Tempted by Midnight 12.5 Read online

  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