Tempted by Midnight
Page 12
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 again and the blond warrior came in. He grinned, his hazel eyes bouncing off Jehan for a second before fixing on Melena. “I see Prince Jehan is already trying to dazzle you with his long, boring pedigree.”
Melena swung a questioning look on the enigmatic warrior. “Prince?”
Jehan grunted under his breath, but didn’t deny it. “What are you doing here, Sav? You know damned well Lazaro’s orders were that no one enter this room or speak to Melena without his permission.”
Melena wanted to be offended by the news of that domineering command, but her two visitors were a welcome distraction from everything else going on. Not the least of which being Lazaro Archer’s stinging rejection of her in the cave. A sting that hurt all the worse for his tenderness when he touched her...kissed her.
“We weren’t properly introduced,” Sav said. “Ettore Roberto Selvaggio.”
His dimples deepened along with his heart-stopping smile. His Italian accent seemed to deepen as well, the kind of accent that probably ensured he never wanted for female company.
“Melena Walsh,” she replied. “I thought I heard Lazaro call you Savage.”
“Lazaro?” he echoed.
She felt color rise to her cheeks. “Your commander. Mr. Archer. Whatever I should call him,” she muttered. The man who saved her life, awoke an irresistible desire in her, but made her feel as if he might have rather left her behind in Anzio a few hours ago. “I think he despises me.”
The two Breed males now exchanged a look. Jehan was the first to talk. “Don’t let him scare you. It’s just his way.”
“Come on, man,” his comrade said. “It goes a bit deeper than that.”
Melena glanced at them both. “What do you mean?”
“The way I heard it, Archer’s never been the same since he lost his family back in Boston twenty years ago,” Sav said. “He blames himself, I imagine.”
“Why would he do that?” She couldn’t begin to guess how Lazaro could hold himself even the least responsible for what happened to his kin. “The Darkhaven was attacked while he wasn’t home. It was razed to the ground.”
“Yes,” Jehan agreed soberly. “And now imagine you have the incredible gift of walking into even the most extreme temperature and emerging wholly unscathed. But you’re not there when the attack on your own loved ones takes place.”
“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 again and the blond warrior came in. He grinned, his hazel eyes bouncing off Jehan for a second before fixing on Melena. “I see Prince Jehan is already trying to dazzle you with his long, boring pedigree.”
Melena swung a questioning look on the enigmatic warrior. “Prince?”
Jehan grunted under his breath, but didn’t deny it. “What are you doing here, Sav? You know damned well Lazaro’s orders were that no one enter this room or speak to Melena without his permission.”
Melena wanted to be offended by the news of that domineering command, but her two visitors were a welcome distraction from everything else going on. Not the least of which being Lazaro Archer’s stinging rejection of her in the cave. A sting that hurt all the worse for his tenderness when he touched her...kissed her.
“We weren’t properly introduced,” Sav said. “Ettore Roberto Selvaggio.”
His dimples deepened along with his heart-stopping smile. His Italian accent seemed to deepen as well, the kind of accent that probably ensured he never wanted for female company.
“Melena Walsh,” she replied. “I thought I heard Lazaro call you Savage.”
“Lazaro?” he echoed.
She felt color rise to her cheeks. “Your commander. Mr. Archer. Whatever I should call him,” she muttered. The man who saved her life, awoke an irresistible desire in her, but made her feel as if he might have rather left her behind in Anzio a few hours ago. “I think he despises me.”
The two Breed males now exchanged a look. Jehan was the first to talk. “Don’t let him scare you. It’s just his way.”
“Come on, man,” his comrade said. “It goes a bit deeper than that.”
Melena glanced at them both. “What do you mean?”
“The way I heard it, Archer’s never been the same since he lost his family back in Boston twenty years ago,” Sav said. “He blames himself, I imagine.”
“Why would he do that?” She couldn’t begin to guess how Lazaro could hold himself even the least responsible for what happened to his kin. “The Darkhaven was attacked while he wasn’t home. It was razed to the ground.”
“Yes,” Jehan agreed soberly. “And now imagine you have the incredible gift of walking into even the most extreme temperature and emerging wholly unscathed. But you’re not there when the attack on your own loved ones takes place.”
