The Raven (The Florentine 1)

When he’d saved her life that night, over a week before, he had no idea his very existence would change—that he would be forced to come to her aid again and again.

She needed to leave the city. For her own safety and for the security of his principality, she needed to flee Florence and never return.

Within minutes, he’d cut off the electricity to her apartment and unlocked her door, slipping inside.

He moved through the kitchen, purposefully making a few muted sounds. He wanted to announce his arrival, but softly, so as not to frighten her. By what he could hear of her heartbeat and breathing, he knew she was awake.

As he walked toward the bedroom, she began moving.

“Are you injured?” he whispered in Italian.

He knew she wasn’t. He could smell her blood, of course, but the scent was muted. She didn’t have any wounds and there was no indication of tears, either.

His Cassita had not cried. He took pride in the fact.

He paused for a moment, listening to her struggle to breathe as quietly as possible. But to no avail.

He entered her room.

Just as his foot crossed the threshold, she leapt from behind the door, swinging something in the direction of his kneecaps.

He jumped, evading the object.

She swore as she swung in vain, pitching forward on unsteady feet.

When he landed, he pulled what turned out to be her cane away from her, breaking it in half with a loud, angry crack. He threw the two pieces across the room, ignoring the sound of them striking the wall. Then he pulled her against his body, so they were chest to chest.

For a moment he stared. Having her in his arms provided a tangible distraction, as did her large, unseeing green eyes.

“Let me go!” She struggled, pushing against his shoulders.

“I came to see if you were hurt. Clearly you aren’t.”

“I said, let go!” she shrieked, pushing and kicking at him with all her strength.

With a loud curse, he held her more tightly, lifting her off her feet.

Now they were close, very close. He could feel her breath on his face and if he moved a few inches, her lips would be his.

Instinctively, he moved toward her mouth.

“You came back,” she managed to say, breathing roughly.

“Yes, Jane.”

“You’re hurting me.”

The Prince paused, eyeing her attractive mouth.

He placed her on her feet and loosened his grip, but did not let go. His arms encircled her, pressing their bodies together from shoulder to thigh.

He brushed the hair from her face.

She turned her head. “Don’t touch me.”

Now he released her.

She tried to get as far away from him as possible. Disoriented in the darkness, she tripped and fell.

The Prince watched in horror as her forehead caught on the metal frame of the bed. The tang of her blood sliced through the air.

She cried out in pain.

He was at her side in an instant, crouching beside her. “Let me see.”

Raven didn’t answer, holding her hand to her wound.

He pried her fingers away and swore.

“Don’t move.”

He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and walked to the bathroom, where he soaked it in cold water. When he returned, she was still sitting on the floor, stunned.

“This should help.” He placed the cloth to her forehead.

She winced from the cold.

“I hit my head.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Not all of us can see in the dark, you know.” She glared in his direction.

“I’m beginning to realize that.”

He found himself inhaling her scent. It wasn’t particularly enticing. Her own sweet vintage was muddled with the blood of the old ones he’d transfused. He’d never found their scent attractive.

“You’ll heal more quickly than usual, but you’ll have a wound tomorrow.”

“Why will I heal more quickly?”

He pressed his lips together. “You have larger problems to worry about.”

“My health is a pretty large problem. Tell me why I’ll heal quickly.”

“Leave the city and I’ll tell you.”

He lifted the handkerchief in order to inspect the gash and shook his head.

Her heart rate had slowed somewhat and her breathing evened out, but she still wore the scent of fear.

There were dark circles below her eyes. She looked exhausted.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said softly.

“I’ll be fine.” She tried to push his hand away, but he resisted, pressing the cloth to her wound.

“It may scar.”

“There goes my chance at Miss America.”

“What?”

She sighed. “Never mind.”

“You confound me,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Lightly, he brought his other hand to her face and traced the ridge of her cheekbone.

Raven was surprised at how comforting his touch was. She rationalized she was feeling shaky after hitting her head and that there wasn’t anything special about how he was touching her. He could have been anyone—any Good Samaritan who came to her aid.

Abruptly, he helped her to her feet and directed her toward the bed. When she was seated, he positioned her so she was holding the handkerchief to her wound.

“Something happened in the piazza this evening. Did you see it?” He tried to sound casual.

She shuddered. “Yes.”

“Were you afraid?”

Her heart skipped a beat, providing him with an affirmative answer.

“Are you going to kill me?” she whispered.

The edges of his lips turned up.

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now. I wouldn’t have bothered to lend you the relic. Or my handkerchief, which you can keep.”

Raven removed the cloth from her head and turned it over in her hands. She couldn’t see it but she could feel it. It felt like linen.

She placed it back on her wound.

“The man who killed the other man, is he who you warned me about?”

“It wasn’t a man.” The Prince’s response was swift. “And no, I hadn’t expected one of those creatures to enter my city.”

“Your city?”

“The city,” he amended quickly.

“If it wasn’t a man, what was it?”

“We call them ferals. As you saw, they’re dangerous.”

“Are there more?”

“Yes, but we keep them outside the city. Somehow that one breached the border.”

“But he wasn’t what you were warning me about.”