Edge of Oblivion

fear or Gifts like Suggestion. A soldier can’t afford distractions , his capoeira master had told him as a very young man, over and over, even as he was becoming ensnared by the most dangerous distraction of them all, one that no one thought to train him to resist because no one thought it was possible.

“This is too dangerous for you. You’re going back to the hotel,” he said through clenched teeth, but she sat up ramrod straight and caught his arm just as he was about to lean onto the sliding plastic window that separated the front seat from the back and bark instructions to the driver. Her fingers clenched so hard into his bicep he thought he felt a bruise form.

“This is my life we’re talking about,” she snapped, eyes blazing a hot, brilliant green. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be tracking the Expurgari, I’m the one with everything to lose, so I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you boss me around and decide what’s best for me just because you’re bigger and carry a bunch of knives!”

He felt the cab driver’s worried glance in the mirror, but he didn’t turn away from Morgan’s livid, pale face. “This is not a game, Morgan,” he said harshly. “Do you know what a feral Alpha will do if he catches you? Do you have any idea what he will do?”

“Yes,” she said icily. “And that’s far preferable to what you are going to do to me.”

Her words hit him like a fist in the gut. The cab slid to a stop—he didn’t turn to look where—

and she released his arm and gave him a one-two punch before opening the door and stepping out into the street.

“And at least I’ll get to have sex before I die.” She muttered it, then slammed the door behind her, turned, and walked away.

If a grenade had gone off in his lap, it would not have had near the explosive effect those words caused on his body.

Everything went into instant overdrive. His heart rate, respiration, hormones, everything spun wildly out of control, including his thoughts, which were saturated with the most carnal, vivid images of Morgan’s naked body, wrapped around his own.

He hunched over, clenched his hands into his hair, and sat there with his eyes squeezed shut, breathing in great gulping breaths of air, until the taxi driver cleared his throat.

“Mi scusi, signore. Stiamo andando in?”

“No.” He took a few more ragged breaths. “I’m going.”

He pulled some money from his back pocket and threw an uncounted wad of euros through the little plastic window. “Keep it,” he said in Italian as the driver protested it was too much.

Money. Who cared about money? Leander would wire him as much as he needed for as long as he needed it. No, money was not the most pressing problem at hand. And neither, if truth be told, was Morgan.

The problem was him.

This woman—this mark—had somehow managed to splinter his control every time he got near her. Everything about her got under his skin, from her eyes to her scent to that smoky, come-hither voice, that fire and passion, that fragile, appealing lostness that leaked from her in unguarded moments when she thought no one was looking. And the things she said, the impossible, crazy things!

Things that lingered in the back of his mind on replay for hours, one on top of another, a layer cake of confusion and fantasy and horrible temptation and worst of all—

Understanding.

Somehow, impossibly, he knew she understood that he didn’t want to kill her but he would because he had to. Because that’s who he was. That’s all he was and all he had been, for so long he couldn’t remember anything before. And her acceptance of that was the worst thing he could imagine.

Haven’t you ever wanted another sort of life?

He stood on the street corner as the cab slid away into traffic, watching her walk away, watching the heads turn in her wake, hearing the chorus of whistles that followed those swaying hips, and for a brief, terrible moment, recalled another woman who had spoken those exact words to him, so many years ago.

A woman who’d died because of him.

And if they didn’t find the Expurgari, Morgan would have to die, too.

14

Son. Of. A. Bitch!

She was almost blind with rage. If she’d had a machine gun in her hands, she might have mowed down everyone in sight, all these cheerful Italians and chattering tourists and those stupid nuns. There seemed to be a thousand nuns to every church in this city. Honestly, it was starting to freak her out.

“This is too dangerous for you,” she mimicked under her breath as she stalked down the busy sidewalk, not bothering to get out of anyone’s way. “Ha!”

Too dangerous. Oh, I’m sorry, you’re right! I’ve never been in any kind of danger before. I’ve never been convicted of treason and locked up for weeks and faced my imminent, gruesome death.

I’ve never fought off a pack of wild panther boys or kicked ass over all those other savages who wanted my spot on the Assembly or shared a hotel room with a killer!

She raked a hand through her long hair and cursed out loud, garnering a disapproving stare from another of those multifarious nuns who stood outside a little sidewalk cafe, sipping espresso.

“Stuff it, sister,” she said, and walked on.

Where the hell was she, anyway? She paused for a moment to look around and get her bearings.

They’d gone only a few blocks from the hotel in the taxi, and she didn’t have a map or speak Italian. She had money so she could hail another cab, but when she put a hand to her forehead to shade her eyes from the sun she saw, unmistakable and huge, the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica less than a mile away on the other side of the sluggish, winding Tiber.

She decided to walk.

It was a beautiful day, bright and sunny, and every bird in the city seemed to be singing sweet little melodies from the pockets of trees that were everywhere. She crossed the river over an arched stone bridge, mossed and dark with age, and made her way along the tree-lined boulevard, dodging pedestrians and leaping out of the way of insane Vespa drivers who all seemed to share the same death wish.

She passed fountains and ruins and one ancient, weathered fortress that turned out to be the emperor Hadrian’s mausoleum, topped by a massive, sword-wielding bronze angel. The city was a feast of art and architecture, all casually laid about in plain view for everyone’s enjoyment. She loved the vitality of it, the open green spaces and the ancient buildings and the sense of magic that permeated everything, even the air.

And Italian men, she thought, eyeing one spectacular specimen lounging idly against a tree, are pretty magical, too. They dressed well. They moved well. They were tall and dark and elegant, much like her own kind. Even the slouchy, paunchy, balding ones had a certain je ne sais quoi.

The lounging dark-haired boy lifted his head, caught her looking, and whistled, low and husky.

His eyes burned. She looked away, kept walking, and tried not to think of other burning eyes, kohl-

rimmed, amber, and endless.

Xander watched as Morgan bypassed the noisy line of hundreds of people waiting to enter the Vatican, sashayed to the uniformed officer operating the metal detector at the entrance, and touched his arm.

The guard, smiling a glazed, faraway smile, led her away by the hand into a private side entrance. Xander rolled his eyes and snorted.

She was shameless.

But he wasn’t about to stand in line himself, especially with that metal detector and the knives concealed in his boots and belt, so he strolled around until he found a relatively unpopulated area—no easy feat—and backed