Edge of Oblivion: A Night Prowler Novel, Book 2

by J. T. Geissinger

  “No, don’t get up, Bellatorum,” she insisted, “please. Rest yourselves.”

  D closed his eyes, unwilling to watch them—injured—try to rise and bow to her, unwilling to watch her approach. Just having her scent in his nose and her lilting voice in his ears was torture enough. Pain throbbed through his body, and he knew it wasn’t just because of his injuries.

  Someone new entered the room. He cracked open an eye to see one of the Servorum—young, female—carrying a tray of bandages, salves, and metal instruments. She went to work on Lix first, as his leg was badly shredded, nearly bitten clean through by that huge male at the club. The principessa murmured something to her. He caught good care and please. Clenching his teeth, D closed his eyes again. He heard movement, low conversation, the sound of Lix’s barked curses as his wounds were attended.

  A hanging curtain was drawn around the bed with a swish of rings on a metal rod, and then Eliana was beside him. “I need to take a look at that arm,” she said quietly.

  His eyes snapped open. He stared up at her. Light flared like a nimbus around her head, obscuring her face. He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down with a palm flat on the center of his chest, and the skin-on-skin contact was so unexpected it stunned him into submission.

  “It’s fine,” he said, hoarse, pulse thudding in his ears.

  “Puh.”

  He didn’t know what that meant, so he kept his mouth shut and concentrated on not looking at her. He stared at the bare rock wall, brown and bumpy, but God, how he wanted to look at her. Pixielike and delicate with the elongated limbs and grace of a ballerina and that shock of choppy dark hair that on anyone else would have looked masculine but on her only served to more perfectly highlight the flawless symmetry of her features, those almond doe eyes—

  No. He didn’t need to look at her. He’d already memorized it all. He closed his eyes, and beneath his lids, she danced.

  Her fingers on his skin, tentative, a flash of pain that stabbed through his gut and made him shudder as she probed the deep wound on his bicep. Her gentle sigh, a tingle as her breath, featherlight, brushed his bare chest. He heard a clatter as she pulled over a rolling metal tray of supplies from its position against the wall.

  “I’d ask you if it hurts, but I already know what the answer will be.”

  She sounded dissatisfied. He wondered why, then screamed silently at himself to stop wondering why.

  He breathed in. He breathed out. He breathed in again. She touched a pad soaked in alcohol to the edges of the wound on his arm and he flinched—even that minor contact, even when it brought pain—it was too much. It made him think of things he could never have. It made him ache.

  He brushed her hand away. “Leave it,” he said, hard. “Have the Servus do it. You shouldn’t even be in here. This is no place for you.”

  There was a moment of silence, then she sighed. “Oh, Demetrius.”

  Startled by the quiet sorrow in her voice, he opened his eyes and found her staring at him, a furrow between her arched brows. She sat down on a stool beside the bed and dropped her gaze. Her lashes made a curving dark smudge against her cheeks.

  “What have I done to so offend you?” she whispered.

  He could not have been more astounded. “Offend me? Offend me?”

  He repeated it twice because he couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say. She’d never done anything to offend him. On the contrary, she’d done everything to entice him, to enthrall him, to make him dream of her in night-sweat agony—

  “I know I’ve done something because you are always so...so cold, but I don’t know what it could have been because I only want to...” She glanced up, her gaze lingered on his lips, and his stomach clenched to a fist. “My father has asked me to attend you, and so I must, but...but if you wish it I can tell him...that you’re fine, that you don’t need my help—”

  D couldn’t help himself. He leaned over and grasped her wrist. “I do want you—I want you—your help,” he corrected, stumbling over his words in his rush to get them out, “and you have done nothing to offend me. On my life, I swear it.”

  She sucked in a quick breath. Her eyes widened, her mouth made an “o” of surprise. The look on her face was pure revelation, amazement that turned quickly to something that had he not known better he would have thought was desire.

  His body didn’t know the difference, however. Heat saturated the air between them, rushed pounding to his groin.

  He released her wrist as if her skin burned him, which it did. He lay back against the cool sheets and closed his eyes once more, thinking that of all the things her father could have done to torture him, this was by far the worst.

  Forbidden fruit was always the most tempting.

  The clock on the wall, ticking, the low drone of fresh air that was pumped through the catacombs, Lix and Constantine flirting unabashedly with the Servus at the other end of the room. Then Eliana’s voice, low and tentative. “I...I’ll need to clean the wound first, before I can suture it. It will hurt, but I’ll try and be as gentle as I can. All right?”

  He nodded, then because he didn’t want her to think he was being cold, added, “Yes. Please. Thank you.”

  He hissed a breath through his teeth. What a disaster.

  She worked on him a while in silence, wiping away blood and raindrops with soft towels, cleaning shallow scratches with pads dipped in alcohol, trailing her bare fingers over his skin. Pain and yearning lashed through him hot as the sun, and he wondered if she knew exactly what she was doing to him as she leaned over him, warming him with her scent and her nearness, addling him as if he’d had too much to drink.

  He stiffened with a thought: Was this a trick? Was Dominus using her to—

  “Here come the sutures,” she murmured. “Please hold as still as you can.”

  The pain of the needle was nothing compared to the pain of lying half-naked next to her, thinking illicit thoughts, wondering if she was, even now, manipulating him. A little noise escaped his throat, and she froze, misunderstanding.

  “I’m fine,” he said, jaw tight. He nodded to emphasize it. “Solid as a rock. Go on.”

  She did. It was quiet between them for a moment, but not peaceful. He managed to keep his breathing even with an astonishingly difficult exertion of will.

  He said, “When did you learn to do—this?”

  She made a sound in her throat. Though sardonic, it was low and feminine and sent a rash of gooseflesh up his spine.

  “Caesar used to pick a lot of fights when he was younger. He never won. But he didn’t want Dominus to know, so I had to be the one to fix him up. I learned early on to make sutures so fine they’d never even leave a scar.” Her voice took on a melancholy edge. “Learning new things has always helped me pass the time.”

  There was a beat as he processed that. His regard for her stood in exact opposition to his loathing for her brother, who, though highborn, was unGifted. And the kind of coward that had to pick on others to make himself feel bigger. He wondered what it had been like for her, kept like a prized, exotic bird in a cage her entire life, cleaning up her brother’s messes.

  “You call your father Dominus?”

  “Not to his face.”

  He cracked an eye open to gauge her expression. Her shell-pink lips were twisted in a little, secret smile. She caught him looking and her smile deepened. “No one calls him anything to his face, isn’t that right?”

  He let his silence be his answer.

  She shrugged, a movement that seemed both casual and full of meaning. “I know. You can’t talk to me. No one can talk to me. I don’t blame you, I know what he’s like.”

  “Do you?” he said harshly, before he could think. The minute it left his mouth he bit his lip, cursing himself. Her smile vanished.

  “I...actually, no,” she said, very softly, surprising him. “He’s my father, of course I love him, but...” She trailed off, biting her lip. “But over the last few years he’s seemed so...he
seems...” She glanced up at him, questioning, and he found himself wondering again if this was some trick to get him to reveal himself.

  “He is as he has always been to me,” he said coolly.

  Her expression soured. She cinched one of the sutures tight, and he sucked in a breath, surprised—it hurt.

  “I’m going to tell you a little secret, Demetrius,” she said through stiff lips, looking askance at him through her lashes as she continued to sew up his arm. “You can trust me. I can’t make you believe that, of course, but—” She sat up a little straighter. “Wait, no, I can!” She sounded excited. “If I tell you something that no one else knows, something that would get me in trouble—serious trouble—if it’s found out, will you trust me?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Whatever you’re about to say—don’t.”

  She leaned in, so close she could have kissed him, so close he saw every detail of her poreless skin, the line of her dark lashes, the perfect Cupid’s bow of her upper lip—

  “I’m not a virgin,” she whispered, staring deep into his eyes.

  He suddenly felt as if he were conducting fire through his veins. Hearing that word on her lips—virgin—was like an alcoholic hearing the words happy hour. His mouth literally watered.

  Then his rational mind kicked in: Was she toying with him?

  “I’m not in the mood for games, little girl,” he growled low in his throat.

  At that, her brows lifted. “Little girl?” She smiled again, a woman’s smile, knowing and mysterious. “I’m twenty-three, only eight years younger than you.” Her voice dropped an octave. “And you’re not looking at me like you think I’m a little girl, Demetrius.”

  Face flaming, he sat up abruptly, the last of his patience shredded. “What is this?” he hissed.

  “This is me being honest with you,” she said, unperturbed, surprising him again. This time because she wasn’t afraid of him. Everyone was afraid of him. “I doubt you get much of that, so you might be unfamiliar with it, but, quite frankly, I think you could use a little more honesty in your life.”

  “You do realize just talking to me like this could get me killed.” Anger threaded through his voice, though he was careful to keep it low so the others didn’t hear.

  “And me?” She was defiant under his fierce gaze. Unblinking. “You don’t think there’s any danger for me?”

  “You’re the King’s daughter,” he snapped, livid now. “You’ll be given a slap on the hand. I’ll have mine cut off.”

  Inexplicably, her gaze dropped to his lips. “No, you won’t.”

  He stared at her, waiting.

  She met his gaze again and softly said, “I would never let him hurt you. Seeing you is the only thing I have to look forward to around here.”

  His heart dissolved to his toes.

  “Stop this,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She went on calmly as though he hadn’t spoken. “I was seventeen. It was one of the Legiones. Varro was his name. He was twenty. It was after the Christmas Purgare. He was killed a week later in a street fight; they said he was drinking—”

  D suddenly realized what she was talking about. “Jesus!” “—which made sense because he liked to drink. He was a troublemaker—”

  He seized her wrists. “Stop!” he hissed close to her face.

  “—and I was probably attracted to that because I’ve always had to be such a perfect little princess, so sheltered and doted over even though I wasn’t born a boy, the eldest—”

  He jerked from the bed and planted his boots on the ground, towering over her, shocked at what was coming out of her mouth, helpless to stop it. “Please—”

  “—even though I killed my mother coming out when I was born—”

  “Eliana!” he begged.

  “—I was still put on a pedestal and given every privilege, but if it was ever known that I’d given away my virginity to someone outside my own caste I’d probably be floating down the Tiber on the next Purgare with all those other unfortunates who didn’t make the Transition.”

  He couldn’t breathe. He stared down at her, frozen.

  “So now you know something about me.” She was breathing a little too hard, her head tipped back, her eyes glittering dark. “Now you know a secret that could get me killed. And don’t fool yourself, Demetrius. He would kill me. I’m his favorite, I’m his prize, but there is nothing more important to him than honor. Not even me. I may not know much about him, but that I know to the marrow of my bones.”

  With a fluid turn of her wrists, she released herself from his grasp, stood, and stepped back. She smoothed her hands down the front of her simple black dress, ran a shaking hand through her hair. Then she pulled her shoulders back and jerked a thumb at the cot. “Lie down. I’m not finished with that arm.”

  Dazed, speechless, he did as he was told. He felt as if he’d just been run over by a truck.

  The sting of the needle again, the pull of thread. “So,” she said, curtly, after a long silence. “Do we understand one another?”

  He sensed diminutive life watching them from the carved rock ceiling far above, a spider crouched in shadow, spinning her web. He felt real surprise; no insects lived in the catacombs and no animals ever ventured near, save the feral cats. They all knew what lived in the perpetual darkness here, they all fled. Except for that sole, intrepid arachnid above, tenacious as the feline before him.

  “You’d make a great general, you know that?” he finally said, grudgingly admiring.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  His internal compass began to slowly adjust, magnetically drawn to her as if the earth had rotated on its axis and she was—suddenly, absolutely—true north. He was a thinker, an analyzer, an overanalyzer, as cold and calculated as a computer, but the proximity of Eliana crashed his motherboard and caused all his circuits to short.

  Danger! a distant alarm screamed, flashing red. Danger! Abort!

  D cleared his throat. “I remember him.”

  Eliana’s fingers, deft and warm, froze on his arm.

  “Varro. He was strong. Brave. Reckless, but brave.”

  A shadow crossed her face. Sorrow? he wondered. Regret? Did she miss him? The thought made him simmer with jealousy and brought out his ruthless side. “I would’ve thought you’d choose someone a little prettier, though,” he snapped. “He was no Constantine, that’s for sure.”

  She glanced at his chest, his neck, the silver rings in his eyebrow. Their gazes met again. Her answer came very low. “Some girls don’t want a boyfriend who’s prettier than they are. Some girls like tattoos. And piercings.”

  Heat passed between them again, bright as sunlight, just as burning. There was a pull, a softening, and he felt himself slipping, felt the room tilt. His heart rate skyrocketed. “Eliana—”

  “What’s it like?” she interrupted.

  Thrown off balance—again—he frowned. “What’s what like?”

  She dropped her gaze to his arm, watching intently as an errant drop of rain still beaded on his skin began to track slowly over his bicep. “Outside.”

  He drew a breath through his nose, calculating. She could be manipulating him still. She could be testing him, or using him—though she could have anyone she wanted to use, why him?—she could merely be making conversation.

  But...no. Eliana didn’t make small talk. And he sensed on a cellular level that he wasn’t being manipulated; he had a sharp nose for that, having served her father for so many years.

  She really wanted to know. And after he told her...she was going to ask him to take her outside. He knew it. He knew it.

  He should get up right now, go back to his own bed, let his wounds heal by themselves and never, ever speak to her again. Yes, he should do that.

  Instead, he opened his mouth and in a husky, halting voice said, “It’s...everything.”

  Her breathing stilled. She met his gaze.

  “It’s terrible and harsh and cruel. It’s beautiful and grand and d
azzling. It’s...” he faltered, searching, “...it’s heaven and hell and your worst nightmare and your fondest dream, all rolled into one. And you never know what’s going to come next because anything could, and that’s what makes it so goddamn amazing. And so awful.”

  Their gazes held, the moment deepened. Her fingers kept a faint, lovely pressure on his arm. She said, “I want to see it.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I want to.”

  “Your father—”

  “What my father doesn’t know,” she said, dark eyes glittering, “won’t hurt him.”

  His heart was suddenly like a wild thing in his chest, gnawing, twisting. She wasn’t talking only about going outside. She was talking about him. About them.

  “You don’t mean that,” he said, his voice low and husky.

  “Don’t I?” She didn’t blink. He saw something in her face he’d never seen before: steel.

  There was no mistaking that voice, that look. He was well acquainted with it, having lived in silent mutiny his entire life. But there was something else too, some ineffable quality, longing or loneliness that stirred the beast inside him to frenzy.

  Was he wrong? Was he misinterpreting this entire thing? Was this just—wish fulfillment on his part?

  He had to know. He had to. He had to make her say it.

  “You can have any male in this colony, principessa. There are a thousand males who’d fight for the privilege, a thousand more who’d take a death sentence just to kiss your hand. You don’t need me.”

  Her face softened. “I don’t want them. I don’t want them, Demetrius. I want you.”

  A war erupted inside his body. Withering heat, storm and fury, a lightning strike of desire against his fortress of good sense, blasting chunks of caution away.

  They stared at one another a long, long while, silent, her fingers on his arm, his eyes searching her face, the sounds of other conversations unheard. He knew she smelled his pleasure and hunger, knew she felt his pulse throbbing beneath his skin, and knew without doubt that though it was stupid and dangerous and utterly forbidden, he was going to take this precious thing being offered to him because he wanted it with every atom of his being, and had for years.