Chapter 1
A Year Ago, Chicago
Lysander woke to
screams. Pain was the next signal he was
still alive. The cut on his thigh ached with
the force of a charging bull ramming a horn
into him. The screams intensified. They
sounded like an animal’s high-pitched
squeals of terror and pain. His gut twisted.
Dominic? Or Peter? He instantly reached out
with his mind, and tried to figure out how
many Praetorians were in the other room. Not
a single emotion or thought.
Christus, how long had he been out?
His telepathic ability had never been that
strong, but at least he should have been
able to know how many of the
bastardi were out
there. A salty taste on his tongue said his
mouth was full of blood. He spit it out onto
the floor and opened his eyes. The darkened
room was not much bigger than a storage
room. Nylon rope bound his wrists, pulling
his arms up over his head in a painful
stretch. He tugged on his restraints gently.
Merda, he hurt. How long had he been
hanging here? The screams on the other side
of his prison’s door rose on a wild
crescendo until they died down to low
piteous cries. Praetorians had developed
their torture skills during the Inquisition.
Technology had just updated those skills. A
cold, vicious bite of unfamiliar emotion
tried to surge through him. He suppressed
it.
No one survived
Praetorian torture sessions, and the remains
of the Sicari he’d seen said they’d died an
agonizing death. He closed his eyes in a
desperate attempt to shut out those gruesome
images. Think about something else. Phaedra.
The ugly emotion building inside him eased
slightly. Deus,
she had a gorgeous mouth. And her hair. Soft
as silk. Threading his fingers through that
dark silk last night . . . last night. He
winced as grief lashed at him. Maybe the
Elysium Fields would let him recreate those
incredible moments with her as often as he
wanted.
Beside him, a soft
whimper of fear forced him to turn his head.
Marta. A
few feet away, he saw his healer tied to the
wall. Praise Jupiter, at least
she was still
alive. In the next breath, he remembered
what happened to healers. Guilt gnawed at
him with savage glee.
“Marta?”
“I’m scared,
Lysander.” The terror in her voice almost
made him give in to his own fear.
“I know,
cara.”
“They took Peter
first.”
It was a simple
statement, meant only to inform, but it sent
more guilt slicing through him. This was his
fault. He should have known something was
wrong the minute they entered the warehouse.
“Marta—”
“Let it go, Lysander.
You’re not to blame.” Her forgiveness ate
away at him, but he ignored it.
“We’re getting out of
here.” His fingers explored the knot of
nylon holding his wrists together in a
painful grip. Sailor’s knot. Immediately, he
visualized the rope slipping apart in
opposite directions until it released him.
Nothing happened. In the near darkness, he
saw Marta turn her head toward him.
“It won’t work.” The
word was a quiet sigh of defeat. “They gave
the three of you some type of drug to
suppress your telekinetics. Dominic tried to
free himself all the way up to the last
minute, but he couldn’t. We’re going to die
here.”
No. The Praetorians
wouldn’t let her die. She was breeding
stock.
He buried the thought
and returned his attention to the rope
holding him hostage. Closing his eyes, his
fingers helped him memorize the way the rope
was tied. The screams in the other room
gained momentum again, and almost as if they
came from a distance, he heard Dominic’s
thoughts. A whisper more than anything else.
Nothing clear. The drug had to be wearing
off. But would it wear off in time to get
him and Marta out of here?
The thought heightened
his desperation to free himself. There
wasn’t anything he could do for his friend,
but maybe he could get Marta out of here.
Save her from a fate worse than what he
would end up enduring. Even knowing that
didn’t make it easy to shut out the screams.
Almost as if she could
read his thoughts, her fear vibrated through
the room like an instrument being played
with a wild fury. It reinforced his belief
that his abilities were returning. He
focused his attention on the knot,
concentrating hard on mentally undoing the
twisted fibers.
Dominic’s screams grew
louder—bouncing off the walls of the room at
a frightening level. A sickening dread
clawed at him. Concentrate. His friend was
as good as dead. He had to focus on getting
Marta out of this torture chamber. Overhead,
he felt a slight movement in the rope.
Triumph rolled through
him. He wanted to tell Marta, but he didn’t.
It would be cruel to raise her hopes only to
see them crushed if he didn’t succeed in
time. The thought made him work harder. The
rope nudged its way free a tiny bit more. In
the back of his mind, he heard Phaedra’s
voice whispering encouragement.
He was certain it was
a figment of his imagination, but it
bolstered his courage in a way nothing else
could. He’d be damned if he was going to
lose her, just when he’d found her. He
turned his attention back to the rope, only
to sense what seemed to be Phaedra’s fears
for him. Impossible. He knew full well it
was simply his mind compensating for the
pressure he was under right now. The mind
did strange things when it was under stress.
Once more, he focused
on the rope, blocking out everything but the
nylon knot. After several minutes, the
mental drain made him ease up on his
concentration. Christus,
this was almost as hard as when he’d taken
Cleo’s dare as a kid to unlock the cabinet
holding the Order’s sacred Assent of Office
parchments. This time his failure wouldn’t
be the Indictio.
And right now, he’d willingly take on that
hard labor. He visualized the rope’s knot
unraveling when a sudden shift in emotions
echoed in the back of his head. Dominic’s
shrill screams swelled even louder in the
small prison then abruptly went silent. A
dark emotion slithered through his veins.
“Lysander.”
The minute Marta said
his name, he turned his head toward her. The
resignation on her face filled him with
rage, guilt, and fear. He’d failed. He was
going to die, and Marta—he shut down the
images of what she was going to endure.
“I’m still here,
cara.”
“They’re coming.”
“I know,” he said
hoarsely.
He frantically
pictured the knot above his head falling
open, releasing him from its hold. When that
didn’t work, base animal instinct took over,
and he sawed at the nylon with his wrists in
a hopeless effort to free himself.
“Lysander?”
“I won’t let them
breed me,” she whispered, almost as if
consoling herself. “I’ll find a way to keep
that from happening.”
“Fotte,”
he roared as the door to their prison flew
open.
Blinded by the sudden
light streaming into the room, he stretched
out with his thoughts to determine how many
Praetorians there were. Two. Fear and rage
swelled inside him as he continued to saw at
the rope with his wrists. Someone rushed at
him and his last thought was of Phaedra
before the light in the room blinked out.
He awoke to find
himself in restraints on a hard surface, his
head locked into place by a leather strap.
The rafters directly above him said he was
still in the warehouse. The soft clink of
metal tools hitting against each other made
him want to turn toward the sound, but he
couldn’t. A quiet chuckle echoed in his
mind, and he instinctively threw up a shield
against the mental probe.
“Do you have a name,
Unmentionable?”
The pleasant tone of
the man’s voice didn’t ease the sudden fear
crawling across his skin. It increased it.
He closed his eyes and tried to stem the
emotion that threatened to drown him. No. He
couldn’t give in to the terror. It would
drain his ability to keep this
bastardo out of
his head. He swallowed hard and tried to
focus on something pleasant. Something the
Praetorian couldn’t use against him.
Flowers. When was the last time he’d bought
flowers for someone? The thought was
idiotic, but he could sense the Praetorian’s
irritation as his mental barrier kept the
man from probing deeper.
“Come now,
Unmentionable. Tell me your name.”
“Why? It doesn’t
really matter, does it?” An image of Phaedra
slipped past the shield.
“Not really, but it
does personalize the experience.” There was
a note of amusement in the man’s voice that
said he’d seen Phaedra. It sent a bolt of
rage through him.
“I’m sure it does,” he
snarled as he opened his eyes to meet the
flat gaze of the Praetorian. He rolled
saliva and blood around in his mouth and
spat it at the man. “Lysander Condellaire,
Primus Pilus of
the Order of the Sicari, son of Aurelia and
Massimo Condellaire.”
“A Primus Pilus.
I’m honored.” The man pretended to brush off
a fleck of the spit that had not even come
close to him. “It’s not often I have a First
Spear to administer redemption to. I am
Nicostratus. Your judge
and jury. As a heretic, you may
repent at any time.”
He didn’t answer.
Something said this
bastardo liked to talk to his
victims, and he wasn’t going to give the son
of a bitch that satisfaction. In fact, he
was going to fight hard not to give the man
any kind of
response, no matter how bad—a red-hot needle
of pain scraped its way across his skin. He
nearly bit his tongue off to keep from
screaming out loud.
Instead, he dug his
fingers into his palms, and his body jerked
violently against his restraints. It was
impossible to escape the needle’s persistent
fire or the excruciating pain. When it
stopped, he found himself breathing raggedly
with relief—ready to sob. A moment later,
his body bucked hard against the straps
holding him down.
Ever so slowly, the
skin on his face gave way to the man’s cruel
touch. Nerve endings sent horrifying signals
to his brain at their sudden exposure to the
air. He almost wept from the pain, but
swallowed the cries he wanted to let loose.
“You’re a brave man,
Condellaire. It’s not often I encounter an
Unmentionablecapable of holding back his
cries when I strip his skin.”
Lysander opened his
eyes and he choked on a rush of bile as
Nicostratus showed him a strip of flesh
dangling from a pair of small forceps. He
swallowed the bitter fluid in his throat,
but not before a wave of helplessness
crashed over him. The emotion sent him
spiraling down into a dark place where he
wanted to hide from what was happening to
him. No sooner did he hit the bottom of that
hellish pit than he fought back. He bucked
his body against his restraints.
“Fotte
you, you Praetorian
bastardo,” he mumbled, each word more
agonizing than the last as the movement of
his lips tugged at the exposed muscles on
his cheek. In his mind, he visualized his
fist driving itself into the man’s face.
His effort was
rewarded by Nicostratus’s head flying
backward from the invisible punch. In less
than two seconds, the man recovered and
quickly reached for something on the tray
next to the table. Needle in hand, the
Praetorian pushed up Lysander’s sleeve and
proceeded to inject him with something.
“You’re stronger than
I thought. But this should keep you in
check,” Nicostratus said with just a hint of
anger. The man started to push Lysander’s
sleeve down but stopped. “Well now, what
have we here? A birthmark?”
The man’s voice was
coaxing in a way that sent an icy sensation
creeping over Lysander’s skin. An instant
later, the exposed nerve endings on his
cheek lit up in a bitter blast of fiery
pain. Christus, the Praetorian was
patting him on his exposed muscle. He
fiercely bit down on the groan rising in his
chest. When he didn’t answer, the man made a
small noise that indicated curiosity.
“Tell me, Condellaire,
did your mother ever explain where this mark
comes from?”
“My father, you
bastardo.”
“Your father. I see.”
A whisper of sound
drifted through his head. The son of a bitch
was trying to read his mind again.
Desperately, he fought to fortify the shield
around his thoughts and filled his head with
nonsensical images. Anything to block the
man’s probe. He would not
let his mind betray the guild or the Order.
The Praetorian’s thoughts strengthened in an
effort to dig deeper.
Lysander shored up the
fragile wall he’d built inside his head with
images of his mother. Determination and
willpower helped him to pull every memory of
his mother he could find inside him. The
Praetorian chuckled. It wasn’t a pleasant
sound. Rather it encouraged the helplessness
that had taken root in his stomach and
spread through every muscle in his body.
The man’s mental probe
withdrew and Lysander’s muscles shuddered
into a limp state, his ability almost on the
edge of failure. Christus,
he couldn’t fail. He wouldn’t give this
bastardo that
satisfaction. The sound of metal against
metal told him the carving was going to
begin anew. Eyes closed and fists clenched
tightly, he locked his jaw in preparation
for the fiery needle to carve its way into
his skin again.
“This is for not
knowing me, boy.”
Puzzled by the
statement, the tension in his body eased
just before the laser hit his skin. One thin
stream of fire after another flew across his
eye in an X pattern. Deep in the back of his
mind, he started to sob from his inability
to save his friends or himself from this
hell. He was powerless, and the knowledge
crushed him. Somewhere he heard the sound of
screaming, and he realized it was him as the
laser continued its terrible path across his
cheek. He sank into the pit.
When he came to, he
immediately wished he could crawl back into
oblivion. He automatically opened his eyes,
and the action shot a bolt of lightning deep
into the back of his head as his eyelid
pried itself off his seared eyeball. It
pulled another roar of pain from him.
Nicostratus laughed.
“Now then, my son. We
need to talk as we don’t have much time.”
“Just end it, you
sorry fotte.” The
pain it cost him to speak made him slide
toward the dark edge of the abyss, and he
closed his eyes again.
“I’m not going to end
it, Lysander. I couldn’t kill my own son.”
The words ripped through him with the same
painful force of the laser the man had used
on him. This son of a bitch wasn’t just
insane, he was sadistic.
“Merda
di toro.”
“No, it’s true. I’m as
surprised as you are. And I find it
interesting that no one told you about your
mother and me. We had a . . . well, let’s
say she resisted my charms.”
Pain made his thoughts
sluggish. Resisted. Was the
bastardo saying
he’d raped his mother? Not possible. The man
was taunting him in an effort to break him
down. The Praetorian made one more attempt
to break the last defensive wall he’d built
around the Order’s strategic information.
Unable to think straight, an image of
Phaedra filled his head, and he clung to the
memory of the night before. Nicostratus made
an insulting noise.
“Ah, yes, that reminds
me of how I fucked your mother. If I’d known
she was ready to breed, I would have taken
her with me.”
“You’re a liar.” Each
word sent fire shooting up into his brain;
it took him a moment to realize he was
sobbing the words.
“No, my boy. Take a
look.”
Lysander tried to keep
his eyes closed, but fingers pinched his
eyelid, forcing open the only eye he had
left. He stared at the mark on Nicostratus’s
arm. Immersed in agony, he couldn’t focus.
Despite his uncertainty as to what he was
really looking at, he wanted to throw up.
Deep inside him, a vague thought registered
the image, but he refused to believe it. He
tried to shake his head.
“What?” he whispered,
barely able to speak.
“Look closer,
Lysander. It’s proof I’m your father.”
“A mark?” He closed
his eye, praying for oblivion. Fingers
pinched his eyelid again.
“The eagle. Do you see
it?”
He groaned as he
blinked and focused on the mark the man had
on his arm. The bastardo
had lost it. That mark wasn’t an eagle—it
was a bird. His
mark was an eagle. His mother had said it
belonged to his father.
“Your’s . . . bird.
Not . . . eagle.” He barely got the words
out as he hovered on the brink of
consciousness.
“Look again, boy.”
Suddenly, there were
two arms with matching eagles in almost
identical spots thrust in front of him. They
blurred. He was seeing double, that’s all.
The helplessness reached his heart, tearing
it apart like a rabid animal. He stared, his
mind trying to comprehend what he was
seeing.
“No.” He didn’t have
the strength to shout, and the Praetorian
laughed.
“But of course it’s
true. I knew the minute I probed your mind.
How else do you explain your extraordinary
ability to resist my repeated probes for
information? A true Sicari might show some
resistance to me, but they would not be as
strong as you.” Nicostratus made a soft
sound of amused disapproval.
“Not true,” he rasped
then roared with pain as the Praetorian
bastard lightly tapped his skinned cheek
again.
“You would have made a
fine Praetorian, my boy. Your ability to
defy the pain you’re in is exceptional.”
The laser hit his skin
again from his ear down to his jaw. The pain
pulled a pitched scream of agonized terror
from him, and he fell backward into a black
pool of nothingness—his last thought was of
ancient Rome and Phaedra running to meet
him. He was home again.
He had no idea how
long he’d been out, but when he awoke,
everything was silent and dark. Was it
nighttime in the Elysium Fields? He tried to
sit up. The slight movement sent fire
streaking through every cell in his body. He
started to cry. The Praetorian had left him
here to die. Alone. His own son.
He grew still with
horror. He wasn’t Sicari. He was Praetorian.
The obscene thought pulled a cry of denial
from him. His mind hovered on the brink of
despair. Impossible. It couldn’t be true.
But they shared the same birthmark. The
whisper of truth curled through his head. He
wouldn’t believe it. The
bastardo was lying. A teardrop rolled
over his skinned cheek, and it pulled a sob
of anguish from him.
“Fotte.
Fotte. Fotte.”
It was a roar of fear
and helplessness, as well as a cry of agony.
More tears flowed over his bared muscles,
until the pain sent him back to that dark
place again.
Voices filtered their
way down into the pit, and he shuddered with
terror. They’d come back for him. Like a
wild animal anticipating more torture, he
tugged at his restraints, ignoring the fire
that consumed his body. He wouldn’t be able
to keep the son of a bitch
out of his head this time. He heard
running feet, and then he smelled the soft
scent of a woman. Marta?
“Dulce
matris Deus.” Cleo leaned over him,
her cool hand brushing across his forehead.
Horror widened her eyes as she stared down
at him. In the next instant, she spoke into
her mike. “Lysander’s alive, but I don’t
know for how much longer. He needs the
Curavi.
Now.”
He couldn’t hear the
response she got, but a sudden image of
Phaedra filled his head. She was here. A
subtle warmth filled him as her fear and
worry for him whispered sweetly across his
mind. Deus, he
needed her right now. Needed to feel her
touch. Her hand in his, her healing—no.
The sound of feet
pounded on the warehouse floor once more,
and first Ares then Phaedra came into view.
He’d never seen a more beautiful, yet
terrifying, sight in his entire life. He
couldn’t take part in seeing her lovely face
marred by his injuries. Couldn’t let her see
the monster inside him. Terror lanced
through him as she reached for his hand.
Tormented, he tugged at the restraints. If
she touched him—tried to heal him, she’d see
him for what he was. He couldn’t let that
happen. Couldn’t let her perform the
Curavi.
“No. No
Curavi.”
Cleo clamped down on
his arm. “Christus,
he’s out of his mind with pain.”
“For the love of God,
Cleo. Tighten those restraints.” Panic laced
through Phaedra’s voice. “I can’t heal him
if he’s fighting me. I’ll heal the lesser
injuries first. Then we can transport him.
When we’re home, I’ll . . . I’ll do what I
can for his other wounds.”
He saw her swallow
hard and recognized her fear. The idea of
her taking on his injuries was a nightmare,
but he knew without a doubt that when she
touched him she’d be able to see all the
darkness inside him. He was too weak to keep
her locked out of his thoughts if she
touched him. She’d see. She’d see everything
because the pain was too horrible to prevent
her from learning the truth.
“No,”
he roared. “No
Curavi.”
The strength of his
voice echoed loudly in the room, and he
heard Ares utter a vicious curse while Cleo
grasped his hand in a death grip. Fear and
horror darkened Phaedra’s eyes as she bent
over him. Her mouth brushed across the ear
on his unmarked cheek.
“Let me do this for
you, carino,” she
whispered in a sweet, gentle voice. “I’m not
afraid.”
“No.
Refuse the Curavi.”
He tried to shake his
head as he forged through the pain and
ground out the words forcefully. Couldn’t
let her see. Her parents’ murder . . . hated
Praetorians . . . couldn’t bear her hatred.
He felt himself slipping off into oblivion
and climbed up the cliff back into the pain.
She’d heal him without his permission if he
didn’t protest.
“Listen, you dumb son
of a bitch.” Cleo’s voice was harsh. “You
let Phaedra heal you or I’m going to rip you
a new one. You hear me?”
“No . . . dead
already.” And he was. He was Praetorian, and
if anyone found out . . . he’d rather die.
“Give me your hands,
Lysander. With your permission, I must touch
you to heal your injuries.” There was a
frantic desperation in Phaedra’s voice, but
it only made him clench his hands into tight
fists.
“I. Refuse.
Curavi.”
His voice wasn’t loud,
but it was strong and determined. He heard
someone nearby release a vicious sound.
Ares. His Legatus
forcefully pushed Cleo aside to grip his
arm.
“Take the goddamn
Curavi, you sorry
bastardo,”his
guild leader ordered in a fierce voice.
Something wet hit his
unscarred cheek and his gaze shifted from
Ares to Phaedra. In the dim light, he could
see tears clinging to her lashes. He
wouldn’t hurt her. Wouldn’t let her see he
was everything she hated. He loved her too
much. He couldn’t let her see that or
his shame. He released a sob of pain.
“Is. My. Right.
Refuse.
Curavi.”
Each word was a labor of effort to say.
“No,”
Phaedra exclaimed violently. “I’m not about
to let you die, you dumb
bacciagalupe. Ares, make him take the
Curavi.”
“No. My. Right.” He
hovered on the edge of light and dark.
“I can’t, Phaedra. If
he’d been unconscious, it wouldn’t be a
problem, but he’s refused. There’s nothing I
can do.” Ares’s voice was fierce with
disgusted anger.
“Please, Lysander.
Don’t refuse me.” His cheek grew wet as
Phaedra bent over him, her mouth against his
ear. Her hand bit into his arm and he felt a
pulse of energy as she pleaded with him.
“Don’t try to save me from the pain. Let me
save you. I want to do this for you. I don’t
want you to die.”
The heat in her hand
grew stronger, and a roar built in his
chest. With a wild cry, he bucked against
the restraints holding him in place.
Restraints that proved he’d been powerless
against the Praetorian, but he wasn’t
helpless anymore. He had the right to refuse
the Curavi. And
for her sake, he wasn’t about to let her
heal him.
“Get the fuck away
from me. I don’t want your goddamn healers
touch. I refuse Curavi.” The blast of
words made him pay a dear price as a cloak
of needles wrapped itself around him,
digging into every part of his body. He saw
the agony flare in her beautiful brown eyes,
and deep inside a voice cried out for her.
The only thing that kept him from taking his
words back was the darkness welling up
inside him. He was Praetorian. There was
nothing that could change that. But it was
his secret. A truth he couldn’t share with
anyone, not even the woman he loved.
Top of Page
Chapter 2
Demetri. Phaedra awoke with a start.
She’d been dreaming again. No, more of a
nightmare, because she’d been scared. The
fragments of the dream were like dark
tendrils she recognized but couldn’t really
see. The only thing she remembered clearly
was that she’d been in ancient Rome.
Lysander had been there as well, but how or
why, she couldn’t remember. It wasn’t the
first time she’d had this type of dream. But
it had never made her feel this disoriented
and scared before.
Even her bed felt
wrong. She shot upright. It wasn’t her bed.
It was a sleeper chair in Lysander’s
hospital room. A quick glance at her watch
said she’d been asleep about two hours. That
made for a total of about four hours in the
last thirty-six. Her ability was always
weaker when she didn’t get enough sleep or
if she drank too much. And she wasn’t sure
her touch would be strong enough to help
Lysander if he woke up, let alone if he
actually agreed to her performing the
Curavi this time.
Her gaze focused on
the still figure in the hospital bed, and
the soft sound of the heart monitor filled
her ears as if it were a booming church
bell. Between his internal injuries, sword
wounds, and the side of his face stripped of
skin, he was lucky to be alive. Bandages
covered most of his face, while she could
see the black sutures on his lower lip. A
white sheet and blanket covered the rest of
his visible injuries.
An overwhelming need
to touch him swept through her, and she left
her chair to move toward the bed. She
brushed her fingers through his short blond
hair. He looked so helpless, something she
instinctively knew he’d hate. He shouldn’t
be here. He should be completely healed.
She closed her eyes
for a brief moment. Why had he refused the
Curavi? What had
possessed him to reject her healer’s touch?
The only answer she could think of was that
he didn’t want her to suffer what he had.
He’d been afraid for her. A tear slid down
her cheek. Didn’t the man understand she was
willing to go to the depths of Tartarus for
him?
The delicate creak of
the room’s heavy oak door drew her attention
away from Lysander as she saw Ares enter the
room. She immediately averted her head, and
with a furtive swipe of her hand, she dried
her damp cheek. A strong hand clasped her
shoulder, forcing her to turn around.
“I just talked to the
doctor. He’s going to be okay,” Ares said.
“He can have plastic surgery to eliminate
most of the damage.”
The words eased some
of her fear, but not all of it. He’d been
through a Praetorian torture session.
Something few Sicari had ever survived. The
physical trauma was repairable, but the
emotional toll it extracted was high. A
large number of survivors had deliberately
thrown themselves into combat situations
where there was no hope of survival. The
thought of that happening to Lysander
terrified her.
“Hey, you don’t have
to stay here,” Ares said gently.
“No,” she whispered
and looked at the wall clock. “There may
still be time. It’s not been quite twenty
hours since we found him. There’s still a
four hour window. It might be enough.”
She’d not explained
her reasons for coming with Lysander to the
Order’s central headquarters in Genova,
Italy, but Ares had agreed to her demand
without any objection. Her brother probably
thought she was hoping to convince Lysander
to accept the Curavi
once he woke. Doctors could repair his face,
but she was the only one who might be able
to give him back his sight, and there wasn’t
any guarantee she could do that for him. But
there was a window of time for healing
wounds hardly ever extended past twenty-four
hours. The longer the time frame, the less
likely the Curavi
would work. Ares frowned at her.
“Phae, you’re the best
healer the Order has, but the odds are he’s
already past the turning point, and not even
you can heal him then.”
“Maybe, but I need to
at least try.” She shook her head at her
brother’s exasperated expression.
“If Lysander rejected
the Curavi when he
was close to dying, what makes you think
he’d accept it now?”
“I don’t, but if he
wakes up in time, I have to try.” She didn’t
look at Ares. Instead, she turned away from
the bed and went to stand at the sliding
glass door.
Designed with an eye
toward a patient’s physical and spiritual
needs, the secluded and fortified hospital
gave the Order’s patients access to sunshine
and fresh air as part of their recovery
process. A large garden stretched its way
outward from the small patio adjoining
Lysander’s room. In the early morning light,
the beauty outside was a stark contrast to
the pain and darkness she knew Lysander was
experiencing.
Deus, she hated the
bastardi who’d
done this to him. For almost two thousand
years, the Praetorians had hunted the
Sicari. At one time, the Sicari had been a
part of the Praetorian Guard. Like their
enemy, they’d served as bodyguards to the
Caesars of ancient Rome, they’d had wealth,
position, and power. But the Guard had split
at the time of Constantine I, and those in
power had cast out a select group of
brothers. They labeled the outcast Sicari.
Assassins.
They called the Sicari
heretics, and yet like vermin they were, the
Praetorians hid from the world behind the
robes of the Carpenter’s church. Using the
banner of righteousness, they’d sought to
exterminate the Sicari, inflicting terrible
atrocities on her people as well as the
innocent. A soft groan drifted through the
air to pierce her thoughts. She whirled
around to see Ares move quickly to the bed,
his hands on the bed rail, bending over his
friend.
“Hey, how you feeling,
amici?”
“Like
stronzo.”
Lysander’s voice was so soft she had to
strain to hear him.
“Yeah, well you could
be feeling a lot worse,” Ares joked. From
where she was standing at the door, she saw
Lysander suddenly grab her brother’s hand.
“Marta?”
The one word question
was little more than a hiss of air, and she
saw Ares struggle to come up with an answer.
They’d found Dominic and Peter, but the
Sicari woman was gone. Marta would live, but
in a living hell. The Praetorian
bastardi would
rape her constantly both for physical
pleasure and in an effort to impregnate her.
Any children Marta bore would be taken from
her. The males raised in the Praetorian
Collegium and the females murdered. The
woman would have been better off dying in
that warehouse. Without hesitating, she went
to the opposite side of the bed.
“They took her,” she
said, hating herself for it. She should have
lied to him, but he would eventually learn
the truth. Stretching out her hand, she
lightly touched him on the shoulder. With a
violent jerk, he retreated from her hand.
“No.”
His dark growl was fierce and intense.
“Take it easy, pal.”
Ares gently grasped the warrior’s arm. “It’s
just Phae. You’re safe here.”
“Leave,
now.”
He didn’t say her
name, but she knew he meant her, and the
demand sent pain slicing through her until
she swayed on her feet. Fingers wrapped
tightly around the cold metal of the bedside
rail, she met his gaze with her heart
pounding like mad in her chest. Something
wasn’t right. She could almost feel the
erratic swell of his emotions crawling
across her skin. It was unlike anything
she’d ever experienced before. Nothing was
truly discernible except the bleak darkness
that consumed him. Wild and thrashing, it
was frightening in its intensity.
Deus, it would eat him alive if he
didn’t release it. It wasn’t unusual for her
to feel or see emotions or images when she
healed someone. If she healed him, he might
be able to release some of the dark emotion
inside him through her. The thought of
taking on that horrifying darkness sent a
streak of terror slithering down her spine
like a serpent poised to strike. She
shuddered. It didn’t matter. She could do
this. She could do it for him.
“Ares, leave us.” Her
soft command whispered across the bed, and
Lysander almost managed to jerk upright.
“No.”
This time his objection was stronger, more
forceful. Determined to get him to agree to
the Curavi, she
glared down at him.
“Lie back down, you
dumb bacciagalupe.
You’re going to rip out some stitches or
worse, your IV,” she snapped fiercely.
“Ares, get the hell out of here,
now.”
The furious response
silenced both men, and without another word,
Ares left the room. Alone with Lysander, she
held on to the metal bar of the bed guard
for dear life and stared down at the
stranger in the hospital bed. Her voice died
in her throat at his granite expression.
Dolce
matris Deus, what
had they done to him, and would she survive
the knowledge?
“Leave, Phaedra.” Cold
and detached, the command made her flinch.
“Not until you let me
try to heal you.” She fought to keep her
voice steady, yet resolute. “There might
still be a chance I can—”
“You don’t know when
to give up do you?” His voice was husky with
pain, but there was an odd note in his voice
that had her nerve endings standing on end.
“No. Not if I believe
I can help you.”
“I don’t want your
help.” He shifted in the bed slightly, a
grunt breaking past his lips. She had to
stiffen her body to keep from reaching out
to touch him.
“I know you’re worried
about my pain, but it comes with the
territory. I promise you, I won’t melt.” Her
words tugged a soft laugh from him. It was a
cruel sound, and it made her flinch.
“Stop trying so hard,
Phaedra. There’s no need to get sentimental
on me.” The chiseled expression on his face
didn’t reveal anything. “We both know you
can’t give me back my eye.”
“You don’t know that,
and we won’t find out if you don’t at least
let me try.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she gasped.
“Because I want you whole again.”
“You want me whole
again.” He repeated her words with a sarcasm
that cut deep.
“That’s not what I
meant, and you know it.”
She grabbed his
forearm in anger. He knew damn well what she
was trying to say. She wanted to erase the
horror he’d endured. She wanted to try and
ease the darkness she sensed in him. Free
him from the inner pain that was gnawing at
him like a mad dog. An invisible pressure
pried her fingers off his arm.
“Look, all I want is
you out of this
room and away from me,” he said in a
disgusted voice.
She shivered. He was
hurt. That was all. He’d seen the horror on
her face last night. He knew what a healer
went through during the
Curavi. He had to have known that
first sight of him had triggered fear. It
was why he’d refused her touch. It’s why he
was rejecting her now. He was looking for a
reason to get rid of her. But she wasn’t
going to let him get away with it.
“Christus,
do you really think it matters to me what
you look like?” She smacked the cold
stainless steel barrier between them with
desperate fury. “I don’t give a damn what
you look like as long as I’m with you.”
Her words hung in the
air for a long minute as he just stared at
her, his expression slowly easing into one
of amusement. It sent a wild streak of fear
winding through her.
“With me?” His snort
of laughter held a note of cold cruelty that
made her clutch at the bed rail in a frantic
effort to stop her trembling.
“Yes, the other
night . . .” Her voice trailed off for a
second as a sneer tugged at his mouth and
his eyebrow went skyward. When he didn’t
speak, she stumbled forward. “I thought
that . . . you and I—”
“Come on,
bambino.” His
green eye held an insolent gleam as he raked
his gaze from her face to her breasts then
back up again. “The sex wasn’t bad, but did
you really see it
going beyond a one nighter?”
The words hit her with
the force of a hard slam to the training
mat. She couldn’t move. All she could do was
struggle to find a way to absorb the blow.
Her grip on the steel rail tightened to the
point she was certain she would bend the
metal. He was lying. He had to be. Didn’t
he? She stared at the amused condescension
on his face, her stomach lurching with a
nausea that made her want to throw up.
“If you’re doing this
because you think last night changed things
between us—”
“Look,
dolcezza, it was
just one
fuck.
Let’s not make it into something
bigger than that.”
If his words weren’t
crippling enough, the boredom in his voice
was the same as if she’d taken a Praetorian
blade in her back. The pain of it made her
legs buckle beneath her until the only thing
holding her up was her deadlock on the metal
rail of the bed guard. Desperation snarled
its way through her as she stared down at
him.
“You
bastard,”
she breathed as humiliation churned her
stomach so hard she thought she’d throw up
what little food she had in her stomach.
She turned away from
him slowly, her legs feeling rubbery. His
face was almost out of her vision when she
thought she saw a flash of agony cross his
face. She paused to look back, but she
realized she was wrong. He still wore the
same contemptible smirk. Unable to bear
looking at him, she stumbled out into the
hospital corridor. Ares was walking toward
her and tried to stop her. She brushed him
off and headed for the main entrance. The
sooner she was back in Chicago the better.
There were Praetorians to kill, and maybe,
just maybe, she’d get lucky enough to find a
way to end her misery. The glass doors of
the hospital entrance opened with a quiet
swish, and she walked out into the sunshine
knowing the life she’d thought she had was
over before it had even begun.
Top of Page
Chapter 3
Rome, Seat of the
Roman Empire
310
a.d.
“I
intend to marry him.” Cassiopeia stared
across the atrium at the tall Roman general
conversing with her father. Beside her,
Octavian Julius Valeria frowned darkly.
“It’s a ridiculous notion, my pet. Maximus
has nothing to offer in the way of family or
fortune. You should marry me.”
“I
don’t love you, Octavian. But I do love
Maximus.”
Her
gaze never left Maximus. She was grateful
for the cool night air that streamed in
through the opening in the atrium’s roof and
the cross currents that pulled a soft breeze
into the peristylium. Watching Maximus made
it much warmer in the house than it was. The
sight of him filled her with an ache that
heated her blood with Apollo’s fire until it
settled between her legs in a rush of liquid
warmth.
“Romans don’t marry for love. We marry to
keep the patrician houses strong.”
Octavian’s tone was sharp, telling her he
wasn’t happy at all.
“And Maximus will make the Atellus name
stronger when father adopts him. Maximus
Caecilius Atellus. Just the sound of it
rings with great strength. Our sons will
ensure my father’s name continues, and I
shall have Maximus. It’s an excellent
arrangement.”
“I’ve known Maximus for a long time. The man
has an aversion to marriage.” Octavian
snorted with amusement. “What makes you
think you can change his mind.”
“Because I intend to make him fall in love
with me.”
Across the room, Maximus laughed at
something her father said and that familiar
tug on her senses increased. His plebian
family hailed from the northern part of the
Empire, and the Gaul influence showed in the
dark blond hair he wore short. Although she
couldn’t see his green eyes from here, she
knew how striking and unusual they were. He
might not have patrician blood, but he had
the air of one. His strong nose and sensual
mouth lent itself to the impression that he
was a noble. Venus could not have designed a
man more delicious if she’d tried. Normally,
he wore his military uniform when he visited
her father, but tonight he was dressed in
the fine robes indicative of the position
Emperor Maxentius had given him in the
Senate. She preferred his uniform. It showed
off his strong, sinewy legs and the strength
of his arms. Arms that held the promise of
all measure of delights. She wanted to see
all of him bared before her.
“If
this is an attempt to have me express my
feelings in poetry reminiscent of Ovid, I
will do that if necessary,” Octavian said
quietly. When she didn’t answer, his voice
sharpened. “Don’t be a fool. He’s not good
enough for you, Cassiopeia.”
Slowly turning her head, she studied the
anger on Octavian’s face. It was unlike him
to be so quarrelsome with her. Octavian had
been the one to introduce Maximus to her
father. Eager to appease her friend, she
touched his arm lightly.
“Octavian, how can you say such a thing?
Maximus is your friend.”
“Friendship is one thing. Marrying into a
Patrician household is something completely
different.”
She
frowned. Was her childhood friend right? As
one of the senior statesmen in the Senate,
the name of Gaius Quinctilia Atellus was
associated with fairness and levelheaded
thinking. But would he object to Maximus as
a son-in-law? No. He liked her handsome
Roman general very much. If anything, her
father would welcome Maximus into the family
with open arms. The only thing needed of her
was to convince Maximus to fall in love with
her. She shook her head.
“You disappoint me, Octavian. I never
thought you would be in the camp of those
who prefer the Patrician class to remain
pure. The fact that Maximus is your friend
only makes it worse.”
Without allowing the man to utter a
response, she moved away from him. As
hostess, she found it necessary to stop and
greet several prominent guests she’d invited
at her father’s request. It seemed to take
an interminable amount of time to make her
way around the shallow, water-filled
impluvium with its resplendent mosaic to
where her general and her father stood. When
she finally reached the two men, she saw
Maximus grow rigid with tension. His
physical reaction made her bite back a
smile. He was aware of her more than he
cared to admit. “Father,” she murmured a
greeting as she kissed his cheek before she
turned to the man she intended to conquer.
“General, I’m delighted you could join us.”
Her
hands outstretched, she forced him to take
her hands in his. They were large hands,
rough and strong. The hands of a soldier.
She wanted to feel their roughness against
her skin. As she stood on tiptoe to kiss his
cheek and then the other, he had no choice
but to lower his head toward her. Her cheek
brushing against his, she pressed her mouth
against his ear.
“There isn’t a woman in this room who can
take their eyes off you. Including me.”
At
her whisper, he pulled back abruptly, his
eyes narrowing as he stared down at her. The
vivid green of his gaze studied her for a
long moment before he looked at her father.
She glanced over her shoulder to see her
father barely restraining his amusement.
“Forgive my daughter, Maximus. I’ve given
her free rein for so long, it’s impossible
to control her.”
“Perhaps it’s simply a matter of finding the
right hand to gentle her.”
The
amused note in Maximus’s voice sent
irritation spiraling through her. This
wasn’t the way he was supposed to respond to
her. She suppressed her annoyance and forced
a smile to her lips as she summoned Adela to
her side with a wave of her hand.
With only a small command, the freedwoman
hurried away to find the dancers hired as
the evening’s entertainment. As music filled
the room, she looked up at Maximus and
offered him her most beguiling smile. His
green eyes darkened, and she quickly turned
her gaze to the erotic dance being performed
in front of them. Suddenly, she realized it
might be difficult to make him dance to her
tune.
Another senator hailed her father from
across the room, and he excused himself,
leaving her alone with Maximus. Tension as
finely taut as a spider’s web wove through
her as she watched the dancers. After a long
moment, she braved a quick glance up at him.
To her surprise, he was openly studying her,
and she could feel the heat of a blush
cresting over her cheeks.
“You blush like a vestal virgin, my lady.”
The whisper was almost a caress against her
skin, and the sound of his voice sent the
blood pounding through her veins.
“Do
I?” she choked out.
“Most certainly,” he said with a soft laugh
that made her legs go weak. “It enhances
your beauty.”
“You think I’m beautiful?” Startled, she
looked up at him in surprise.
No
one, not even her father had ever said she
was beautiful. A look of hunger swept across
his face and it sent a thrill whirling
through her. Strong fingers bit into her
upper arm as he quietly pulled her away from
the festivities, through the peristylium,
and into one of the empty rooms reserved for
the family’s use. The scent of the flowers
in the large garden that was the peristylium
drifted into the small room as he pulled the
privacy curtain closed behind them. Her
heart skipped a beat, and she breathed in
Maximus’s raw male scent as he advanced on
her until her back came up against a cool
marble column. She was certain it was her
imagination, but she could almost feel his
fingers caressing her throat before they
trailed their way down to the valley between
her breasts. The fanciful sensation made her
nipples grow hard as unripe cherries.
“You’ve been playing with fire for several
weeks now,
mea mellis,” he growled. “Exactly
what is your game?”
She’d seriously misjudged her attraction for
him. He was far more devastating alone. She
swallowed hard and shook her head. “I don’t
play games.”
“Then what is it you want from me,
Cassiopeia?” The flicker of emotion in his
piercing gaze sent her pulse racing.
“You. I want you for my lover.” Unspoken
emotion charged the air, and she knew better
than to elaborate any further.
He
jerked upright with a shake of his head.
“You’re a senator’s daughter.”
“And this figures into the equation how?”
she said in an annoyed tone. She’d expected
him to scoff at a relationship, not to point
out their different social stations.
“I’m a simple soldier.”
“Are you saying that in service to the
Empire you’ve been injured in some way that
prevents you—”
In
a split second, arms solid as oak pulled her
into the heat of his body. He felt as good
as she had imagined he would. Hard, sinewy,
and all male. Her body ached with need as
his erection beneath his robe pressed into
the apex of her thighs. Desire spiraled
through her and she shifted her hips
forward, wishing there was nothing between
them to prevent him from sliding into her.
His mouth plundered hers and she sighed as
his tongue forced its way past her lips in a
kiss filled with passion. He was hers. She
knew that with even more certainty now.
Almost as if he could read her mind, he
released her and put several feet between
them. His breathing was ragged as he studied
her in the low light.
“You’re playing with fire,
mea dulce.”
“No.” She shook her head and closed the
distance between them. She curled her hand
around his neck then pulled his head down
and brushed her lips against his. “I know
what I want. And I want you.”
He
kissed her hard before his mouth trailed a
hot path over her jaw and down the side of
her neck.
Deus, the man’s touch was all she’d
imagined. She trembled in his arms in
anticipation. The desire building inside her
forced her hips forward to brush against his
hard length beneath his tunic. Heat pooled
between her legs. She drank in the rough,
male smell of him. If this was what love
felt like, what heights would her desire for
him take her to?
The
thought sent a shudder through her. It was
still possible to lose him. He desired her,
but could she make him love her? What if she
failed? She refused to consider the
possibility. She would win. She would have
this man’s heart. There was no other option
for her.
His
hands skimmed up her arms to tug at the
fragile material that was her gown. It gave
way beneath his rough fingers until the
bodice fell to reveal a breast. Ever so
slowly, his mouth caressed its way from her
shoulder to the taut nipple. He suckled her
for a delicious moment then eased his lips
back up to her throat.
“Please, Maximus.”
“There will be no going back,
mea dulce.”
“I
have decided. You have no choice,” she
whispered.
She
was floating and she realized he was
carrying her to one of the couches. By the
gods, he was going to make her his right
now. Her heart tightened with love and joy.
Now he might feel only desire, but love
could not far behind. The soft pillows of
the couch pressed against her back. With a
gentleness that was at odds with his
soldier’s hands, he pulled her gown up to
her hips.
Heat spread its way across her thigh as his
fingers undid the cloth concealing her core.
A guttural noise rolled out of him as he
exposed her to his eyes. His throat bobbed
violently as he swallowed. Against her skin,
she felt his fingers tremble. Amazement
swept through her as her gaze met his. There
was something else beside passion glowing
there. It reassured her that she’d made the
right decision to force his hand. His touch
parted her and she arched up against his
fingers . . .
Rome, Italy
Present Day
The buzzer on the
alarm clock shattered the dream, and Phaedra
groaned with disappointment as she slapped
the snooze button to eliminate the annoying
sound. She desperately wanted to go back to
sleep. It had been such a deliciously wicked
dream. The only problem was her body ached
for the man in her dreams. Lysander.
Damn, it had been more
than a year since he’d brutally rejected her
that night in the Order’s Genova medical
center. Why was the man still haunting her
dreams? She winced. She knew why. Just
because he’d crushed her heart hadn’t
stopped her from loving him. She was as big
a fool as they came. Why couldn’t she get
the man out of her heart
and her head? The thought tugged a
groan out of her. And these dreams. They
made no sense at all. Why would she be
dreaming about the first Sicari Lord and his
wife, Cassiopeia?
For that matter, why
did Maximus look like Lysander
before the
Praetorians tortured him? She rubbed sleep
out of one eye with the heel of her palm.
Whatever the dream was trying to tell
her—and dreams always meant something—all
she wanted was the man she’d fallen in love
with more than a year ago. A sigh of
resignation whispered out of her. Whatever
those Praetorian bastardi
had done to him, they’d destroyed that man.
The man in that hospital bed hadn’t been the
same man who’d made love to her.
Her thoughts drifted
back to that horrible morning. Pain forced
her eyes closed. Hearing those cruel words
from him had been the most humiliating
moment of her life. But worse was the pain
that had come with it. She’d left the
hospital numbed to anything but her desire
to strike back. To make him hurt as bad as
he’d hurt her.
And she’d worked hard
to do that from the moment he came back to
Chicago. Every chance she had, she flung her
barbs at him as if they were darts. But he
never acted as if any of her sharp jabs had
hit their mark. That is until the night of
Julian’s Rogalis,
his memorial service. The moment she’d
blamed Lysander for her friend’s death she’d
wanted to take the words back. Her words had
finally found their mark, and the anguish on
Lysander’s face had twisted her insides in a
way that said she had gone too far. Out in
the small sitting room, the sound of the
apartment door opening and closing with a
loud bang echoed into the bedroom.
“Phae, you awake?”
She groaned. Cleo.
Didn’t the woman ever sleep? Her friend had
picked her up at the Order’s private hanger
at Rome’s International Airport when she’d
arrived late last night, and now she was up
before her. She adjusted the spaghetti strap
of her camisole nightshirt and slid out of
bed. Her friend wasn’t about to let her
sleep any longer. Not that she’d be able to.
She was going to be on tenterhooks until she
talked to Lysander and asked him why he’d
summoned her to Rome. Even more importantly,
she was going to do something she
never did.
Apologize.
She grimaced at the
thought. Apologies meant she’d screwed up.
And even if the words had been said in the
height of her own grief and remorse, he’d
not deserved the blame she’d laid at his
feet. Clearing the air between them would
make the difference between this assignment
being tolerable or unbearable. The room’s
cool air made her shiver, and she reached
for her robe as she headed toward the
sitting room. The sight of Cleo seated on
the couch, chewing on a bagel, tugged a
smile to her lips.
“Did you bring
anything for me to
eat?” Her question made the Sicari fighter
turn her head to look at her, a grin on her
lovely features.
“Absolutely.” Cleo
pointed to a small plate of fruit and
cheese. “All I could find in the fridge was
some Romano. It’s a tad salty, but the fruit
should take the bite out of it.”
Beautiful enough to be
a cover model, her friend was tangible proof
of their Roman heritage. Mysterious dark
eyes, midnight black hair, and a smile that
could charm even a Praetorian. But then Cleo
was more interested in killing the Sicari’s
sworn enemy than charming them. An opinion
Phaedra held with even more vehemence than
her friend did. The
bastardi had stolen her childhood,
and hurt the man she loved. As far as she
was concerned, the only good Praetorian was
a dead one.
Phaedra curled up at
the opposite end of the couch and reached
for an apple. After a couple of bites, she
leaned forward to take some Romano off the
plate. The hard cheese had a kick to it and
was a little salty like Cleo had said.
Still, the Italian cheese was one of her
favorites, specifically for its sharp bite.
“So, what do you think
this is all about?” Cleo sent her an arched
look.
“What kind of question
is that? We’re in Rome because Atia thinks
the Tyet of Isis
is here.”
“Mother has always
thought the Tyet of Isis was here in
Rome, and you know damn well that’s
not what I’m talking about.” Her friend
snorted. “For the past year Lysander’s been
emphatic about not having you on any of his
teams then suddenly, whoosh, you’re on his
team here in Rome.”
“You’ll have to ask
him that question.” She shrugged and took
another bite of her apple.
The last thing she
intended to do was let Cleo know how
confused she was by this change in him. But
had he really changed? When she looked back
over the past year without anger fueling her
perceptions, she was coming to realize he’d
always had her back.
On the three occasions
they’d actually served on the same
reconnaissance team, his sword, not her
partner’s, had always been the one to save
her at the last second. Then there was the
night Ares had run the gauntlet. Running
through a corrider of armed Sicari warriors
wasn’t supposed to be painless. The brutal
punishment for breaking one of the major
laws of the Order had almost killed her
brother. For a healer to touch a survivor
during the first twenty-four hours was a
punishable offense as well. But breaking the
rules ran in the family. After healing
Ares’s internal injuries, she’d been weak as
a kitten.
Lysander had been the
one to see she got back to her room. The man
had actually carried her there. A moment
that had delivered her into the Elysium
Fields only to be pulled back into Tartarus
far too quickly when he’d left her alone.
And he’d not betrayed her to Atia, the
Prima Consul. He’d kept her secret when
the Order’s leader questioned them about the
whole incident.
If he didn’t care
about her, why would he do all that? Was it
because he was Ares’s friend, or was there
something more to his behavior than she
realized. Deus,
she really was a fool to think that. She
suddenly realized Cleo had asked a question
and was watching her like a hawk. She
frowned as she met her friend’s intense
gaze.
“What?”
“I asked if you were
okay with all of this?”
Without even trying,
she could easily read Cleo’s concern. While
her healing ability was the strongest of her
Sicari skills, Phaedra also had the ability
to sense emotions in others. It was like
emotional radar. Sometimes it gave her only
a sense of someone’s intentions, while at
other times she could read emotions buried
deep beneath the surface.
Cleo wasn’t probing,
she was just worrying about her as any
friend would, and they’d been friends a long
time. It had been Cleo’s mother, Atia, who
had taken her and Ares in after the
Praetorians had massacred their parents. The
memory of those terrifying moments flashed
in front of her eyes.
The priest’s closet
her mother had pushed Ares and her into as
she kissed them good-bye. The sound of her
mother’s screams as she was being butchered.
The peephole she’d peered through to see her
mother’s murderer. The face of the
Praetorian that had haunted her all these
years. His cruel laughter as he’d reached
out with his mind, trying to read their
thoughts and discover their hiding place.
From the age of six,
she’d learned how to shield her thoughts
from Praetorians, but her skills and Ares’s
hadn’t been fully developed then. The man
had known it. He’d known it was simply a
matter of time before he found them. The
only thing that had saved them was another
Praetorian ordering the murderer to leave.
“This whole thing
really does have you shaken up, doesn’t it?”
Her friend frowned with concern.
“It’s a job, Cleo.
Nothing more.”
“If that’s true, then
why do you keep zoning out on me?” Cleo said
with a snort of disbelief.
“I’ve just got a lot
on my mind.”
“Right. So what are
you going to do about it?”
“Do about it?” She
knew exactly what Cleo was referring to but
refused to go there.
“You need to talk to
him about it.”
“About Julian’s
Rogalis?” She
grimaced and dodged the true intent of
Cleo’s remark.
“I’m not talking about
that, and you know it.” Her friend glared at
her. “I’m talking about that night in the
warehouse.”
The statement
immediately threw Phaedra back into the
past, the pain of it sweeping through her
like a wildfire. The sight of Lysander lying
on that metal slab, his entire body
reflecting a man on the edge of death. When
she’d reached him, she’d expected him to be
unconscious, but to see him alert and in
agony had been devastating. Then when he’d
refused the Curavi—she
swept the memories aside.
“There’s nothing left
to say.”
She recognized the
hollow note in her voice. It represented
that piece of her that was missing. Cleo was
right. There was a lot more she wanted to
say. But Lysander didn’t want to hear it,
because he just didn’t care. Her heart
contracted as she remembered his cruelty
that night in the hospital.
“Oh, puhleeze.” Cleo
released a soft snort of disgust. “I know
you better than that. Both of you. That man
didn’t refuse the Curavi
for the hell of it. He was protecting you
that night.”
The apple crunched as
Phaedra bit into it. The sound reminded her
how bruised and battered she’d felt the
morning she’d left Lysander’s hospital room.
The pain had eased, but the numbness was
still there after all these months. A
painful sign that she was still in love with
him.
“Even if what your
saying is true, he’s not willing to discuss
what happened, and neither am I,” she said
with a glare at her friend.
“Oh, really?” Cleo
snapped.
“Yes,
really. I don’t
know what makes you think there’s more to
this than what I’m telling you.”
“Well, let me
think . . . oh, right, the two of you have
been at each other’s throats since . . .
since that night in Englewood. No wait—you’ve
constantly eviscerated the man, while the
dumb
son of a
bitch has just taken it
without blinking.”
“We’ve always argued.
You know that.”
“But it’s different
now.”
“Different how?” She
tried to sound nonchalant, but her friend
narrowed her beautiful eyes at her.
“There’s something
under the surface of it all. It’s not
something I can put into words.” Cleo’s
perceptive observation made her cold with
panic.
“The reason you can’t
put it into words is that there is
nothing
different.”
“That’s bullshit,”
Cleo snapped as she sent her a dark glare.
“Ever since that night at Julian’s
Rogalis, it’s been
like watching two wildcats snarling their
way through some sort of mating ritual.”
“You’ve got one hell
of an imagination,” she bit out through
clenched teeth. The analogy had only served
to increase her anxiety level. If Cleo saw
it, did Lysander? “Now if you don’t mind, I
need to shower then check in with the
Primus Pilus.”
“Va
bene,” Cleo said with a
stubborn grimace as she stood up. “But I’m
right about all of this, and you know it.”
“I’ll just leave you
to your delusions,” she lied as she glared
upward at her friend.
“Christus,
you’re as stubborn as Lysander. I’m betting
the minute the two of you have it out with
each other you’re going to be in bed
together faster than someone can say
fotte.”
Speechless, Phaedra watched Cleo smile with
satisfaction. “Interesting. Phaedra DeLuca
doesn’t have a comeback for a change.
“I don’t have a
comeback because you sound like a lunatic.”
“Not really. In case
you haven’t noticed, whenever the man thinks
no one’s watching him, he can’t take his
eyes off of you.” Cleo arched her eyebrows
and popped another grape into her mouth.
Phaedra froze at the
other woman’s statement, her heart skipping
a beat. Was it possible Cleo was right? But
if he cared, why didn’t he do something
about it? Why would he have shut her out the
way he had? It didn’t make sense.
“Have you thought
about seducing the man?” Cleo’s voice
filtered through her thoughts.
“What?”
She gaped at her friend’s mischievous
expression. Appalled at the direction of the
conversation, she shook her head vehemently.
“No.
Absolutely not.”
“Not willing to risk
failure, eh?”
Riled by the comment,
she clamped her jaw shut before she said
something else she’d regret. The notion of
seducing Lysander was far too tempting a
thought—not to mention a hopeless one. The
fact was she wasn’t
willing to risk failure. Failure would mean
an even greater heartache than she was
experiencing now. She shook her head.
“I’m not going to let
you provoke me into doing something stupid.
So drop the subject.”
Clearly disappointed,
Cleo grimaced as the small desk clock chimed
the hour, and she immediately sprang to her
feet. “Crap, I’ve
got to run. Ciao,
bambola.”
With that final
parting shot, her friend was gone, leaving
her in a state of confusion. Left alone,
Phaedra stared at her surroundings with a
sense of fear. Could she do what Cassiopeia
had done in her dreams? What would happen if
she tried to seduce Lysander as Cleo had
suggested. Did she have the courage to even
try? She blew out an angry sigh of disgust.
She was crazy.
No, Cleo
was crazy. Falling into bed with Lysander
was something she did only in her dreams
now. Dreams where he was Maximus and he
loved her. But that’s all they were, just
dreams.
Chapter 4
Rome, Seat of the Roman
Empire
310
a.d.
He
watched her. From the open doorway of the small
spa, he studied the voluptuous curves of her
body as she stepped out of the marble bath. A
slave tried to cloak her in a pristine white
cloth, but with an elegant wave of her hand, she
took the towel and sent the servant away.
Tendrils of hair the color of a midnight sky
escaped the makeshift knot on the top of her
head to caress the nape of her neck.
Outside, the final heat of the day had eased,
leaving Rome cool. But in here, his body burned
hotter than Apollo’s chariot blazing its way
into the west. Marble cooled his shoulder as he
leaned against the hard column of the bath’s
entrance. The stone’s chilly smoothness did
nothing to quench the fire in his blood or stop
his cock from growing hard at the sight of her.
Arms
folded across his chest, he drank in the beauty
of her full curves. The olive bronze of her skin
shimmered beneath the layer of water skimming
down her back before it danced off her softly
rounded buttocks. The lushness of her body shot
a familiar ache through him. Cassiopeia,
daughter of Gaius Quinctilia Atellus, Roman senator, was his.
There
had always been women in his life, but the idea
of leaving a wife behind if he died in battle
wasn’t a worry he’d been willing to accept. Of
course, that was before she chose him. What had
made her choose him over all others? He was a
soldier. A plebian by birth. Far removed from
the patrician clan she belonged to. It was
doubtful he would ever know the reason why. He
could only thank the gods that she had chosen
him.
His
gaze greedily swept over her, his body reacting
as it always did whenever he was near her. He
suppressed a sudden growl of desire as she bent
over to pat her legs dry with the linen towel.
The view from this angle was more than
enticing—it was erotic. He remained where he
was. He had no desire to rush tonight. If he did
do so, she’d know he would be gone at dawn.
“Really, husband. Must I beg you to lay with
me?”
Cassiopeia turned to face him, her sultry
expression of amusement making his erection even
harder. He folded his arms across the
breastplate of his military uniform and shook
his head as he smiled at her teasing.
“Never,
mea amor.
I simply wanted to watch you and take pleasure
in the knowledge that you’re mine and no other
man’s.”
The
linen cloth she held slip out of her hand and
pooled at her feet. With the grace of one of the
gazelle’s he’d seen in Africa, she walked toward
him. The moment she reached him, she pressed her
hand into his forearm. The touch sent a pulse of
gut-wrenching emotion racing through him
straight to his heart. How he loved this woman.
A somber look flitted across her features. He
tried not to listen, but her thoughts rushed at
him with the speed of a charging lion. The first
of her thoughts reached him. She knew he was
leaving. Her mind screamed a protest, but she
remained calm and composed on the outside. The
hardest thing for him was the images he saw in
her head. Her imagining him being injured or
killed on the battlefield.
“When?”
Her
voice was tranquil almost, but he heard the note
of fear in the single word question. He sighed.
Even if she had never learned about his special
skills, she would have been able to read him
almost as well as he could read the minds of
others.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured as he touched her cheek.
The moment she blanched, he shook his head.
“It’s only for a few weeks. Maxentius wants me
to visit one of the provinces to ensure the
governor is doing his job.”
“The
emperor relies on you too heavily. He forgets
that you and I have been married less than a
year.”
“Most
soldiers are ready to leave their brides much
sooner than I have been willing to part with
you.” He chuckled as he gave her a quick kiss.
“Besides, we both know that my return will be
even more pleasurable than tonight will be.”
He
envisioned his hands grasping her waist then
sliding upward so his thumbs brushed over the
tips of her breast. The soft purr rolling out of
her throat made him smile as her gaze met his.
Pleasure made her lovely lips part in sensual
invitation as his mental touch slid down to her
cunny, and his invisible caress stroked through
the velvety-soft folds between her legs.
As her
eyes fluttered closed, she whimpered from his
invisible caress. Eager to love her, he quickly
removed his uniform. The red cloak attached to
his breastplate fell to the floor where it
deadened the sound of the chest armor. His
fingers quickly undid the leather laces of the
brass-studded leather skirt he wore, and it
followed the breastplate to the floor. The
leather was a stark contrast to the brightly
colored cloak. Her eyes flew open as his
concentration slipped. In silence, she knelt to
help him finish undressing. Warm hands caressed
the back of his calves as she removed the sandal
boots that covered his feet and calves. The last
of his uniform, a red tunic, flew off his head,
leaving him bare to her.
With a
gentle touch, she caressed him with a reverence
one might expect from a priestess of Vesta. She
looked up at him, and the depth of love in her
expression sucked the wind from him. A second
later, she had him in her mouth. Pleasure and
need melded into one stark emotion that engulfed
him like fire. With exquisite skill, her tongue
and mouth loved him until each caress pulled him
closer to an edge only she could take him to.
His sacs drew up tight underneath him and he
uttered a sharp cry . . .
Lysander Condellaire shot
upright in bed. The vivid reality of the dream
still haunting his senses, he jerked his head in
first one direction and then another, searching
for any sign that he might not be where he
expected to be. The morning sun and the sound of
traffic outside his window reassured him he was
still in the Sicari installation in Rome. He
glanced downward and grimaced at the pool of
white fluid on his stomach.
“Fotte.”
He climbed out of bed and
moved into the bathroom to clean himself up.
When he’d finished, he gripped the sides of the
free-standing basin and stared at the grotesque
reflection in the mirror. He hadn’t had a dream
that intense since the last time he’d visited
Rome, the week before . . . he threw up a wall
to fight off the memories threatening to take
over. With a skill he’d become adept at, he
shoved his thoughts back into the dark hole
where he’d buried them. The single green eye of
the half man, half monster in the mirror glared
back at him. With a low hiss of anger, he shoved
one hand through his dark blond hair as he
wheeled away from the sink and turned on the
shower.
For as long as he could
remember he’d had dreams of ancient Rome and the
Roman plebe who’d worked his way up the ranks to
the rank of Legatus.
He’d even had glimpses of the woman before, but
never like this. Never this vivid. This
arousing. And not until now had the woman been a
dead ringer for Phaedra DeLuca. His mind
embraced the image of the Roman woman again, and
he shuddered.
He stepped into the
shower’s spray of hot water. Eyes closed he let
the water sting his face. It was just a dream.
It was his mind’s way of compensating for his
wish to have Phaedra back in his bed. That one
night of incredible sex between the two of them
was going to have to be enough to last him a
lifetime. With a deep growl, he grabbed the bar
of soap and scrubbed at his body. Anything to
take his mind off the erotic dream and Phaedra’s
role in it.
When he emerged from the
bathroom a little later, he pulled on the
standard black leather pants and dark shirt he
always wore on duty. During the summer months,
it would have been necessary to rethink his
clothing given the heat factor. But the air
still had a bite to it in late February—even in
Rome. He stepped out of the small bedroom into
the sitting room. Designed as a temporary
residence, the apartment offered up just the
right amount of amenities for rest, work, and
relaxation.
“Come in,” he commanded
sharply at the sound of a knock on his door.
A young woman entered the
room with a tray of food. Although he hadn’t
called for breakfast, the
Vigilavi were excellent at anticipating
the needs of their employers. Most of the
Vigilavi had served
the Sicari for generations. Their forebears were
people the Sicari had saved from different
life-or-death situations. They were an integral
part of the Order’s structure, and their
contributions in law enforcement, academics,
medicine, and other areas were invaluable.
With an abrupt gesture, he
silently ordered her to set the tray on the
table out on the balcony. The sunshine made it
warm enough for him to enjoy eating outside. The
woman moved quickly to do as he instructed. The
speed with which his thoughts reached out to
search hers didn’t surprise him. It was a
natural ability. An ability his mother had
warned him never to reveal to anyone. She’d died
on his sixth birthday, the day after giving him
her warning, and it had reinforced her advice.
What irritated him was his
unintentional probing showed he wasn’t in
control, and it emphasized the intrusive nature
of his action. A wave of disgust sailed through
him as he quickly broke the link. The connection
hadn’t been strong, but it had been enough for
him to see the stark image of the girl with her
lover.
He used to find it easy to
prevent his telepathic ability from sifting
through the thoughts of others. But ever since
that night more than a year ago—merda,
that was the last thing he wanted to think about
at the moment. Infuriated by his lack of
control, he flicked his hand and watched as
several files flew off the nearby desk and into
his hands. Still irritated by his thoughts, he
followed the girl out to the balcony. As she
gestured at the tray, Lysander nodded his
thanks.
“May I bring you anything
else, il mio signore?”
Her formal deference made him grimace.
The title of
Legatus wasn’t
something he’d asked for. Atia had made him
Legatus strictly to lead a hand-picked team
of Sicari in search of the Tyet of Isis.
He’d tried to convince the woman that Ares was
better suited for the task, but she’d
emphatically dismissed the idea. Lysander knew
the Prima Consul would eventually put
Ares back in charge of the Chicago guild. He’d
merely been keeping his friend’s spot warm for
him until the Order’s leader reinstated Ares as
Legatus. In truth, he preferred being
Ares’s Primus Pilus.
Life was a lot easier as his friend’s
second-in-command.
“No,
grazie.”
“Molto
bene. My name is Irini. If you change
your mind, please just ring.” With that cheerful
reply, the girl left the room. Stomach rumbling,
he pulled out a chair and sat down. The
Colosseum was visible from where he sat, and
there was a familiarity about the monument that
called to him with a strength that seemed more
than simple recognition.
Merda. He was imagining things. He
had a fondness for ancient Rome’s history, and
his mind was manipulating that fact. Just like
in his dream.
The image of Phaedra,
naked at his feet, had barely formed before he
slammed the door on the vivid mental picture. He
reached for a panino
and slathered jelly on it. Focus. He needed to
keep the mission front and center in thoughts.
The remainder of his team
had arrived last night after he went to bed, and
by tomorrow, he’d have everyone working to
isolate the possible hiding place of the
Tyet of Isis. The
Prima Consul always played her cards close
to her chest, but Atia was convinced the
artifact was here. She’d even told Lysander that
she was reasonably certain the artifact was a
small box decorated with carvings or paintings
of an Egyptian knot called the Tyet of Isis,
hence the artifact’s name. Other than that,
there wasn’t much to go on, but when he’d
called to ask Emma some questions about the
search two nights ago, even she’d been pretty
convinced the artifact was here in Rome.
He glanced at the file on
top of the stack he’d set on the table. He
didn’t even need to open it. The
Prima Consul’s
personal bodyguard, Ignacio Firmani, had trained
Cleo Vorenus. It was one of the reasons why he’d
asked for her specifically. Atia hadn’t been
pleased that he’d selected her daughter for the
mission, but she’d not overruled him. When it
came to combat, they’d worked together so long
they knew exactly when and where the other
needed help in a tight spot. She wasn’t just
like a sister to him. She was the kind of
partner who always had his back. He took another
bite of his roll, followed by a drink of the
quickly cooling cocoa.
Cleo had been the first
one to find him that night in the warehouse, and
weeks later, she’d been the one ordering him to
either live or just die so everyone else could
get on with their lives. He’d chosen to live,
despite losing Phaedra. The image of her
beautiful face pushed its way into his thoughts.
It was gone in an instant as a loud knock
announced Marco Campanella’s arrival. The man
quickly crossed the small living room to join
him on the balcony.
“Scusi,
il mio signore, but
you wanted to see the files of the last team
members when they arrived.”
Lysander nodded at the man
he’d chosen for his Primus
Pilus. It hadn’t escaped his notice that
the younger man had Julian’s temperament without
the rash nature. Had that been why he’d given
him the role of Primus Pilus? His First
Spear? Was it his way of trying to atone for
Julian’s death? He clenched his teeth at the
thought. No. Choosing Marco to act as his
second-in-command hadn’t been done out of guilt.
The man had earned the right to be
Primus Pilus on this
mission.
His expression solemn,
Marco handed off the files he carried before
stepping back to wait quietly as Lysander
reviewed them. Lysander had consulted with the
Prima Consul on
potential members for his team, and everyone
he’d requested had arrived two nights ago. The
newest arrivals had been handpicked by Atia
herself without his consultation.
He didn’t like it, but as
Prima Consul she was
well within her right to do so. He was fortunate
her earlier career had been as a fighter. It
gave her greater insight on how to build a
balanced team, unlike a fat politician such as
Cato. The worm. He opened the first file.
“Have you reviewed these
yet?” He already knew the answer.
“Yes,
il mio signore. Violetta Molinaro is a
skilled fighter with strong intuitive skills.
She has limited healing abilities, but she has a
talent for closing her thoughts off to
Praetorians.”
Lysander nodded at the
man’s assessment of the Sicari woman’s skills.
Even his friend, Ares, couldn’t match the
woman’s talent to avoid Praetorian detection.
What bothered him was that her healing abilities
were so limited. Atia knew they were in the
heart of Praetorian country. He needed a healer
on his team. A good one.
He flipped open the next
chart. Luciano Pasquale. He released a noise of
satisfaction. The man’s reputation was
excellent. He had a way of getting a job done.
Quietly. Lysander flipped opened the last chart
and his heart slammed into his chest.
“Il
Christi omnipotentia. The woman’s
gone mad,” he exclaimed as he stared at
Phaedra’s file.
“Il mio
signore?” Curiosity filled Marco’s
voice, and Lysander shot the other man a quick
glance.
“It’s nothing.” He shook
his head. “Team assignments. Angelo and Maria
Atellus stay together, but they’re not to do any
nighttime reconnaissance without backup. Partner
Pasquale with Cleo. You’ll work with Molinaro.
DeLuca will work with me. I want everyone
assembled in the conference room at two o’clock.
That should be enough time for the late arrivals
to overcome their jet lag.”
Out of the corner of his
only eye, Lysander saw his
Primus Pilus hesitate. He turned his head
and sent the younger man a hard look. One
mistake in his career didn’t mean he’d allow his
Primus Pilus to
question even the smallest decision he made.
With a sharp bob of his head, Marco left him
alone on the balcony.
Lysander turned back to
the file in his hand. What in Jupiter’s name was
Atia thinking by sending the Order’s most
valuable healer into the heart of Praetorian
territory? Of course, he should have asked what
she was thinking the minute she put
him in charge of this
mission.
The last assignment he’d
led had ended in two fighters tortured to death
and a Sicari woman taken for breeding purposes,
leaving him the sole survivor. In the far
recesses of his mind, he heard the shrieks of
his friend Dominic or were they the sound of his
own cries? He grimly silenced the screams. The
memory of that failed assignment made him inhale
a deep gulp of air before he released it in a
loud whoosh.
Based on that information
alone, he was beginning to question Atia’s
sanity. Something that could jeopardize the
woman’s role as Prima Consul.
The job was for life unless the leader of the
Sicari Council retired or someone proved them
unfit for duty. Right now, he was thinking maybe
someone needed to at least question Atia’s
judgment if not her sanity.
The papers in front of him
detailed Phaedra’s experience, her capabilities,
and her weaknesses. He bit down on the inside of
his cheek as he stared down at the information.
He didn’t have to read Phaedra’s qualifications.
He knew them well. With a vicious swipe of his
hand, he slapped the file closed against the
wrought iron table.
“Goddamn it, I don’t need
her here.”
That wasn’t true and he
knew it. Of all the healers in the Order,
Phaedra was the best, and someone with her
abilities would be a valuable asset to the team.
His fingertips brushed across the ravaged tissue
that barely covered the muscles of his face.
She’d actually been willing to heal him that
night in that hellhole a year ago, but he’d
rejected her attempt.
Phaedra had believed he’d
been afraid to watch her suffer his injuries
during the healing process. That was partly
true, but even if he’d given in to her pleas
that night, not even her
abilities could have destroyed the monster
hiding beneath the surface.
Worse, she would have seen
him for what he was during the healing process.
Many healers experienced not only the injured’s
physical pain, but the emotional trauma of the
event as well. He hadn’t been willing to risk
that with her. He closed his eye, all too aware
of the empty, misshaped socket on the other side
of his nose.
The Order had offered him
plastic surgery, but he knew it wouldn’t have
changed anything. He knew what he was. What he
saw in the mirror everyday served as a constant
reminder of the ugliness in him. A monster he’d
never known until it had revealed itself that
night. It made him vigilant against letting that
darkness hurt his friends or the Order itself.
He shoved his way out of
his chair, and it toppled over backward as he
stepped out of the sunlight and into the small
living room. Enough. He wasn’t going to let the
past, or Phaedra DeLuca, get in the way of him
accomplishing his task. A taunting laugh
surfaced in the back of his mind.
With a grunt of anger, he
returned to the bedroom to snatch his eye patch
off the nightstand. It wasn’t a necessity, but
he’d found the patch helped minimize the initial
impact his scarred face had on most people. Then
there were the occasions when it served to make
unsavory characters uncomfortable. The circular
leather piece settled into place over his sunken
eye socket, and he walked back into the sitting
room as a sharp rap hit the small apartment’s
door.
“Enter,” he ordered,
expecting Irini had returned to pick up his
breakfast tray.
In the next instance, his
entire body went rigid with surprise as Phaedra
entered the suite. Desperately, he tried to
ignore the fact that every nerve ending in his
body was on fire with tension.
She’d woven her ebony hair
into a braid that ran down the middle of her
back to a spot an inch or so past her shoulders.
The memory of that dark hair spilled out around
her on a pillow made the knot growing in his
throat expand and tighten. Her complexion was
flawless, and her skin was the golden brown
typical of southern Italy natives. Like him, she
wore the standard work uniform of the Sicari
Order, only on her, it clung to curves that
stirred up sensual images he knew best to leave
buried.
But it was her eyes that
always managed to draw him in and hold him
paralyzed. They were a warm brown with gold
flecks that flashed whenever she was angry or
excited. Slanted just enough to give her an
exotic look, they were narrowed at him right
now. A sign she was assessing the situation. He
immediately acknowledged the fact that at any
minute he’d be drowning in deep waters.
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