Rapture's Edge

stopped breathing.

What she didn’t do was pull away.

D took that for a positive sign and deepened the kiss, still tender but seeking, tasting her, wanting her to respond instead of lie frozen, allowing him to explore her mouth with no resistance but no return, no answer to the question his lips were asking.

He pulled back and looked down at her; her eyes were squeezed shut tight. He lowered his head and gently kissed each of her eyelids, the place between her eyebrows, the tip of her nose. She made the little sound again, and this time it sounded closer to a plea. For what, he couldn’t tell.

Stop? Go on? A quick, merciful death?

Her lower lip began to quiver again. She was so beautiful, so fucking vulnerable like this, pinned beneath him, he felt a wave of heat envelop his body, desire burning bright as the noonday sun.

Open for me, he thought, kissing first one corner of her mouth, then the other. He pressed the softest of kisses to the center of her lips, the little bow, the lower curve, a place he’d kissed in a million fevered dreams. Open your heart for me, angel. Let me in.

Then she sobbed.

He froze on a breath, his body burning and aching and his heart stuttering along in his chest like something half dead. She convulsed and sobbed again, turned her head to the side and started to bawl in earnest, great wracking sobs that shuddered them both and the bed beneath them.

“Baby girl,” D whispered, mortified. “Ana, Eliana, stop, it’s okay, I won’t kiss you again, just please… stop.”

He released her and sat up. She folded her arms across her chest and curled into a little, protective ball, her knees pulled to her nose, her face turned to the mattress. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if there was anything he could do. Seeing her like this tore a hole in his chest big enough to drive a truck through.

“G-get out,” she sobbed into the mattress. “Get away f-from me.”

He reached for her, touched her shoulder, but the second his hand was on her she jerked as if electrocuted and kicked him, hard, in the stomach. “Get away from me!” she screamed as he toppled off the bed. He landed with a jarring thump on the floor, and Eliana, eyes wide, shaking violently, scrambled up against the headboard and cowered there, red-faced, staring at him but with a blank look as if she wasn’t seeing him, but someone or something else altogether.

“Ana—”

At exactly that moment, the security alarm went off with a high, electronic shriek, piercing his eardrums. Every nerve in D’s body surged into high alert.

Someone had just broken into the house.

13 Traitorous Assassins

Panic attack.

Eliana knew the symptoms intimately because she’d suffered from these terrifying episodes for years. Not that she’d ever told anyone. With her kind, showing weakness like that guaranteed an expedited route to the afterlife.

Survival of the fittest wasn’t just an evolutionary theory. It was an actual fact of Ikati Law.

The first time it happened was three days after her father was killed. She and Mel and the rest of their group were still on the run from the catacombs, trying to cross the border to France on foot, not knowing if they’d be caught, not knowing where their next meal was going to come from.

One minute she’d been fine, trudging along a dry streambed in warm twilight in the forested Gran Paradiso National Park just miles from the French border, her feet aching, her stomach growling, her mind a tangle of thoughts and memories she kept pushing aside to concentrate on the increasingly difficult task of putting one foot in front of the other. Then, suddenly, from the dry shrubbery alongside the streambed erupted a shrieking knot of kestrels, driven in terror from their hidden nests by the group of much larger predators going by.

Their terror was infectious. For a blinding moment, Eliana couldn’t breathe. Her heart failed to beat. She broke out in a cold sweat, began to tremble violently, and felt tingly in all her limbs. Her chest felt like it was being squeezed by a giant, invisible hand. She thought she might be dying of a heart attack.

Which is exactly how she felt when Demetrius just kissed her.

The last year had been better; once they were settled in France—Silas had the foresight to stuff a bag full of money before they fled, not enough to last but enough to get them established—the attacks tapered off, and for the past year she hadn’t suffered even one. Not when she’d been caught by the police, not when she’d been tortured by Edoard and Dr. Frankenstein, not when the police station blew up around her and she was kidnapped and awoke with two sewn-up bullet wounds, locked in a strange room in a strange house, alone.

No, it took a kiss to bring one on. A kiss from him.

And this was the mother of them all.

Crouched on the bed like a cornered animal, she watched with wild eyes as D leapt from the floor, his huge body coiled to spring, his face tense, a look of pure, murderous rage in his eyes, which were trained on the bedroom door. With a growled, “Stay here!” he moved silently to the door, looked out, and then disappeared though the doorway without looking back.

Once he was gone she felt a surge of relief, but she still couldn’t get her gelatinous legs to move. She gulped large swallows of air, willing her heart to slow its furious beat, telling herself she wasn’t dying, she was going to be fine, she just needed to get out of this room and away from him.

And whatever else had recently arrived.

Still shaking, she tried to step off the bed and instead fell flat on her face on the floor. She lay there panting a moment, listening hard to catch any noise above the hideous whine of the alarm, but she didn’t hear anything. She finally managed to get her legs to work and crept to the doorway. From the floor she snatched the dagger D had wrestled from her hand. She reached the door and peeked out.

A long corridor lined with doors, some open, a few closed. A spiral staircase at the end, leading up to another floor.

No windows. No other way out.

She crept down the hallway, glancing into each room. All were bedrooms, none had other interior doors. She’d have to go up the stairs.

Taking each step much more carefully than the adrenaline screaming through her veins wanted, she progressed up the steps until she reached the top, then peeked over the last step: Living room. Sofas, huge flat- screen television, modern, masculine decor. No one in sight.

The alarm screamed shrilly on and on, urging her forward.

With her heart in her throat, she eased up the last few steps and ran to the opposite wall, where she flattened herself beside a tall bookcase and paused a moment to catch her breath. Her pulse throbbed through her head, pounding a staccato beat that nearly drowned out the alarm.

She heard voices. Male voices. Shouting. Her heart took off like a rocket, and her hands began to shake so badly she nearly dropped the dagger. She tiptoed across the floor to another spiral staircase that led up to who knows what, the only way out of the room.

When she reached the top of the staircase, she didn’t fall apart so much as implode.

Three huge males, black-haired, strapped with weapons, larger and more menacing than any human could ever be, were wrestling Demetrius down to the floor. Trying to wrestle him down to the floor, without much success. They were all snarling and shouting at one another in Latin, massive arms swinging, black hair and fists flying, a heavy oak kitchen table and wooden chairs knocked aside like children’s toys as they grappled with one another and staggered across the room.