And then he scooped her up in his arms and he was running. Away from the smoke. Away from the heat and the fire and the horror.
Cool night air enveloped her, filled her nose as she braved a cleansing breath. And circled around her were Lazaro’s strong arms, holding her close, keeping her safe—carrying her away from certain death.
He set her down in the crisp, moist grass, while behind them came a jarring roll of thunder as a plume of fire and smoke shot up into the moonlit sky. Horns blared out on the highway. Tires screeched as traffic came to a halt at the scene of the accident.
But all Melena knew was the haggard, terrified face of the man she loved, staring down at her as he held her in a careful embrace. He tore off the lamp cord that bound her wrists and tossed it aside on a vicious snarl. When he reached down to smooth a hank of limp hair from her face, his fingers trembled.
Melena tried to speak but couldn’t push sound through her lips. Her body ached everywhere, some of the pains searing, others a dull, relentless throb.
Lazaro’s dark eyes were sober in his handsome face. His beautiful, sensual mouth was a flattened, grim line. “You’re going to be all right, you hear me? I’m not letting you go.”
She wanted to argue that he already had. That her heart was still breaking from the thought of him pushing her out of his life. Out of his heart.
He stared down at her, misery swimming in his gaze. “I’m not going to lose you, Melena.”
On a curse, he brought his wrist up to his mouth and bit into his own flesh. No hesitation. No asking for permission before he put the punctures to her parted lips. “Drink.”
She tried to shake her head. This wasn’t the way she wanted him, coming back to save her when he had been determined to leave her. Whether he did this out of some noble sense of obligation or guilt, or simply under the power of his bond to her, she didn’t want it. Not like this.
She wanted to reject the gift of his blood, of his bond, but the instant the wet, spicy warmth came in contact with her parched tongue, she greedily drank him in.
And oh, it was incredible.
Lazaro’s Gen One blood flowed down her throat like pure light. She felt it strengthening her body, feeding her cells. Mending her injuries.
He tipped his head back on a strangled moan as she swallowed more of his eternal gift, his fangs gleaming, his broad shoulders and immense body silhouetted by the flames he’d walked through to save her.
It was the last thing Melena saw before a bone-deep exhaustion rose up to claim her.
CHAPTER 13
He had lived for more than a thousand years, long enough that few things still held the power to amaze him. The sight of Melena finally opening her eyes to look at him, after lying in bed unconscious for two days, was one of those rare pleasures for Lazaro Archer.
The worst of her injuries had healed. Her burns were gone. She was alive, and he’d never seen anything more welcome in all his life.
He smiled at her and gently stroked his thumb over the back of her hand as he held it. “Hello, beautiful.”
“Where are we?” she asked, her voice thready.
“Still in D.C. I brought you here after the accident. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so I could ask you something.”
“My brother,” she murmured.
Lazaro shook his head. “I’m sorry, Melena.”
“He was part of Opus Nostrum,” she said quietly. “He arranged for the attack on Turati and my father to prove something to his superiors. He was trying to win their recognition. And he was afraid if I ever saw him again, I’d know all of his secrets.”
Lazaro and the Order had already surmised that Derek Walsh likely had ties to Opus, but hearing Melena confirm it made his blood seethe with renewed rage. “If he’d survived the accident the other night, I swear, I would’ve killed the bastard myself.”
“He seemed so different. He’d only been away for a year, but he wasn’t my brother anymore. And he had strange tattoos I’ve never seen before. Symbols of some kind, and a black scarab on his back.”
“A scarab?” Lazaro thought back to conversations he’d had with Lucan and the other warriors. Reports out of London about human bodies in the morgue bearing the same kind of unusual tattoo.
“Does it mean something?” she asked, worry creasing her brow.
“It might,” Lazaro said, seeing no reason to shield her from his world. But he would bring her into that part of his life slowly, after they returned to Rome. If she would be willing, that is. “We need to talk about what’s happening with us, Melena. About our bond.”
She turned her head on the pillow, looking away from him. “You shouldn’t have done it. You didn’t need to come back to save me.”