by Sue Wilder
It was near dusk when Christan returned to the safe flat in Florence. He nodded to the watcher who was kicking a soccer ball in the courtyard with a few lanky boys. They were dragging out the last, golden moments of the day. Christan watched, then jogged up several flights of stairs to the heavy arched door
The apartment was quiet. Through the open French doors, Christan could see the bell tower and the rusty-colored dome of the most famous cathedral in Florence. He had always liked that view. It calmed him. A constant that hadn’t changed. Still, his instincts tightened and he glanced around the tiny kitchen, searching the shadows until he heard the sound of her voice. Lexi was out on the balcony, talking to herself, something she did when she was alone.
She was sitting on the tiles and leaning back against the wall, deep in shadow except for her right ankle, which was still warmed by orange sunlight. She was having a silly argument with herself before probing the black railing with her foot: she wanted to see how far her sandal could go before the narrow opening trapped her toes.
And she looked nervous.
Christan knew why. When Arsen reported the empty flat, Christan’s reaction had been anger. Later, his second-in-command explained how she’d tried to swear him to secrecy, and that had left him coldly amused. But he told Arsen to protect her confidences. Lexi needed a friend. Since Marge wasn’t here, Christan would trust no one else but Arsen.
Now he wondered if she would confess her sins or continue to trust Arsen with her secrets.
“What part of don’t leave did you not understand?” he asked, leaning against the doorway and enjoying the startled jerk of her body. She reminded him of a guilty little girl; he wanted to touch her just to see if she was real.
“Technically this isn’t leaving,” she answered archly, refusing to look in his direction. “The balcony is an extension of the kitchen through the French doors.”
“Are you going to come in, then?”
“Um, not yet.”
“Is your foot stuck?”
“No.” The sandal was now caught on the iron railing and she was trying to twist free. Perhaps she thought he wouldn’t notice, but he always noticed with her.
“Here, you’ll bruise the skin.” Christan was beside her in an instant, silent as he eased the sandal from her heel. He tossed it aside, loosened the other sandal, tossed it with the mate. Her skin glowed. He wrapped his hand around her ankle until he felt her stiffen.
“What were you doing out here anyway?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, pushing upright. He wished she was still arguing with herself about something silly, like poking her toes through a railing. Her loneliness was palpable.
“You look tired,” she said as she walked barefoot to the small counter in the kitchen as if she didn’t know quite what to do. He followed her inside, waited for a moment before answering.
“It was a long day.”
Silently, Lexi handed him a glass of red wine. It wasn’t his normal preference, but since she’d poured one for herself Christan took it. There was something… nice about drinking wine in the shadows that had grown so deep all he could see was her shape and not her expression.
“You visited with Renata?” he asked, even though he’d received a full report.
“Yes, although I have a confession to make. I left the flat. I asked Arsen not to say anything, but that was wrong. It was my decision and I accept responsibility.”
“I’m sure you had a reason.” Odd, Christan realized, that he didn’t point out the promise to follow his rules. She looked so uncomfortable with the confession he didn’t have the heart.
“You’re not yelling at me,” she said.
“No.” He sipped the wine.
“You must be tired.”
She sounded suspicious, so Christan shifted around, obscuring his expression. “What did you think about Renata?” he asked into the silence.
“She’s fragile, broken but with tremendous strength.”
“Do you think she’ll recover?”
“Perhaps. If Marge was here, she could help.”
“I can’t afford to have more people vulnerable than I already do,” he said.
“I’m sorry if I made you worry.” Christan watched as she sipped her wine, lost in thought. Without looking up, she said, “I learned more about Katerina, though. She doesn’t want Arsen to find her.”
“It’s that way in every lifetime for them.”
“Oh.” He could tell by her little sigh that it hurt her, realizing Arsen was so estranged from his mate. Arsen spoke rarely about the relationship. But he’d confided late one night, told Christan it was during the last lifetime, the one here in Florence nearly a century ago, when the girl agreed to live with him in the flat he still maintained. Katerina had struggled with the arrangement, caught in some fear Arsen could never resolve before she ran away.
“How is he?”
“Arsen will be fine,” Christan said. “His concern is keeping her away from Kace.”
“I have a theory that might help.” Lexi was staring through the French doors. Christan found himself interested in the texture of her voice, the wealth of emotions she revealed. “People are habitual in where they go, but earth energy plays a role. I think from her history, any place with a strong Etruscan connection would be very appealing.”
“We’re talking about Florence and most of the surrounding territory north and west to the coast. Even down to Cerveteri and Rome. These are their original lands.”
“There’s a museum—”
“The Museo Archeologico?”
“Yes. I picked up traces of her today, but there were too many tourists. We should look at the shops, the cafes. She would find the energies attractive.”
Christan realized he enjoyed the way she was sharing information, sharing her day. She was holding the wine glass to her lips without drinking. Christan’s gaze drifted, from her bare feet up the line of her jeans to the floaty white blouse that emphasized the way she moved, her tanned arms, the curve of her breast. When she sipped the wine, her blouse lifted, and Christan stared at the bare skin of her waist, remembering how it once fit the curve of his hand.
He forced himself to speak. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “Your ideas are helpful.”
“That’s good then.” She nodded. Blond hair slid around her shoulders. There was an awkward pause while she studied the counter, glanced around the tiny kitchen. Groceries had been delivered earlier; Christan could see two bottles of wine, the paper bag with the name from a tiny grocery store, a plate set out with a large wedge of cheese. Finally, she asked, “Will you tell me about your day?”
Christan braced against the offer. He was not fit company. After the interrogation in the cellar, he had acted on the information. Then there’d been the obligatory visit the sandstone villa, and a confrontation with the Calata member known as One—a woman of vibrant temper and unique sensitivities. The immortal controlled the Mediterranean, except for the coastline to the east where Six’s territory intruded. Five controlled the land to the north. Both were enemies, and as Christan thought about what he’d discovered at the base of a cliff, he knew if it was war those two Calata members wanted, he would deliver it to their doorstep.
“Sometimes it helps to talk,” Lexi said when the silence had thinned out into nothing.
So Christan told her. He wasn’t sure why. He told her of two attacks the night before. Of the farmhouse, and the memories ripped from a screaming man, leading him to three other men and the two girls, only one who was still alive. Christan told her of his meeting to explain his actions. This was One’s territory. Her Enforcer could keep the peace. But the crime had been committed against warriors belonging to Three, and it had been their women who were attacked. Christan was Three’s Enforcer. By tradition, judgement was his responsibility, even if it meant stepping on One’s toes. The immortal was not happy but agreed with his actions. Retribution needed to be both swift and harsh. He didn’t expect Lexi to unders
tand.
“Did you kill them?” she asked.
He didn’t bother to answer.
“Tell me about the girl who survived.”
Christan hadn’t realized he’d mentioned the girl, but apparently, he had, and Lexi had been paying attention. At some point, their wine glasses had been refilled. “The warriors brutalized her.”
“I want to know.”
“They made her stand at the bottom of a rocky cliff when they threw her friend from the top. Told her it was a dream. That if she put her friend back together the girl would be alive. She tried to reattach an arm while they laughed. Then they pushed her hands into what was left of the head until she was screaming.”
Christan expected a shocked exclamation, disgust at the barbaric nature of immortal warriors. Instead Lexi said quietly, “Why would they do such a thing?”
“Shock forces the mind into a safer life. The girl recalled one past life memory while she screamed.”
“How do you know that, Christan? Did you go into her mind? Did you dig at her memories?”
Christan thought about the sobbing girl, sitting in what was left of her friend. He looked in Lexi’s direction, remembered what Arsen told her about the memories he could change, the power he could force into the mind, had forced into her mind. He knew how she viewed it—violations she could not forgive.
“Yes,” Christan said, a man who did not ask for absolution. “I went into her mind. And I dug into her memories.”
“With permission or without?” Steady, specific as Lexi forced him to admit a truth about himself. He could recall no other person—immortal, warrior, or human—ever doing such a thing.
“With.” The girl had begged him to do it, gripped his hand while tears ran down her face. Told him she didn’t care if she lost part of herself, she would rather die than live with the nightmare. He’d been as delicate and gentle as possible.
“It was an act of compassion.” Lexi set down her wine glass, wrapped her arms against her waist and turned halfway from him so he couldn’t see her face. “You gave her relief.”
“Yes.” He thought of her dreams, when Lexi cried on the plane, so deep in the nightmare she hadn’t realized it was his arms that wrapped around and held tight, his shirt that grew wet. “I could do the same for you. Give you some peace.”
“I’ve considered it,” she admitted, “but I knew it would be wrong.”
“You would live with night terrors?”
Lexi looked at him, her gaze direct. “I would try to live with courage, maybe not successfully, but it feels like cowardice to refuse to face your life.” A lesson learned sitting on a shadowed porch for three hours, clutching a stuffed bear named Waldo, wondering if she had a home.
Christan asked, “Have you ever received mail at that email address you check?”
The question startled her, perhaps too much. Lexi turned and walked to the French doors, staring out at the velvet night. Once again, her loneliness was palpable.
“No.”
And Christan knew, then, that what he wanted was for this woman—the woman she was now—to need him. And perhaps there was no fucking way that would ever happen.
CHAPTER 24
“Have you eaten?” Lexi asked, her back still toward him.
“No.”
“I could cook.” The offer slipped out. Lexi wasn’t sure why, other than she sensed his pain and wanted to offer comfort. Christan hesitated.
“Is there time for a shower? When I’m done, I’ll help.”
Lexi turned from the French doors and studied his face. Eyes dark as obsidian rimmed with shards of silver glittered like a midnight sky. “What do you like to eat?”
Christan shrugged. “I don’t understand the modern foods that come from a box.”
Neither did she, most of the time. Lexi bent to open the refrigerator. Light from the interior speared across the counter. The room had grown dark, and she hadn’t noticed.
“What were your favorite foods from before?” she asked, removing the fresh ingredients Giam sent over.
“I used to like oranges and sitting in the sun,” he said, the deep sound of his voice mesmerizing. “What about you?”
“I enjoy cooking.” Lexi flipped on a small overhead kitchen light and the sense of sharp caution smoothed away. “It’s hard to be creative when you’re cooking for one.”
“You must have some guilty pleasures.”
“Chocolate at night. Coffee in the morning.”
“You’ll find plenty of that in Florence.” Christan glanced over her shoulder. “Do you need me to open that second bottle of wine?”
“Um… no, I can manage.” Lexi wasn’t sure what she’d heard in his offer. She picked up a knife, sliced the fresh mushrooms. Tried to ignore the growing intimacy in the kitchen. When she turned to retrieve a wedge of cheese from the counter, she was startled by what she saw in his eyes.
“Should I go then?” he asked.
Lexi studied the cheese with unexpected intensity. “If you’re going to help cook, then you should probably go shower.”
“Shower,” he repeated. Lexi thought there was something begging to be rewritten in the tone of his voice. Her throat grew too tight to speak, so she nodded. Yes.
Christan considered her for a moment longer before he disappeared. When Lexi heard the sound of water, an image of him standing bronzed and naked and wet seared through her mind. With a total loss of breath, she set a pot of water on the stove and added a drop of olive oil to keep the pasta from sticking. She turned on the gas burner and watched the blue flame puff into existence, trying not to think about the dark lightning she had recognized in his eyes.
With an abrupt shiver, Lexi forced herself to focus. She grated the cheese into a mountain on the plate and sliced tomatoes until they bled, then paused long enough to stare through the window for the evening stars. It was a pointless ritual, one she practiced every night. She would stop what she was doing and glance up, feeling incomplete if she didn’t do it. They were just stars, the first five she saw winking in the darkening sky. Even if there were clouds—and it was always cloudy on the coast—she would stand and wait, stiff from the cold until something moved in the sky and she could see a brief winking of light. She didn’t know why she did it, hadn’t even questioned it until now, as she remembered Christan’s deep voice repeating the five words she always whispered: faith, strength, vision, courage, and love. How he knew those words she didn’t know. But he did. And he’d spoken them in Italian.
He came up behind her on silent feet, dressed again in jeans and a shirt, but barefoot. His hair was damp. Warm arms circled from behind. He braced his palms against the counter and something profound uncurled in the pit of her stomach. It was hunger. Lexi recognized it as something she’d felt centuries ago. For this man.
“What are we cooking?” he asked, his mouth close to her ear, the rough caress a dangerous snare. Lexi realized she was mashing the tomatoes, and so did he. His fingers slid over hers to remove the knife, set it to the side of the cutting board. With gentle deliberation, he drew his forefinger up over one of the amber memory lines and Lexi thought of butterfly wings. The remembered scent of sunshine mixed with wild oranges reminded her of forgotten need. Tension sharp and heavy tightened her lower abdomen and her heart beat with a growing awareness. Recognition. With a little sound of resistance, she turned. Her hands were tight against her chest as if that could keep him from touching her.
“What are we doing, Christan?” she whispered.
“Cooking.”
Her gaze shifted to his hard mouth, the angle softening in the evening shadows. The exhaustion and worry had disappeared from his eyes, replaced with something more intense. “You know what I mean.”
“This?” He rubbed his thumb lightly against the pulse throbbing at the base of her throat. “We’re finding out.”
“What?” she whispered.
“If there’s anything more than anger left between us,” he said as his mouth c
ame down on hers.
Resistance fled. Christan anchored her head with both hands and there was only the demand of his mouth, his tongue invading, so familiar she parted her lips. Christan responded, pressing hard against her, his weight heavy and drugging. Lexi made a soft sound in her throat. The sound enraged him. He backed her against the wall, forced his thigh between her legs and dragged her wrists above her head. He pinned them with one hand. With the other, he followed the arch of her throat, the delicate wings of her collarbones, the curve of her breast. His kiss deepened, hard until she thought he was consuming her. Sensations rocked through her, both old and new.
Fierce heat, as his mouth traced the line of her jaw, tiny bites left in his wake before he took her mouth again, his tongue deep and stroking. She remembered his taste, so male—she couldn’t get enough. She tried to lean into him. His hand slid beneath her blouse, cupped her waist before moving with intent to the back of her hips. His palm was hot against her skin. He lifted her, bent his leg slightly and pulled her toward him along the length of his thigh, higher, until she straddled him and her feet were off the ground. Lexi didn’t know if he was rocking or if she was, but the friction between her legs had the breath catching in her throat. The torment increased when he released her wrists and dragged her legs around his hips. Her ankles locked, her fingers gripping his shoulders while he braced his knee against the wall. His eyes were filled with intensity, hot and aggressive. He cupped her breast. His thumb and forefinger pinched, tugged, and her hips moved again while a rough sound rose in her throat. An aching sound. He could do whatever he wanted and she wouldn’t care.
Christan dragged her from the security of the wall and she went with him. When his hands slid beneath her blouse she helped him pull it from her head. The lacy pink bra was next and she was a wild thing without control, trembling with need. Wanting to feel the heat of his flesh, run her fingers over the hard, ridged muscles and touch the tattoos in the intimate way he’d touched her memory lines. Christan needed, too. His shirt was gone and he took her mouth again. A demanding erection pressed against her lower belly, and memories of the way they once were exploded like lightning strikes in a night sky. Jagged. White-hot. They fell to the floor and she was arching up beneath him, whispering, “Please… please.”
