Assassin's Heart

by Monica Burns

  Trembling with horror and disgust, she tried to call for Lysander, but a firm pressure covered her mouth, preventing her from calling out. Oh God, this couldn’t be happening. Sickened by the violating touches, she struggled to break free of her attacker’s invisible grip once more. Her attempt met with a response that terrified her.

  Relentless and unyielding, a firm pressure crept its way over every inch of her body until she was incapable of moving. It didn’t just hold her in place. It emphasized how powerless she was to stop him. The bastardo was in complete control, and she’d never felt so helpless in her entire life. The man’s lust flooded her senses, and she released a soft sob as unseen hands slid over her waist to lightly stroke the underside of her breasts. She whimpered at the nauseating touch.

  Where was Lysander; couldn’t he see something was wrong? The sensation of derisive laughter crawled across her skin in the same revolting way as her attacker’s unseen hands. He could feel her terror, and he liked it. She bit back tears. The man could do whatever

  he wanted with her, and she couldn’t stop him.

  Stunned, she tried to deny what was happening to her, but the invisible stroke inching its way slowly up her inner thigh told her otherwise. Revulsion sent bile racing to her throat, and with a strength born of fear she partially broke free of her unseen assailant’s grip. She turned toward Lysander and took two steps before an incredible pressure crashed into her body. Helpless again, she saw Lysander racing toward her.

  He was at her side in seconds, and she immediately sensed a change in her attacker. The invisible presence suddenly seemed surprised then irritated, almost as if he’d made an unexpected discovery. Her attacker’s mental hold eased slightly then tightened.

  “You’ll have to go through me first, you sorry fuck,” Lysander snarled in a low voice.

  If she didn’t know better, she would have thought Lysander was actually communicating telepathically with her assailant. She choked back a cry as the invisible touch slipped off her then clutched her thigh in a merciless grip. She could almost hear the man’s laughter. It said he could have easily kept her from moving, and there was the unspoken promise that he’d find her again.

  Suddenly she was free and stumbling back into the piazza with Lysander’s arm supporting her at her waist. She staggered to a halt, but Lysander ruthlessly grabbed her arm at the elbow and hurried her forward again.

  “No,” he growled. “We’re leaving. Now.”

  She knew better than to argue with him, and she didn’t want to. A shudder ripped through her as she allowed Lysander to hurry her back to where they’d parked the motorcycle. She darted a look behind her and flinched as Lysander squeezed her elbow.

  “Don’t look back,” he ordered sharply. “If he’s watching, he’ll know you’re afraid.”

  “Afraid? He already knows I’m afraid of him. I haven’t been this scared since I killed my first Praetorian,” she snapped as another wave of anger swept through her. She wanted to kill the bastardo who had just terrorized her. “I couldn’t see him, but he could damn well see me. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for the vibes I was getting. The son of a bitch enjoyed what he did to me.”

  The memory of the way he’d touched her made her stomach start to churn. Deus, she’d felt so helpless. The thought of what might have happened to her if Lysander hadn’t been with her only increased her nausea. The minute they reached the parked motorbike, she jerked free of Lysander’s hold. Bracing herself against the wall with one hand, she threw up what was left of her breakfast. When she finished, Lysander offered her a package of tissues. She grabbed several of the white sheets and wiped her mouth.

  “Since when do you carry tissues?” she rasped.

  “I don’t.” He nodded toward the shop across the street as she looked up at him. “Thank the shopkeeper across the street.”

  She looked around him and saw the elderly woman standing in the doorway of a small gift shop. With a weak smile, she waved her thanks to the woman watching them with a concerned look. When she looked back at Lysander, she saw a troubled expression furrowing his brow.

  The instant he realized she was watching him, his face returned to its usual stoic look. She closed her eyes as she struggled with the horror of what had just happened. A hand touched her arm, and she recoiled. Eyes flashing open, she met Lysander’s unrelenting gaze.

  “I know,” she murmured. “We have to go.”

  Lysander handed her helmet to her in silence, and in less than a minute, they roared away from the historic site. Arms wrapped tightly around Lysander’s waist, she didn’t care where they were going. She just knew she wanted to get away from the temple. Eyes closed, she tried not to think about what had just happened.

  But it was impossible. She shuddered as she remembered the way the man had touched her. It had to have been a rogue Sicari who’d assaulted her. She couldn’t come up with any other explanation. Praetorians were telepaths. They didn’t have telekinetic abilities. That wasn’t entirely true. Her stomach lurched with a sickening sensation as she considered the whispers of her childhood. She immediately dismissed the idea. Praetorian Dominus were a myth. The man had to have been a rogue, but even they usually didn’t hide like this one had.

  She’d expected open confrontation, something where she could fight back. Not this type of an assault where she was helpless to do anything to save herself. Even worse had been the eerie way the bastardo had reacted to her terror. It was almost as if he could read her fear. That meant he had to have been close enough to see her. See how frightened she was.

  Deus, there had only been one other time when she’d been that terrified—that helpless—in her entire life. She’d lied to Lysander. The night she’d killed her first Praetorian hadn’t been frightening at all. Until today, nothing had surpassed the terror she’d felt the night the Praetorians had murdered her parents. She choked back her tears. She wasn’t about to cry in front of Lysander two days in a row.

  Moments later, the bike slowed and swerved slightly. When she opened her eyes, she saw they’d returned to the safe house. She hopped off the bike and stepped around Lysander to knock on his visor. He pushed it up to stare at her in silence.

  “Why did we come back here?” she snapped in reaction to the thought he intended to

  leave her here. Alone. “There are at least four other monuments we need to photograph.”

  “We’re done for the day.” He draped one arm over the bike handle, his other resting on his hip as he studied her. “I think you need some breathing room.”

  “I’m fine.” She shook her head in protest. If she went back inside, she’d be alone, and she didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want him to leave her. “We need to complete our portion of the grid.”

  “It can wait until I get to it.”

  “No,” she exclaimed vehemently. “You are not going to leave me here alone. I refuse to let that bastardo win, and if I go inside and hide, he wins.”

  He tugged the helmet off his head and ran a hand through his short, cropped hair. She could tell he was angry, but he was also uncomfortable. Obviously, he didn’t know how to handle something like this, but then neither did she. Had he expected her to just retreat into the safe house like a meek little mouse? His jaw hard with tension, he shook his head.

  “I don’t have any intention of leaving you alone, Phaedra,” he said quietly.

  There was a fierce, protective quality about his demeanor that made her heart skip a beat. It made her feel safe. As if protecting her wasn’t just business, but that her safety was important to him because he cared about her. She immediately crushed the hope trying to grow inside her. She was a fool to think he felt anything for her other than a sense of responsibility.

  “Then stop arguing with me, and let’s finish our grid,” she said firmly. “I’ll be fine.”

  She looked away from him and fought to control the sickening feeling taking root in her stomach as she remembered those few short moments of vu
lnerability. She knew rogue Sicari often came to hate their own kind, but this man had been different. His hatred of the Sicari had equaled the fierce hatred she’d sensed in the Praetorians she’d fought. It had been malevolent and twisted.

  The chill of it still lingered on her skin. She trembled at the memory of the rogue’s unseen touch sliding over her body. It had seemed to take an eternity for Lysander to reach her. All the while, she’d been powerless to stop the invasive touch of that sick bastardo. Was that what it had been like for Lysander when the Praetorians had tortured him? That helpless feeling?

  “You need to talk about it with someone, Phaedra.” There was a gentleness in his voice that steadied her nerves. “He violated you, and you can’t lock it up inside of you.”

  “You’re a good one to talk,” she said sharply. “You’ve not bothered to talk to anyone

  about what happened to you.”

  “I talked to Atia.” Stunned by his statement, she stared at him in silence. Arms resting on the motorcycle’s handlebars, he shrugged. “I knew I needed to talk to someone.”

  You could have talked to me. She ignored the small dart of relief that he’d not talked to Cleo. Instead, she waved his words aside.

  “All he did was grope me. I’ll be fine.” Her abrupt response made him narrow his eye.

  “I could order you to stay here.”

  “You could, but you won’t,” she said in a stiff voice.

  “Christus, and Atia calls Ares an obstinate devil.” With a slight shake of his head, he released a harsh breath. “I know I’m going to regret this, but we’ll continue, on one condition.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not to leave my side for one second. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  There wasn’t any way she would admit it to him, but it was a condition she was more than happy to follow. He eyed her carefully for a moment before he nodded his head. She stepped forward to get back on the bike, and his hand shot out to catch hers in a gentle grip.

  “I’ll find him, Phaedra, and when I do, I’ll make him pay.” The harsh note in his voice made her shake her head as she stared into that vivid green eye of his.

  “How in the hell do you think you can find a rogue Sicari? You’re not a telepath.”

  “Rogue Sicari or not. I’ll find him.”

  His emphatic statement made her swallow hard as she nodded. A second later, he released her, and she threw her leg over the leather bike seat. As she settled into the curved seat, she wrapped her arms around his waist. The man couldn’t possibly think her assailant had been Praetorian, could he? No. That wasn’t possible. Lysander didn’t have the ability to read minds nor did he have intuitive powers like her. So how in the name of Jupiter’s Stone did he think he could find her assailant?

  The real problem was whether her assailant would find her, and she was convinced the son of a bitch wouldn’t have any trouble finding her at all. And if his telekinetic ability was as strong as she thought it was, she wasn’t going to be safe when he found her. She wrapped her arms around Lysander’s waist, and a dark chill sluiced across her skin as the motorcycle rolled out into the street again. Suddenly, she wished she were back home in Chicago.

  Chapter 9

  THE minute she entered the safe house’s foyer, she heard the laughter filtering through the narrow hall that led into the kitchen. The sweet aroma of herbs and spices filled her nostrils, causing her stomach to growl with hunger. It surprised her. She hadn’t realized she was even hungry.

  Lysander had offered to stop and eat several times throughout the day, but the idea of food had simply churned her stomach. The fact that she hadn’t wanted anything to eat only emphasized how badly shaken she was by her encounter with the rogue Sicari. She pushed aside the dark memory, refusing to give in to the unsettling helplessness it continued to breed inside her.

  Her neck tingled as Lysander came through the front door after her. No matter where she was, she always knew when he was nearby. It was like an internal radar set just to his signal. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she gestured toward the kitchen.

  “Sounds and smells like dinner.” She turned away from him, but his hand stopped her from moving.

  “If you’re not up to eating with everyone, I can have your meal sent to your rooms.”

  She looked at him from over her shoulder with mixed emotions. Ever since this morning, he’d been treating her with kid gloves. While she appreciated his concern for her wellbeing, it was wreaking havoc with her heart. The worst thing was knowing that at any minute they’d go back to the way it had been for the past year. Cold words and that callous disregard whenever she was around. She shook her head.

  “I’m fine.” She forced a smile to her lips. “I’m actually hungry, and it smells like you have some serious competition in the kitchen.”

  As she headed down the narrow corridor with Lysander behind her, she heard him mutter something under his breath. But when she glanced back at him, his features were unreadable. A moment later, she entered the bright and homey kitchen. Cleo was the first to notice their arrival and she arched her eyebrow at them.

  “All hail the conquering heroes,” her friend said with a laugh as they entered the spacious kitchen and adjoining dining area. “We were beginning to think we’d have to send out a search and rescue team. Run into trouble?”

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle.” She forced a note of bravado into her voice to ward off any unwanted inquiries. “We just had a lot of pictures to take.”

  “You look pale, bella.” Luciano Pasquale stared at her from across the wide expanse of counter where he was dishing out servings of cannelloni from two large casserole dishes. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Her radar kicked in again as Lysander stiffened beside her. His tension was a clear sign he was still on duty as her protector. She suppressed a sigh. If only his behavior was because he cared about her. Ignoring the silent guardian at her side, she smiled at Luciano.

  “Honestly? I’m weak with hunger,” she said. “It smells wonderful. Who’s the cook? And don’t say Cleo, because I know better.”

  Maria Atellus, plate in one hand, pointed with the other toward Pasquale. “Luciano made it because Cleo bet him that he couldn’t beat the Legatus’s cannelloni recipe.”

  Angelo Atellus lifted up a large bowl of salad over his wife’s head and carried it through the wide French doors that opened out onto a large, glass-enclosed patio. Over his shoulder, he ordered his wife to bring him a plate of food and proceeded to set the silver bowl on the large table sitting under a wooden trellis covered with grape vines. From where Phae stood at the counter, she could see Atia talking with Marco, the Primus Pilus.

  “Angelo, where’s the olive oil and vinegar?” Violetta shouted over Cleo, who was chastising Luciano for having dripped sauce onto the counter.

  Pasquale didn’t bother to respond to her friend’s exasperated comments. Instead, he gestured for her to grab a plate. “Come on, Phae, take a plate, and let me introduce you to my heavenly cooking.”

  “Ego’s not a problem for you, is it, Luciano,” she said with a laugh.

  “Never, carissima. Nor do I let it stand in my way when I see something I want.”

  There was a playfulness about his arrogance that made him charming as opposed to annoying. Laughing, she reached for a plate, but Lysander beat her to the stack of yellow plates with a grapevine design encircling the edges. A plate in each hand, he stretched out over the counter and silently waited for Luciano to fill the dishes. The look on Pasquale’s face went from jovial flirting to one of careful appraisal.

  Lysander’s tension showed in the way the scarred tissue covering his cheek was drawn tight over the bone. The black patch covering his missing eye only emphasized the menacing bearing reflected in his stance. She couldn’t see his eye from where she was standing, but she was certain it would be the icy green color it always turned when he was trying to intimidate someone.

  Startled
by his action, she stiffened slightly as Cleo raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward Phaedra. Christus, the woman was going to grill her the first chance she got.

  Ignoring her friend’s speculative look, she accepted the plate of food Lysander handed her and headed out to the terrace.