Assassin's Heart

by Monica Burns

  “I’m fine.”

  “He told me you think it was a rogue Sicari. Are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure what else he could be.” She shrugged, dismissing the fantastical notions she’d considered earlier.

  “When I talked to Lysander, he said you were quite upset.”

  “I’m fine now.”

  “Are you sure? It’s unhealthy to keep it locked up inside, piccola mia.”

  “When I’m ready to talk, I will, but not until then.”

  “Va bene,” Atia said with a sigh of frustration.

  Grateful the woman was done questioning her, she picked up her plate along with Lysander’s and retreated to the kitchen to help clean up dinner. In less than fifteen minutes, the kitchen was spotless with everyone wandering off to spend their free time as they wished. Unwilling to go to her room where she’d be left alone with her thoughts, she pulled an unopened bottle of Lambrusco from the fridge and raised it into the air with a jerk of her head to Cleo.

  “Want to join me for a couple of drinks out on the patio?”

  Eyebrows raised, her friend shrugged her acquiescence. “Sure.”

  The night air was unseasonably warm for Rome, but it was the perfect temperature for relaxing under the moonlight. The garden was softly lit with squat black garden lights placed strategically throughout the large area. She opened the wine and set the bottle on the table after filling her glass. Cleo poured a glass as well, then plopped herself down into a nearby lounge chair. Her legs swinging up onto the cushions, she sent Phaedra a

  curious look.

  “Looks like you took my advice.”

  “What advice?”

  “Don’t play that game with me. You know exactly what advice I’m referring to.”

  Cleo’s gaze narrowed on her. Phaedra avoided her friend’s gaze by taking a drink of wine. It tasted sweet on her tongue, and she was finally beginning to feel warm, fuzzy, and relaxed.

  “If you’re asking me if I tried to seduce him, the answer’s no.”

  “Then what did happen between the two of you?”

  “Nothing.” She shrugged and held the wineglass up to study it in the dim light of the patio.

  “Like hell it didn’t. Lysander was glued to your side ready to tear anyone apart if they came near you.” Cleo snorted with a scoffing laugh. “So, out with it.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” She sent her friend a pleading look. “I’m feeling warm and fuzzy right now, and I want to stay that way.”

  “In other words, you’re tipsy, and you sound like you’re ready to cry.” Cleo sighed. “You know drinking makes your ability weak. If someone stumbled in here bleeding like a stuck pig, they’d probably die because you wouldn’t be able to do a fucking thing for them.”

  Her friend’s comment made her wince. Cleo was right. At this point, she doubted her ability to heal at all. That rogue Sicari had managed to unsettle her more than she wanted to admit. And while drinking had numbed her to the tension making her edgy all day, she knew better than to have more than a couple of glasses of alcohol while on a mission. She set her wineglass down and rubbed her hand across her forehead. Deus, she was a fool. If Atia realized how out of it she was … not going there. She stumbled to her feet.

  “Okay. I’m tipsy. But I’m going to bed.”

  “Do you need me to come with you?”

  “I’m more than capable of getting to my own room without help.”

  Cleo arched her eyebrows but didn’t rise from her chair. Taking a sip of wine, the Sicari fighter nodded. “Va bene! I hope you have a hangover tomorrow. It would serve you right.”

  “You’re empathy is amazing, you know that?”

  “You don’t deserve it. You know better.”

  “I needed to take the edge off, okay.” She saw her friend lean forward ready to ask questions, and she waved her hand. “Not tonight. I’ll cry and I don’t want to cry.”

  “Then go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  With a nod of her head, she headed toward the kitchen. Inside the large room, she stumbled over one of the floor’s stone squares and almost fell into the kitchen’s wide island. Slowly, and cautiously, she made her way through the hall and then the foyer. The staircase seemed gargantuan as she stood at the foot of the steps. With a grimace, she grabbed the rail and pulled herself upward. Behind her, a soft laugh filled her ears, and fear swept through her. He’d found her. As she whipped around, she lost her balance, but strong arms were there to keep her from falling.

  “You’re feeling pretty good right now, aren’t you?” Luciano said with a chuckle. The sight of him filled her with relief. She shook her head.

  “I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

  She turned back around to head up the stairs when a strong arm wrapped its way around her waist. The unexpected touch made her shrink back as she tried to shove him away. Surprise and concern swept across his face, and he threw up his hands in a gesture of reassurance.

  “I was just trying to help. You’re in no condition to climb these stairs alone, and you know it.”

  With a nod, she allowed Luciano to pull her into his side and help her up the steps. As they reached the top of the stairwell and turned the corner, Luciano released her to gently guide her with one hand on her elbow. She swayed slightly and leaned into him. He smelled good, but not like Lysander. She sighed.

  “You’re a nice man, Pasquale.”

  “Ouch, that’s an insult,” he said with a soft chuckle.

  “No. It’s not an insult.”

  She stopped him and leaned into him to kiss his cheek. The moment she did, he went rigid, and she saw his gaze fix on something behind her. She turned her head and saw Lysander striding toward them. Fotte, he was going to read her the riot act for getting drunk. No. She was tipsy. Big difference.

  “I’ll take it from here, Pasquale.” Lysander’s voice was low and almost menacing.

  He wasn’t just pissed at her, he was furious. Great, another mark against her. The man would wind up hating her before this mission was over. A firm grip captured her elbow and guided her back down the hall. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled at Luciano.

  “See you in the morning, Pasquale.”

  The man grinned at her, and with a shake of his head, he entered a room close to where he was standing. A moment later, Lysander pushed her none too gently through the door of her suite. She batted his hand away and heard him utter a small noise. Immediately, she turned around and saw the bandage on his hand. She grabbed his wrist and looked at the white bandage for a moment before looking up at him.

  “Let me heal this.”

  “You’re too drunk to heal anything.”

  “Not this little cut.” She bobbed her head at his hand and tightened her grasp then closed her eyes.

  “It’s insignificant, Phaedra,” he said quietly as he removed her fingers from his wrist. “I’ve lived through worse.”

  The gentleness in his voice said she wouldn’t be able to heal him even if he did accept her offering. His emotional wounds weren’t something she could heal, no matter how hard she tried. Those he had to tend to himself. She abruptly turned away from him to hide the fact that there were tears in her eyes. Although she wasn’t sure if she was crying for him or for herself. Swaying on her feet, she shrugged off his steadying touch and removed her jacket then staggered toward her bedroom.

  The bastardo could go fuck himself. She was the best healer in the Order, but if he wanted to be a martyr and live with pain, fine. It wasn’t like she cared. Liar. She stumbled over her feet at the thought. Deus, she should have removed her boots a long time ago. The heels were the reason it was so difficult to walk straight, not the fact that her heart was breaking and she was ready to break down into tears.

  She stopped and sat down on the floor and removed the offending footwear. With one hand on the chair closest to her, she pulled herself upright, and tugged her sweater up over her head. Behind her, she heard Lysander draw
in a sharp breath and she turned to face him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Are you planning on stripping on your way to the bedroom?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like you haven’t seen it before,” she said bitterly at the disapproving note in his voice. “Are you planning on watching?”

  An odd emotion flashed across his face, but it disappeared before she could name it.

  Arms folded across his chest, he shook his head. “I’m here to make sure you get into bed without knocking yourself out. You’ve had a tough day, and you’re more than a little drunk.”

  “I’m tipsy. Not drunk,” she snapped.

  Maybe she was a little drunk. Could he blame her? She spun around, intent on going to her bedroom, only to stumble and fall backward. The warmth of him penetrated her flesh as he stopped her fall and swung her up into his arms. Her palm pressed into his chest, where the rapid beat of his heart thundered beneath her fingers. She sighed. He was right. She’d had a tough day, but when he held her like this, she felt safe, and nothing else mattered. The moment they entered her bedroom, tension flooded his body. Almost immediately, he set her down and nodded toward the bed.

  “Into bed, Phaedra. Now.”

  She stared up at him. The man made her crazy. Even though he’d refused her healing touch, it didn’t change the fact that he’d been there for her today. She still didn’t want him to go. The truth was she didn’t want to be alone. If he’d just stay with her, she’d feel safe. She stretched out her hand and pressed her fingers into his chest as she studied his stoic yet grim expression.

  “Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “I need … you make me feel safe.”

  Tension etched his features into a tight mask, and he inhaled a deep breath. “Let me get Cleo to come stay with you.”

  “No. Forget I asked.” Determined not to let him know how helpless she was feeling at the moment, she turned away from him and stumbled toward the bed. “Just go.”

  She fumbled with the snap and zipper of her jeans before hobbling her way out of the pants. Behind her, Lysander made a choked noise before the warmth of his large hand settled on her shoulder.

  Chapter 10

  THE minute he touched her, Lysander knew he was on thin ice. Il Christi omnipotentia. He’d never seen her this fragile before. He swallowed hard as she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. The minute her gaze met his, her eyes grew watery. At that moment, he knew he’d lost the battle to leave her.

  “I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he murmured as he brushed a teardrop off her cheek.

  A quiet sob passed her lips before she spun around completely and pressed her warmth into him. The bliss and torment that flooded his body at having her in his arms again was enough to drive him crazy. And it wasn’t just desire that made him tug her body snug against his. His arms wrapped around her, the silky warmth of her skin heating his fingertips. Resting his chin on the top of her head, he waited for her crying to stop. He was going to kill the bastardo that had assaulted her. Her sobs finally ebbing away, she tipped her head back to look up at him.

  “I feel safer with you here.”

  The fact that she trusted him so completely, despite his brutal rejection a year ago, was enough to make him feel as though someone were gutting him with a sword. It was humbling in so many ways.

  “He can’t get to you here, Phaedra.”

  “Realistically, I know that,” she whispered. “I just don’t think I can forget.”

  “You won’t forget, but the fear will ease.”

  The minute she reached up to lightly touch the scars on his face, he stiffened. She blinked the tears off her long lashes as she gently traced her fingers over the grotesque side of his face.

  “Were you afraid?”

  The softly spoken question startled him, and he swallowed hard. Atia hadn’t even dared to ask him that, nor had he allowed himself to remember what those terrible hours had been like before Cleo was hovering over him. A shudder went through him as the memories engulfed him with a savage fury. His jaw locked with a painful tension, he nodded.

  “Yes,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

  Afraid? Merda, he’d been terrified, consumed with rage and guilt at how helpless he was as he listened to Dominic’s agonizing shrieks or felt the terror vibrating off Marta. Even now, he could feel the rope biting into his wrists as he tried to free himself. The drug the Praetorians had given him had suppressed his abilities, but it hadn’t eliminated the pain. The deaths of his friends would always be on his conscience despite everyone telling him he couldn’t have known they were entering a Praetorian stronghold.

  “Lysander?”

  The one-word question pulled him away from the dark memories as Phaedra’s hand cupped the scarred side of his face. Suddenly he realized he was trembling. As his gaze focused on her sweet features, he saw a gentle acceptance there that invited him to tell her everything. He immediately closed himself off to the possibility of revealing his inner torment. The last thing he needed was to let this woman inside his head, because if he did, he’d wind up showing her things he couldn’t bear for her to know. He caught her hand and gently pulled it away from his face.

  “You need to sleep.” He nodded toward the bed. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

  She nodded and allowed him to guide her toward the bed like a docile lamb. The only problem was she didn’t look like a lamb. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman look so damn tempting in his entire life. The wisps of red material covering her rounded buttocks and crossing her back tested his willpower like nothing else he’d ever experienced. A little off balance, she swayed slightly as she tugged her hair out of its braid until it tumbled across her soft shoulders. He buried the urge to pull her into his arms.

  She slipped under the covers and curled up into a fetal position in the bed. The forlorn look about her made his heart ache, and his protective instincts went into overdrive. He’d keep her safe even if it meant giving his life for hers. He’d never tell her, but she was the most valuable thing in his life.

  He stretched out his hand and mentally pulled one of the room’s chairs closer to the bed. The quiet scraping noise made her jerk upright in the bed. He immediately regretted not picking up the furniture to move it closer to the bedside. When she saw him settle into the chair, she slowly lay back down and closed her eyes. As he sat there watching her, he was struck again by how vulnerable she seemed.

  A soft sigh eased out of her, and in a couple of minutes, she was asleep. His elbow resting on the arm of the chair, he rubbed the edge of his unscarred jaw as he watched her. He hadn’t lost just three team members in that Chicago warehouse last year. He’d lost Phaedra and the life he might have had with her.

  The thought made his muscles grow hard with tension. He might have lost Phaedra, but he wasn’t about to let anyone hurt her. She thought a rogue Sicari had attacked her this morning, but she was wrong. The bastardo had to have been a Praetorian. Lysander had seen glimpses of the man, dressed as a clergyman, praying at a Church altar.

  Worse, he’d seen the man standing by as men wearing the Praetorian emblem on their shoulders slaughtered an entire family. Sicari were merciful when they killed, and they didn’t kill children. Not only that, but the Praetorian could do more than just read minds. He had telekinetic abilities, too, and it made him uneasy.

  His gut twisted as he remembered how the Praetorian had taunted him in his head while the son of a bitch had continued to touch Phaedra. Despite raising a mental shield against the man’s probing thoughts, the bastardo had seen how much Phaedra meant to him. It had amused the Praetorian, and he’d gloated in detail as to what he was going to do to Phaedra the minute he was alone with her. The anger inside him still burned hot and fiery.

  He’d have to kill the man. Not for revenge, even though he wanted that really bad. But this wasn’t about retaliation. It was about protecting Phaedra and other Sicari. Most of all, it was about justice. The
Sicari Code didn’t allow revenge killings, but it did allow him to protect the interests of the Order.