Tempted by Midnight
Page 8
She wasn’t able to finish what she was saying because in that same instant, Lazaro tensed. His head snapped up, eyes searching the dark sky. Some of the blood seemed to drain out of his grim face in that fraction of a second.
“Fuck,” he snarled, his grip tightening on Melena’s arms. “Goddamnit, no.”
He lunged into motion, yanking her against him protectively. His arms wrapped around her. He then tumbled her over the railing of the second-level deck along with him...
Just as a screaming object arrowed down from the sky.
It hit the yacht, a direct, dead center strike.
The vessel exploded. On the deafening boom of impact, Melena crashed into the hard waves with Lazaro. Engulfed by the cold, horrified by what she was seeing, all the air left her lungs on an anguished cry. She tried to break away, but Lazaro held her close, refusing to let her swim back up to find her father.
Together she and Lazaro sank deep into the water, falling down, and down, and down...
Far above them, a hellish ball of flame had erupted on the surface. Fiery chunks of debris dropped into the sea everywhere she looked.
There was only ruin left up there.
The yacht and all of its occupants obliterated in an instant.
CHAPTER 3
By Lazaro’s guess, they had been in the water roughly two hours before Anzio’s cliff-edged shore was finally within sight. Bleeding from shrapnel wounds and battered by the long journey, he was close to exhaustion—even with the preternatural strength and speed of Breed genetics at his command.
Melena was faring far worse. She was limp against him, having fallen unconscious somewhere around the halfway point of their swim. Although she wasn’t entirely mortal either, her human metabolism could not cope with the prolonged exposure in the cold seawater.
In that regard, Lazaro was doubly fortunate. Being Breed had given him another advantage. The same one that had allowed him to pull Melena out of the frozen pond twenty-two years ago. His ability to withstand extreme temperatures had given him the strength to search for her under the ice and pull her to safety before she drowned.
He hoped he hadn’t lost her tonight.
Lazaro held her close at his side as he paddled the last few hundred yards with his free arm. As soon as his bare feet were able to touch ground, he repositioned Melena in both arms and ran her toward the empty, moonlit beach.
The bulky cliffs that lined the shore loomed just ahead. Several large caves were burrowed into the rock—black, yawning mouths that had once been part of an ancient Roman emperor’s crumbled stone villa that was a thousand years in ruin. Lazaro carried Melena inside one of the caves, past a littering of rough rocks and pools of tidal water, to a spot where the sand was soft and dry underfoot.
As he set her down, he couldn’t help revisiting the night he’d carried a lifeless little girl into his Darkhaven in Boston. He’d remembered every minute of it, despite the indifference he’d feigned with Melena earlier on the yacht. She had been a seven-year-old child that first, and last, time he saw her before tonight. Back then, she had been as helpless and fragile as a baby bird to his mind. He’d rescued her the same way he would have done for any innocent child.
But now...
Now, Melena Walsh was a grown woman. She was as enticing a woman as he’d ever seen—even more so, with her lovely face and thick red hair, and all of her soft, feminine curves that drew his eye even as he carefully arranged her unresponsive, alarmingly chilled body on the sand.
And as fiercely as he’d wanted to save her life in Boston, he wanted to save her now.
Not the least of his reasons being his need to know what secret she was keeping from him. She’d been on the verge of telling him in the seconds before the yacht was blown to pieces. If that secret had anything to do with the attack tonight, he was going to see that Melena answered for it.
Lazaro felt in his bones that Opus Nostrum was behind the brazen act. Whoever did it knew just who and where to strike. But how did they know? Both parties were meticulously screened by the Order. Lazaro had personally vetted everyone in attendance, right down to the last man on the vessel’s crew tonight. He’d approved them all.
Except Melena Walsh.
He gazed at her in the cave’s darkness, his Breed eyes seeing her as clearly as if it were midday. She was beautiful, stunningly so. She was poised, intelligent, erudite. And he’d seen her wield her charm without effort over Turati and the rest of the men at the meeting.
Lazaro couldn’t deny he’d been equally affected. More than affected, despite his unwillingness to give it reins. A woman like Melena would make a deadly asset, if allied with the wrong people.
He didn’t want to think she might be his enemy, intentional or otherwise.
The fact that she’d nearly gotten killed tonight along with everyone else made it impossible to imagine her presence on the yacht could have had anything to do with the catastrophe that followed.
She would give him the truth, but first he had to make sure she stayed alive to do so.
Lazaro scowled at her sodden, bruised condition. Her skirt was shredded, her shoes lost like his somewhere between the yacht and the shore. Her blouse was in tatters, the burgundy colored silk dark with seawater...and blood. Fortunately, most of it was his.
Her hair drooped lifelessly into her face. Lazaro smoothed away some of the drenched red tangles, letting out a low curse when he saw how white her skin was. Her lips were slack, turned an alarming shade of blue. She had contusions on her forehead and chin. Blood from a scalp wound trailed in a bright red rivulet down her temple.
“Fuck,” he snarled, his grip tightening on Melena’s arms. “Goddamnit, no.”
He lunged into motion, yanking her against him protectively. His arms wrapped around her. He then tumbled her over the railing of the second-level deck along with him...
Just as a screaming object arrowed down from the sky.
It hit the yacht, a direct, dead center strike.
The vessel exploded. On the deafening boom of impact, Melena crashed into the hard waves with Lazaro. Engulfed by the cold, horrified by what she was seeing, all the air left her lungs on an anguished cry. She tried to break away, but Lazaro held her close, refusing to let her swim back up to find her father.
Together she and Lazaro sank deep into the water, falling down, and down, and down...
Far above them, a hellish ball of flame had erupted on the surface. Fiery chunks of debris dropped into the sea everywhere she looked.
There was only ruin left up there.
The yacht and all of its occupants obliterated in an instant.
CHAPTER 3
By Lazaro’s guess, they had been in the water roughly two hours before Anzio’s cliff-edged shore was finally within sight. Bleeding from shrapnel wounds and battered by the long journey, he was close to exhaustion—even with the preternatural strength and speed of Breed genetics at his command.
Melena was faring far worse. She was limp against him, having fallen unconscious somewhere around the halfway point of their swim. Although she wasn’t entirely mortal either, her human metabolism could not cope with the prolonged exposure in the cold seawater.
In that regard, Lazaro was doubly fortunate. Being Breed had given him another advantage. The same one that had allowed him to pull Melena out of the frozen pond twenty-two years ago. His ability to withstand extreme temperatures had given him the strength to search for her under the ice and pull her to safety before she drowned.
He hoped he hadn’t lost her tonight.
Lazaro held her close at his side as he paddled the last few hundred yards with his free arm. As soon as his bare feet were able to touch ground, he repositioned Melena in both arms and ran her toward the empty, moonlit beach.
The bulky cliffs that lined the shore loomed just ahead. Several large caves were burrowed into the rock—black, yawning mouths that had once been part of an ancient Roman emperor’s crumbled stone villa that was a thousand years in ruin. Lazaro carried Melena inside one of the caves, past a littering of rough rocks and pools of tidal water, to a spot where the sand was soft and dry underfoot.
As he set her down, he couldn’t help revisiting the night he’d carried a lifeless little girl into his Darkhaven in Boston. He’d remembered every minute of it, despite the indifference he’d feigned with Melena earlier on the yacht. She had been a seven-year-old child that first, and last, time he saw her before tonight. Back then, she had been as helpless and fragile as a baby bird to his mind. He’d rescued her the same way he would have done for any innocent child.
But now...
Now, Melena Walsh was a grown woman. She was as enticing a woman as he’d ever seen—even more so, with her lovely face and thick red hair, and all of her soft, feminine curves that drew his eye even as he carefully arranged her unresponsive, alarmingly chilled body on the sand.
And as fiercely as he’d wanted to save her life in Boston, he wanted to save her now.
Not the least of his reasons being his need to know what secret she was keeping from him. She’d been on the verge of telling him in the seconds before the yacht was blown to pieces. If that secret had anything to do with the attack tonight, he was going to see that Melena answered for it.
Lazaro felt in his bones that Opus Nostrum was behind the brazen act. Whoever did it knew just who and where to strike. But how did they know? Both parties were meticulously screened by the Order. Lazaro had personally vetted everyone in attendance, right down to the last man on the vessel’s crew tonight. He’d approved them all.
Except Melena Walsh.
He gazed at her in the cave’s darkness, his Breed eyes seeing her as clearly as if it were midday. She was beautiful, stunningly so. She was poised, intelligent, erudite. And he’d seen her wield her charm without effort over Turati and the rest of the men at the meeting.
Lazaro couldn’t deny he’d been equally affected. More than affected, despite his unwillingness to give it reins. A woman like Melena would make a deadly asset, if allied with the wrong people.
He didn’t want to think she might be his enemy, intentional or otherwise.
The fact that she’d nearly gotten killed tonight along with everyone else made it impossible to imagine her presence on the yacht could have had anything to do with the catastrophe that followed.
She would give him the truth, but first he had to make sure she stayed alive to do so.
Lazaro scowled at her sodden, bruised condition. Her skirt was shredded, her shoes lost like his somewhere between the yacht and the shore. Her blouse was in tatters, the burgundy colored silk dark with seawater...and blood. Fortunately, most of it was his.
Her hair drooped lifelessly into her face. Lazaro smoothed away some of the drenched red tangles, letting out a low curse when he saw how white her skin was. Her lips were slack, turned an alarming shade of blue. She had contusions on her forehead and chin. Blood from a scalp wound trailed in a bright red rivulet down her temple.
