deny—as how it felt being with Lazaro.
She wrapped her hand around his
nape and pulled him down in a deep,
scorching kiss. With her other hand, she
sought out his cock and grasped it firmly,
pumping his length in sure, steady
strokes. She didn’t let go of his mouth or
his penis for a good long moment. When
she did, she gave him a smile against his
parted lips and the fangs that now filled
his mouth even more than before. “See?”
she told him. “I’m not going to break.”
He uttered a low, vicious curse that
sounded to be half relief and half
anguish.
Then he positioned himself at her
body’s entrance and drove home, deep
and slow and long, all the way to the
hilt.
He filled her so completely she
could hardly summon her breath. Then
he started to pivot in and out, rolling his
hips in controlled, tantalizing swivels
that dragged a curse out of her too.
Sweet pressure spiraled within her core
as he pushed her toward another climax.
He didn’t go gently, instead driving into
her so far and fully, it was all she could
do to hold on to him and let her body
shatter in his arms.
Lazaro watched her as she came,
his eyes locked on hers. She couldn’t
look away. The power of the connection
was too intense. He felt it too—he had to
have felt it.
As his own release built, then
broke on a coarse shout, he kept his gaze
fastened on hers too. It was so intense, so startlingly real, this thing coming to
life between them.
If anything had the power to terrify
her, it was this.
The feeling that she had already
given herself to this man. A man who
had pretended he barely remembered her
when he first saw her on Turati’s yacht.
A man who warned her not to get
close to him, all but threatened that he
would only hurt her.
And here she was, giving him her
body.
Staring into his eyes as she
surrendered the most intimate part of
herself to him, and imagining that she
could so easily let herself fall. That
maybe she already had. Maybe the men
in her past had been right. They would
never have been good enough for her.
Because all along, what she wanted
them to be was someone like Lazaro
Archer. Brave. Loyal. And yes, heroic,
even if he refused to accept that truth.
She didn’t need him to be perfect,
because even through the haze of
affection and searing desire, she knew
he would never be perfect. He didn’t
need to be. Not for her to want him like
she did. Not for her to feel so right, so
safe and contented in his arms.
Oh, God...could she be falling so
fast?
Did she dare?
Melena finally broke his gaze then,
turning her head away from him to the
side, bewildered by her epiphany.
Her heart was pounding hard,
making her carotid tick palpably in the
side of her neck.
She didn’t have to look back to him
to know that Lazaro’s amber eyes had
drifted to that fluttering vein. She felt the
heat of his stare. Then she heard a
dangerously low growl curl up from the
back of his throat.
She went very still, terrified he
might bite her.
Terrified he wouldn’t.
“Lazaro?” she whispered, uncertain
what she was about to ask him to do.
She slowly pivoted her head back
to look at him and saw torment in his
handsome, otherworldly face. And fury.
He drew back from her on a hiss.
His expression was wild looking,
intense...and his smoldering aura told
her he was balanced on the razor’s edge
of a rigidly held, but tenuous, control.
* * * *
What the fuck was he doing?
Lazaro came to his senses as if
physically struck. He was still buried
inside Melena’s hot, wet heat, his pulse
still charged and racing. His cock was
still hard, still greedy, even after the
climax that had ripped through him with
brutal ferocity.
And he’d been reckless enough to
let his fevered gaze drift to the vein that
throbbed so enticingly in the side of her
vulnerable throat.
Christ.
He’d
nearly
lost
control—
something he never allowed to happen.
Not once in twenty years had he even
been tempted. His guard was always up,
his will impenetrable.
Even then, he’d made a habit of
avoiding women like Melena, females
with the Breedmate mark. To drink from
one of her kind would tie him to her
singularly,
irrevocably.
He
would
always crave her. He would always feel
her in his blood, in the root of his
soul...unless death severed the bond, as
it did when he lost Ellie.
Why the thought didn’t freeze his
thirst or shrivel his desire for Melena,
he didn’t want to know. And he sure as
hell wasn’t going to sit there pondering
that fact as she gaped at him in mute
terror.
“Damn it.” He pulled out of her on
a roar. As difficult as it was to deny
himself the feel of her silken grip on his
shaft—as much as he wanted to have her
now, still, again and again—he needed
the separation more.
What he needed was to put as much
distance as possible between her soft,
inviting body and the blood hunger that
was suddenly twisting him in vicious
knots.
He got off the bed to collect his
clothes.
“What are you doing?” Melena
asked from behind him. When he began
to dress, he heard her slide across the
sheets. “Talk to me, please.”
He couldn’t form words, let alone
push them out of his mouth. He still
wanted her too much, and he feared that
if he let himself cave to that need now,
he might not be able to reign it back in.
He zipped up his pants, ignoring the
persistent bulge of his uncooperative
arousal. His hands moved hastily,
aggressively, as he donned his shirt, then
bent to retrieve his boots.
He had plenty of human females he
could call upon to slake his needs. A
pity he didn’t think to do that before he
made the mistake of putting himself
alone in the company of a Breedmate as
tempting as Melena.
And
what
a
feeble
fucking
rationalization that was.
Nothing would satisfy him more
than to dismiss his near-mistake as
something that might have occurred with
any female sporting the teardrop-and-
crescent-moon birthmark. Far more
troubling to realize that it was this
woman who tempted him like no other.
Melena Walsh would continue to
tempt him for as long as she remained in
his care, under his dubious protection.
He didn’t know how a woman
who’d
come
into
his
life
so
unexpectedly—not
to
mention
temporarily—was making him hungry
for things that would come with a very
permanent price.
“You’re just going to walk away
then?” She stood beside the bed,
watching him prepare to make his
escape. For a long moment, she said
nothing more, her silence ripe with hurt
and confusion, almost too much for him
to bear. “You’re not even going to
acknowledge what almost happened just
now?”
That he was only an instant away
from taking her vein between his teeth?
Or that every particle of his being was
so ravenous for a taste of her Breedmate
blood, there was a chance he might still
act on the powerful impulse?
The memory of her blood scent
hadn’t left him since he’d first caught a trace of it back in the cave. He knew
what she would taste like: caramel and
dark, ripe cherries. On top of the other
decadent sweetness that still lingered on
his tongue from his carnal exploration of
her body.
Lazaro cursed roundly, a nasty
profanity spoken in a language only the
eldest of the Breed like him would
comprehend.
“No, Melena, I’m not going to
acknowledge it.” He caught her gaze,
knowing how cold his own must look
through her eyes. Yet even as he
glowered, furious with his own lack of
control, his traitorous body had lost none
of its interest in her. “And yes, I am
going to walk away, and what happened
here will not happen again.”
She stared at him. “I think we both
know better than that. You still want me,
Lazaro. I don’t need to read your aura to
see that.”
“This was a mistake,” he snarled
through teeth and fangs. “I damned well
won’t complicate it any more by letting
it become something both of us will
regret forever.”
He turned and walked out the door.
Before his shaky resolve could
break completely.
CHAPTER 8
True to his word, he didn’t return.
She had showered and dressed,
even eaten a fresh meal that Jehan had
brought up to her sometime after Lazaro
had gone. That was hours ago, according
to the old grandfather clock in the
hallway. It was well into the evening
before she’d finally given up waiting,
wondering...God, pitifully hoping, that
he would come back and at least talk to
her after the incredible passion they’d
shared.
Her psychic gift prevented her from
sulking over doubts about Lazaro’s
intentions. It wasn’t that he didn’t want
her tonight. He’d left because he wanted
her too much.
But that didn’t change the fact that
he was quite obviously avoiding her.
She’d since begun pacing the
residential suites in the clothing he
bought for her, feeling like a prisoner in
a beautiful, unlocked cage. Although she
had the entire fourth floor to explore,
decency kept her from snooping too
avidly through Lazaro’s home. Not that
she’d find anything very personal in his
quarters, she’d realized fairly quickly.
Each room was consummately
appointed with elegant furnishings and a
variety of fine things. Sophisticated
pieces, tasteful antiques, a wealth of
heirloom Oriental rugs—the kind of
things she might expect someone who’d
lived as long as him would appreciate.
But there was nothing personal in
Lazaro’s home. Nothing modern.
There were no photographs on the
bureaus or sofa tables or walls. No
mementoes scattered about in any of the
meticulously kept rooms. There was
nothing to remind him of the past
century, let alone the past twenty years.
He lived here in a carefully
curated, elegant isolation.
Her conversation with Jehan and
Savage came back to her now. The fact
that Lazaro had never fully gotten over
the deaths of his mate and family. That
he blamed himself for not being able to
save them. And so he’d joined the Order
and exiled himself to this place.
If he hadn’t found room in his heart
for anything or anyone in the past two
decades, how could she hope he might
let her in after just a couple of days?
She had half a mind to confront him
about the way he was living his life.
Maybe it wasn’t her place to call him on
it. Maybe she’d be better off leaving
well enough alone and simply wait to
return home to the States, where she had
her own life to manage.
A life that no longer included her
fresh wave of grief to think that Lazaro’s
entry into her life came at the loss of
someone else she loved. But even before
losing her father last night, even before
the loss of her dear mother years before,
Melena realized that her life was
missing something vital.
She had a life that, if she were truly
being honest with herself, wasn’t so
much different from the cage Lazaro had
built around himself here in Rome.
She had a nice apartment of her
own at her father’s Darkhaven in
Baltimore. She had friends. She had
lovers when she wanted them. She had
colleagues at her father’s office and in
the GNC. She had her Breed brother,
Derek. She had a full life and plenty of
companionship whenever she needed it.
And yet, deep down, she was so
lonely.
She saw that same emptiness in
Lazaro. Maybe he saw it in her too.
Maybe that’s why when their gazes had
locked in the midst of their release
tonight, the connection had felt so real.
So nakedly, startlingly real.
How could he expect her to ignore
that as if it hadn’t happened?
She couldn’t.
And she wouldn’t, not without a
fight.
Whatever was building so swiftly
—powerfully—between them had a
chance of growing into something
extraordinary. She felt that with a
certainty in her bones, in her blood. And
she knew she wasn’t alone in that
feeling.
So, like it or not, Lazaro Archer
was simply going to have to talk to her.
He might be accustomed to blustering
and bossing his way around everyone
else in his life, but she wouldn’t stand
for it.
Steeling herself for a battle she
wasn’t sure she could win, Melena left
the suite on the fourth floor and headed
downstairs to the mansion’s main level.
It was quiet down there, so she
continued on, toward the connected
command center of the estate.
She didn’t get far.
From out of nowhere, a massive
wall of muscle materialized to block her
path.
It wasn’t Lazaro. Not Savage or
Jehan either.
She looked up and found herself
gaping into the cold, hard face of the one
warrior she hadn’t yet met. His shaved
head and jagged scar made him look
even more lethal than the dark stare he
held her in now.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t seem
inclined to make even the remotest effort
to put her at ease.
Melena lifted her chin in defiance.
“I’m looking for Lazaro.”
“He’s not here.” God, that voice
was coarse gravel. “And you shouldn’t
be down here either, female.”
As he spoke, Savage and Jehan
came out of a nearby chamber in the
corridor. Sav hissed. “Trygg, for fuck’s
sake. Go easy on her. Save the venom
for tonight’s patrol.”
When the scarred vampire didn’t so
much as twitch in acknowledgment,
Jehan stepped forward, placing himself
between Melena and the warrior who
bristled with a feral darkness.
Jehan squared off against his
comrade, gently guiding Melena behind
him. “I’m only going to say it once.
Back. The. Fuck. Down.”
The one called Trygg had an aura
that verged on feral. The menacing haze
sent a shiver up Melena’s spine. She
saw pain there too, buried deep, but it
was a dangerous pain, as sharp as
razorblades.
For a long moment, Trygg didn’t
move. Neither did Jehan. It wasn’t clear
which warrior would be the first to spill
the other’s blood, but there was no
mistaking that cool, calm, and cultured
Jehan was every bit as lethal as his
barely leashed brother-in-arms.
Perhaps more so. Jehan’s aura