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Authors: Monica Burns

BOOK: Assassin's Heart
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“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said in a cold voice.

“Yes, you do. Just now, when you were touching me—you felt something.”

There was a confidence in her words that made another portion of the wall he’d built between them crumble. It sent a bolt of fear streaking through him. He avoided her gaze and shook his head.
“No, what happened here was you waking me up and reminding me that I haven’t been laid in a while.” His tone was intentionally cruel as he pulled free of her grip and started toward the door.
“You
porco
,” she said fiercely. “You turn around and say that to my face.”
Coming to an abrupt halt, he steeled himself for what he was about to do. Slowly, he turned to face her, prepared to deny any culpability in the matter. It was a mistake to turn around. She faced him in nothing but that slip of silk that mimicked underwear, and she was exquisite in her anger.
Fingers splayed across her rounded lush hips, she looked like a vestal virgin ready to defend the temple from the entire Praetorian army. His heart sank and he cleared his throat in an attempt to say the words he needed to say. He failed. A look of triumph lit up her face, and in two strides, she threw herself at him and tugged his head down to meet her demanding kiss.

The taste and scent of her made it impossible to push her away, and he yielded to her for a brief moment. It was a kiss of desperation on his part as much as hers, and he knew the stakes were high if he allowed her to bend him to her will. As much as he wanted her this very minute, he also knew her motivations weren’t anything more than a need to recover

some of herself from what had happened to her.

Trauma was driving her need, and even if it weren’t, he wouldn’t head down that path with her. The end results would be disastrous, and he refused to take advantage of her desire to make this morning’s incident insignificant, when it was just the opposite. She had to find a way to deal with what had happened in some other way, no matter how much he wanted to carry her back to her bed and spend the night sliding into the slick, velvety heat of her. His hands gripped her upper arms and gently pushed her away from him.

“No, Phaedra. It’s not going to happen.”

“For the love of god, Lysander. This isn’t about what happened this morning. I need you,” she whispered in a husky voice that danced its way across every one of his senses.

The look she sent him stretched his nerves thin as wire.
Christus
, the woman was determined to get her way. Usually, his discipline enabled him to remain in complete control where she was concerned. But tonight … tonight, she was testing him as he never had been before. He wanted to give in to the plea in her voice. Offer the solace she needed, the assurance that she’d be okay.
Even if he tried to explain it to her, she wouldn’t believe him, but he understood what she needed better than anyone else. Witnessing her assault had been one of the hardest things he’d ever endured. Just as hard as the torture he’d barely survived at the hands of Nicostratus. And he recognized the helpless feeling in her.
That sense of having no power and the frantic need to find a way to regain that sense of control. He knew what being out of control meant. It was the difference between keeping the demon inside him locked up or unleashing it to wreak havoc in his life and those he loved. It was the difference between salvation and the death of his soul. The demon nudged at him. She had no idea what was at stake, but somehow he needed to make her understand that what she was asking wasn’t possible.
“Trust me, Phaedra.” He shook his head as she protested with a sharp exclamation. “I know what I’m talking about. You’re trying to take back control, and this isn’t the way to do it.”
“Damn it,” she snapped. “I know the difference between what that
bastardo
did to me this morning and how I feel when you touch me. I’m not the one running scared here.”

The demon chuckled with glee as his anger escalated. He drew in a sharp hiss of air at her accusation. Whether it was because she’d hit so close to home or that she was beginning to wear down his resistance, he didn’t know, but it infuriated him. His hand snaked around the nape of her neck and roughly tugged her toward him. Surprised, her eyes widened as she met his gaze.

“Scared? Look at this face, Phaedra. Is this the face of a man who doesn’t know what fear is?” He leaned into her and from his scalp to his jaw, the twisted flesh was there for her to see in all its glory. “Wake up and take a hard look at yourself in the mirror, c
ara
. Y
ou’re
the one running scared here.”

“Lysander, I didn’t—”

“No excuses.” The minute her hand touched his demonic profile, he shoved her from him. “Fucking me isn’t going to erase what happened this morning, Phaedra. You proved that the minute I caressed you with my ability. You screamed. And if anyone understands what you’re going through, it’s me.”

Her dark brown gaze met his, and he recognized the pain in her eyes. It made him want to give in to her need, but he couldn’t. Deliberately, he turned away from her. She uttered a soft protest, but he ruthlessly crushed his desire to heed her cry. Instead, he walked out of the room.

Chapter 11

LYSANDER’S tread was light as he walked down the dark alley near the Temple of Hadrian. The moon was waning in the sky, and while there was the occasional beam of light illuminating his way, his hunting ground was predominantly in the dark.
He wasn’t even sure Phaedra’s attacker had even heard the mental challenge he’d issued as they left the temple yesterday morning. No, he was sure the Praetorian had heard him, he just wasn’t sure he was going to show up when and where he was supposed to. But logic said it was more important to find Phaedra’s attacker before the sick bastard found her.
Atia would be livid that he was doing this on his own, but lately, the darkness inside him had been difficult to control. The best way to deal with it was to let it loose in open combat, and the man he was looking for would give him the opportunity to let off a little steam before he exploded under the wrong circumstances.
The Prim
a Consul
would have to settle for him having told Marco where he was going. His Prim
us Pilus
hadn’t been happy about Lysander going off to parts unknown, but his First Spear had agreed to wait two hours before he came looking for him. Provided his cell phone didn’t get damaged, Marco would be able to use the GPS module to find him. It probably wasn’t one of his brightest moves, but protecting Phaedra was all that mattered.
His body grew taut at the memory of touching her, holding her in his arms again. He should never have allowed himself to touch her. Hell, he should have left that damn bedroom the minute he put her to bed. He drew in a deep breath and blew it out again. He’d done nothing but complicate things tonight.
Merda
, he’d done more than that. He’d put himself at risk for her learning the truth. If she thought he was hiding something from her, the woman wouldn’t give up until she figured out what his secret was. Then where would he be?
The sound of a door opening made him dart to one side of the alley. His back pressed against the wall, he saw a young man step into the dark side street, before turning to lock the door he’d closed behind him. There was nothing in the stranger’s thoughts that even hinted at a Praetorian connection. Moments later, the man rode off on a scooter, leaving him alone in the alley once more.

As the dark lane grew quiet again, his thoughts returned to Phaedra and the earlier event at the temple. The raw anger he’d felt then surged through him once more. A cat cried out in the dark behind him, and his body grew taut like a tightly coiled spring.
Christus
, he was thinking too much. But it was difficult not to. Was it possible the myths were true? Maybe, but if so, how? How could a Praetorian Dominus just appear out of nowhere like this? Someone should have at least reported something.

It would be easy for a Dominus to hide within the Church, and even from the Praetorians themselves. Still, the possibility of a Dominus was extraordinary, given the Praetorian culture itself. While the Praetorians used the Church to serve their own agenda in eradicating the Sicari, they did so under certain constraints. The devotional vows and other codes within the Church made it difficult for them to openly ensure their lineage didn’t die. Their lifestyle prohibited them from acknowledging any children they sired, and only males could enter the priesthood. Whether their contempt for women was deeply rooted in their culture or they were worried about inbreeding, they killed their female offspring at birth.
It was a probable explanation for why they seemed to be fewer in number in the last century. Without female progeny to carry on their line, the Praetorians needed women for breeding purposes. It was why younger Sicari women were never tortured. They were breeding stock to the Praetorians. The few Sicari women who’d escaped had told horror stories about their lives among the Praetorians. An image of Marta flitted through his head, and his gut churned. Phaedra wasn’t valuable to the Praetorians simply for her remarkable gift. The bastards would see her as breeding stock with the added plus of having a valuable skill she might pass on to a male child.
Phaedra’s ability was so strong that if she were to bear a child by a Praetorian, the child could easily have the abilities of a Sicari Lord. But raised as a Praetorian, the child would be trained as a Dominus. Taught to hate the Sicari. The idea of Phaedra being used in such a way hardened his muscles as he continued to walk through the shadows. The proverbial saying, over his dead body, took on new meaning where she was concerned.
Stretching out his senses, he blocked out the mundane and listened for the whisper of Praetorian thoughts. Nothing. Did he really think it would be that easy? His telepathic skills weren’t always reliable, and if the Praetorian was stronger than him, the man could be easily hiding his thoughts. He rolled his shoulders slightly, the weight of his sword pressing into his back. It was fashioned in the style used by his ancestors, who’d been generals under the likes of Julius Caesar, Augustus, and Marcus Aurelius.
The sword gave him a sense of security. Particularly when security for a Sicari on one of Rome’s dark streets was an illusion. The only protection he had was the sword on his back and his abilities. His friends would call him insane for being out here alone in Praetorian territory. Marco had certainly used the word, and a few others. Atia wouldn’t call him insane. She’d simply chew him a new ass and then some for violating the rules.

All Sicari were required to work in teams of two or more no matter where they were. But what no one understood was that he’d not been alone last year. He’d had a team of skilled Sicari with him last year in Chicago, and he’d led all of them into a trap. In his arrogance, he’d ignored several signs that something wasn’t right. He’d made the wrong choice, and it had cost three fighters their lives, leaving him the sole survivor. And the only reason he’d survived was because the man torturing him had discovered who he was.

Nicostratus had taken great pleasure in skinning him. His hand touched the mutilated skin on his face. Logically, he knew it would have been impossible to resist reacting to the pain. But knowing he’d surrendered and begged for relief was something he’d never forget. To be stripped of power, dignity, even his humanity—he grunted with a fierce, deep emotion at the thought.
His pain had served as a natural barrier against Nicostratus learning any key strategic information. But he’d fought desperately to keep that shield up by thinking about those he loved. When the
bastardo
had read his thoughts about his mother, that’s when the true torture had begun. The son of a bitch had laughed at him.
Nicostratus had found the emotional torture he inflicted far more amusing than the physical. Atia was wrong. His father wasn’t expecting him to come after him. Nicostratus had known full well he’d likely become an outcast if his parentage became common knowledge. It had happened to others in the distant past. He’d be no different.
The scum had taken greater pleasure in tormenting him emotionally than inflicting physical pain. It had been the primary reason the
bastardo
had ended the physical torture. His father had taken enormous pleasure walking away from him alive. The man had done so with the belief that the internal devastation he’d caused would be a worse torture.
The Praetorian fuck had been right. It would have been far better to deal with the physical agony of torture and eventual death than the mental anguish he’d dealt with for the last year. It was why tonight he had nothing to lose, because he’d already lost everything. Holding Phaedra tonight, coming close to making her his again, hadn’t helped things. If he survived, she was going to keep on asking questions. With a growl, he shoved his thoughts into the recesses of his mind. Focused. He had to stay focused and find Phaedra’s attacker. He needed to make sure the Praetorian didn’t get near her again.
The whisper of a laugh brushed the edge of his senses. Muscles tight with tension, he immediately looked upward. Praetorians were notorious for dropping off a rooftop to surprise their enemy. Seeing nothing, he peered into the darkness, looking in every direction. Once more, the laugh sounded in his head. This time it was louder.
“Show yourself, you sorry str
onzo
,” he muttered.
“As
you wish.”
The man’s words echoed in his head with an ease that was unsettling. He’d known the Praetorian’s skills equaled his, but there was something completely different about this bastard. Maybe he’d made a mistake in not bringing Marco as backup.

“Of that I’ve no doubt, Unmentionable,”
his opponent’s thoughts echoed in his head. The Praetorian was obviously amused. “Y
ou’re the type to always rush in where even angels
fear to tread.”

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