would happen tonight.
Neither one of us knew.” She thought
back on the time she and her father spent
with Paolo Turati. She had detected no
hidden agendas. No duplicity or harmful
intent in any one of them.
Lazaro was studying her in
unreadable silence. “You need to tell me
the truth, Melena. Beginning with why
your father brought you with him
tonight.”
She gave him a weak nod. There
was no more reason for her to keep it
from him. Her father was gone. He had
nothing left to lose if word of his
paranoia became public. Melena no
longer needed to protect him. “I’ve been
traveling with him everywhere for
months now. He can’t bear to go—he
couldn’t bear,” she corrected herself
quietly, “to go anywhere unless I was
there to assure him no one meant him any
harm.”
“How so?”
“You were right that it wasn’t only
my translation skills that brought me here
tonight. It was my ability to see people’s
auras. I can tell at a glance if someone’s
intentions are good or not.”
“Your Breedmate talent,” Lazaro
murmured. There seemed to be a trace of
relief in his tone. “So, when you looked
at Turati and the others on the yacht
tonight?”
She shook her head. “There was
nothing to fear from any of them.”
“Did your father voice his concerns
to any of his colleagues in the GNC?”
“No.”
“Anyone outside the Council?”
“No one,” she replied, certain of it.
Lazaro grunted, and she could see
his gaze go distant as his mind began to
churn on the information. She knew he
and the Order would not let this attack
go unmet, and there was a vengeful part
of her that longed to see the guilty
tortured to within an inch of their
sadistic, cowardly lives.
“Make them pay, Lazaro.”
“They
will,”
he
answered
solemnly. “Whoever had a hand in this,
they will be found. There will be
justice.”
Her tears started up again, but they
were quieter now, filled with more rage
and resolve than bereavement. She
hadn’t been prepared for Lazaro’s tender
touch. She held her breath as he caught
her chin on the edge of his fingertips and
lifted her gaze to his. He stroked her
cheek, his thumb sweeping away the wet
trail of her tears.
She could sense his tenderness
went deeper than mere concern.
She could see the evidence of that
truth in the crackling sparks of amber
that were lighting in the deep sapphire of
his irises. She could see it in his
dermaglyphs, which surged with dark
colors across every muscled inch of his
torso and arms, the intriguing swirls and
arcs of the glyphs’ pattern changing hues
before her eyes.
And if all of that weren’t enough,
she could see his intent in his aura,
which formed a smoldering glow around
him now, confirming the astonishing fact.
Lazaro Archer wanted her.
No sooner had the thought entered
her mind than he leaned down and
brushed his lips over hers. Her breath
was already shaky and thin, but as his
mouth pressed against hers, her lungs
dried up on a slow moan. The kiss was
tender, careful, no doubt meant to
console or soothe her.
It did both, but it also inflamed her.
Heat raced through her at the feel of
his mouth on hers. She didn’t want to
feel it—not now, not when her heart was
breaking over the loss of her father and
fear still held her in a firm grasp.
But Lazaro’s arms were stronger
than any of that. His gentling, but
arousing, kiss made her melt against him
with a desire she could hardly reconcile.
And he broke away much too soon
for her liking.
His Breed pupils had narrowed to
the thinnest vertical slits. And when he
ground out a vivid curse, the tips of his fangs gleamed white and razor-sharp.
“Fuck.” He let go of her. “That
shouldn’t have happened. I apologize.”
“Don’t,” she murmured, her voice a
raspy whisper. Desire was singing
through her veins—uninvited, maybe, but
too powerful to be denied. “I didn’t
mind, Lazaro. I...liked it.”
“Christ, don’t say that.” He blew
out a harsh breath, then drew back from
her as though she had scorched him too,
and not in the good way he’d ignited her.
“You do not want to say that to me,
Melena. For the good of both of us.”
He got to his feet in abrupt, stony
silence. As he stood, she noticed that the
gash in his thigh was still bleeding.
While he’d been looking after her these
past few hours, he’d neglected his own
injuries. He seemed oblivious to it,
walking over to examine a comm unit
t
hat lay on a nearby rock. He shook the
device, swearing as water dripped out
of it.
“That wound on your leg needs
attention, Lazaro.” He was Breed, Gen
One besides. She knew his body would
heal itself, but even a vampire needed
help sometimes. “You need to feed
soon.”
“Is that an invitation, Miss Walsh?”
The comm unit clutched in his fist, he
snarled down at her, baring his teeth and
fangs. God, they were huge. Terrifying,
and he damned well knew it. His aura
seethed as menacingly as the rest of him.
When she shrank back a little where she
sat, he gave a dark chuckle. “No, I didn’t
think so. Smart girl. Do us both a favor
and don’t concern yourself with what I
need.”
His anger confused her, almost as
much as his unexpected tenderness of a
moment ago. And the fact that he wanted
to push her away when he was the only
reason she was alive right now kind of
pissed her off too. She stood up, refusing
to be cowed by his bluster.
“Why shouldn’t I be concerned?
You just saved my life—for the second
time, in fact. So, forgive me if that makes
me care about you just a little bit.”
When he scoffed and took a long
stride away from her, she followed after
him. When she put her hand on his
shoulder, he rounded on her with a hiss.
“Just because you’re alive, doesn’t mean
you’re safe with me. Don’t make the
mistake of thinking I’m some kind of
hero.”
He didn’t give her the opportunity
to reply. On a furious glower, he pivoted
to stalk toward the mouth of the cave.
“Stay put. I’m going to see about sending
a signal and getting us out of here.”
Melena watched him prowl out into
the darkness, his kiss still warming her
lips and his harsh words ringing in her
ears.
Don’t make the mistake of
thinking I’m some kind of hero.
Didn’t he know? She’d been
thinking of him that way for most of her
life.
CHAPTER 5
One of Lazaro’s comrades showed
up less than an hour later to retrieve
them in a big black SUV. Melena had
hardly been introduced to the Breed
warrior who drove them—a towering
male with a mass of loose golden curls
and a dimpled, quicksilver smile that
instantly softened his strong, square-cut
jaw. She thought he’d said his name was
Savage, but in her opinion, he looked
more like a fallen angel. If fallen angels
wore combat patrol gear and bristled
with blades and heavy firearms.
The warrior seemed already aware
of who she was and how she’d come to
be in his Order commander’s company,
although he didn’t so much as try to ask.
It was obvious from Lazaro’s menacing
silence during the ride to wherever they
were heading that conversation with her
was neither welcomed nor encouraged.
Where they’d been heading was
Rome.
More specifically, the Order’s
command center in that city.
Melena tried not to gape when she
realized that’s where Lazaro had brought
her. Neither the late-night sight of the
illuminated Colosseum nor Pantheon had
inspired more than a lingering look as
they passed the monuments, but when the
SUV approached a gated, secured
mansion compound nestled in the heart
of the sprawling city, Melena couldn’t
help but sit up a little straighter in her
seat and draw in her breath.
The stately white brick mansion
with its elegant, carved marble detailing
and old bronze fixtures looked as
timeless as the city around it. But it
didn’t take long to understand that the
structure’s antiquity ended at the street.
This was a modern fortress, beautiful
and sturdy and impenetrable. Inside the
massive gates, motion sensors followed
the
SUV’s
progress
toward
an
underground parking garage around
back.
Once they got out of the vehicle,
Lazaro sternly instructed her to follow
him. The warrior who drove them
lingered behind, leaving her alone to his
commander’s dubious care.
Lazaro took her not into the living
quarters of the compound, but to another
wing of the estate that seemed to be
where the warriors conducted Order
business. She heard two male voices in
one of the rooms they passed along the
corridor, but her escort didn’t slow his
pace at all.
Actually, it didn’t seem that he
could get rid of her fast enough for his
liking.
A few minutes later, Melena found
herself abandoned to a vaguely medical-
seeming
room.
The
small
space
contained the hard bed she sat upon, and
next to it a single chair. Glass-fronted
cupboards mounted to the wall opposite
her appeared to house bandages and
other field dressing supplies.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat
there, feeling awkward and unwanted in
Lazaro’s domain. At some point, she
dozed, still exhausted from her ordeal
and the raw grief that clung to her. A
couple of times, she’d glanced toward
the window in the infirmary room door
and saw one of the warriors stride past.
The gorgeous blond who brought her
there had smiled through the glass as he
walked by. Another Breed male, a mean-
looking warrior with a shaved head and
a jagged facial scar that made him more
suited to the name “Savage” than his
friendly comrade, spared her only the
briefest, disinterested glance.
But it was a different warrior
altogether who finally came into the
room. Hulking and immense, he had a
mane of shoulder-length brown waves
and skin the color of sun-kissed golden
sand. Arresting sky-blue eyes scrutinized
her from within his ruggedly handsome,
exotic face. “Melena. How are you
feeling?” As big and imposing as the
Breed male was, he somehow moved
with the easy, feline grace of a jungle cat
as he approached. His voice was rich
and deep and cultured. “I am Jehan.”
“Nice to meet you,” she replied,
her manners on automatic pilot.
“Commander Archer sent me to see
if your injuries need tending. I must
apologize that we’re not equipped for
treating wounds outside of the Breed, but
I can
get you medicine for your pain.
There are ointments I can prepare to
make the contusions heal faster.”
Melena shook her head. “Thank
you, but no.” Compared to the pain of
her grief and fear following the attack,
and the lingering exhaustion from what
she suspected had been hypothermia
back in the cave, her assortment of cuts
and bruises were a minor issue. “I’m
okay.”
He eyed her skeptically, folding his
glyph-covered muscled arms over his
chest. “You’ve endured quite an ordeal.
You’re certain there is nothing you
need?”
Melena gave a vague shrug. She
wasn’t certain of anything at the moment.
Part of her wanted to bolt for the door
and find the fastest way out of this
nightmare, back home to Maryland.
Another part of her just wanted to crawl
under the covers of the bed and scream.
“I know this can’t be easy,” Jehan
said, genuine concern in his low voice.
“And I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Although she was
well-versed in multiple languages, she
couldn’t quite place his unusual accent.
His name was old French, if she wasn’t
mistaken, but the formal way he carried
himself and the way he spoke had her
curious. “Where are you from, Jehan?”
“All
around,”
he
answered
cryptically. “But it’s Morocco you hear
in my voice. My father’s homeland.”
That explained it. He had the kind
of voice that made her imagine moonlit
desert plains and the spicy fragrance of
incense and woodsmoke. “Your mother
wasn’t Moroccan, though?”
“Born and raised in Paris,” he
confirmed, his sensual mouth curving at
the corners. “She and my father met in
France. After they were mated, he
brought her back with him to our tribe’s
Darkhaven in his country.”
“Your tribe?”
Jehan’s dark brows quirked. “A
relic of a term.” He shrugged it off, but
something mysterious flickered in his
mesmerizing gaze. “My father’s Breed
line is very old. Its roots go deep into
Moroccan soil. Burrowed in almost as
stubbornly as the old man’s heels.”
“What about you?” Melena asked,
genuinely curious.
Jehan inclined his head, almost
courtly in its tilt. “To my father’s eternal
regret, his eldest son’s feet refused to
stay put. Despite the shackle of
obligation he’s tried to affix to them.”
As they spoke, the door opened