Each room was consummately appointed with elegant furnishings and a variety of fine things. Sophisticated pieces, tasteful antiques, a wealth of heirloom Oriental rugs—the kind of things she might expect someone who’d lived as long as him would appreciate.
But there was nothing personal in Lazaro’s home. Nothing modern.
There were no photographs on the bureaus or sofa tables or walls. No mementoes scattered about in any of the meticulously kept rooms. There was nothing to remind him of the past century, let alone the past twenty years.
He lived here in a carefully curated, elegant isolation.
Her conversation with Jehan and Savage came back to her now. The fact that Lazaro had never fully gotten over the deaths of his mate and family. That he blamed himself for not being able to save them. And so he’d joined the Order and exiled himself to this place.
If he hadn’t found room in his heart for anything or anyone in the past two decades, how could she hope he might let her in after just a couple of days?
She had half a mind to confront him about the way he was living his life. Maybe it wasn’t her place to call him on it. Maybe she’d be better off leaving well enough alone and simply wait to return home to the States, where she had her own life to manage.
A life that no longer included her father, she thought, swamped with a fresh wave of grief to think that Lazaro’s entry into her life came at the loss of someone else she loved. But even before losing her father last night, even before the loss of her dear mother years before, Melena realized that her life was missing something vital.
She had a life that, if she were truly being honest with herself, wasn’t so much different from the cage Lazaro had built around himself here in Rome.
She had a nice apartment of her own at her father’s Darkhaven in Baltimore. She had friends. She had lovers when she wanted them. She had colleagues at her father’s office and in the GNC. She had her Breed brother, Derek. She had a full life and plenty of companionship whenever she needed it.
And yet, deep down, she was so lonely.
She saw that same emptiness in Lazaro. Maybe he saw it in her too. Maybe that’s why when their gazes had locked in the midst of their release tonight, the connection had felt so real. So nakedly, startlingly real.
How could he expect her to ignore that as if it hadn’t happened?
She couldn’t.
And she wouldn’t, not without a fight.
Whatever was building so swiftly—powerfully—between them had a chance of growing into something extraordinary. She felt that with a certainty in her bones, in her blood. And she knew she wasn’t alone in that feeling.
So, like it or not, Lazaro Archer was simply going to have to talk to her. He might be accustomed to blustering and bossing his way around everyone else in his life, but she wouldn’t stand for it.
Steeling herself for a battle she wasn’t sure she could win, Melena left the suite on the fourth floor and headed downstairs to the mansion’s main level. It was quiet down there, so she continued on, toward the connected command center of the estate.She didn’t get far.
From out of nowhere, a massive wall of muscle materialized to block her path.
It wasn’t Lazaro. Not Savage or Jehan either.
She looked up and found herself gaping into the cold, hard face of the one warrior she hadn’t yet met. His shaved head and jagged scar made him look even more lethal than the dark stare he held her in now.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t seem inclined to make even the remotest effort to put her at ease.
Melena lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m looking for Lazaro.”
“He’s not here.” God, that voice was coarse gravel. “And you shouldn’t be down here either, female.”
As he spoke, Savage and Jehan came out of a nearby chamber in the corridor. Sav hissed. “Trygg, for f**k’s sake. Go easy on her. Save the venom for tonight’s patrol.”
When the scarred vampire didn’t so much as twitch in acknowledgment, Jehan stepped forward, placing himself between Melena and the warrior who bristled with a feral darkness.
Jehan squared off against his comrade, gently guiding Melena behind him. “I’m only going to say it once. Back. The. Fuck. Down.”
The one called Trygg had an aura that verged on feral. The menacing haze sent a shiver up Melena’s spine. She saw pain there too, buried deep, but it was a dangerous pain, as sharp as razorblades.
For a long moment, Trygg didn’t move. Neither did Jehan. It wasn’t clear which warrior would be the first to spill the other’s blood, but there was no mistaking that cool, calm, and cultured Jehan was every bit as lethal as his barely leashed brother-in-arms.
Perhaps more so. Jehan’s aura burned with a steady, unyielding resolve. He would be unstoppable in all things he set out to do. Honorable to his last breath.
Trygg seemed to know this about his teammate. He seemed to respect it. With a slow exhale, the terrifying Breed male let his shoulders relax a degree. His jaw pulsed, but he did as his comrades demanded, easing back on his heels with a quiet rumble in his throat.
Then he turned and walked away, stalking down the far length of the corridor.
“You okay?” Sav asked.
Melena nodded. “Is his problem just me, or does he despise all women?”
Sav gave her a sardonic look. “It’s not just you. And it’s a long, ugly story. If you have a week or five to spare, maybe I’d tell you.”
No, she didn’t have that kind of time. And the fact that tomorrow Lazaro would be taking her back to the States put a pang of regret in her breast. She wanted to stay a bit longer with Savage and Jehan.