He eyed her skeptically, folding his glyph-covered muscled arms over his chest. “You’ve endured quite an ordeal. You’re certain there is nothing you need?”
Melena gave a vague shrug. She wasn’t certain of anything at the moment. Part of her wanted to bolt for the door and find the fastest way out of this nightmare, back home to Maryland. Another part of her just wanted to crawl under the covers of the bed and scream.
“I know this can’t be easy,” Jehan said, genuine concern in his low voice. “And I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Although she was well-versed in multiple languages, she couldn’t quite place his unusual accent. His name was old French, if she wasn’t mistaken, but the formal way he carried himself and the way he spoke had her curious. “Where are you from, Jehan?”
“All around,” he answered cryptically. “But it’s Morocco you hear in my voice. My father’s homeland.”
That explained it. He had the kind of voice that made her imagine moonlit desert plains and the spicy fragrance of incense and woodsmoke. “Your mother wasn’t Moroccan, though?”
“Born and raised in Paris,” he confirmed, his sensual mouth curving at the corners. “She and my father met in France. After they were mated, he brought her back with him to our tribe’s Darkhaven in his country.”
“Your tribe?”
Jehan’s dark brows quirked. “A relic of a term.” He shrugged it off, but something mysterious flickered in his mesmerizing gaze. “My father’s Breed line is very old. Its roots go deep into Moroccan soil. Burrowed in almost as stubbornly as the old man’s heels.”
“What about you?” Melena asked, genuinely curious.
Jehan inclined his head, almost courtly in its tilt. “To my father’s eternal regret, his eldest son’s feet refused to stay put. Despite the shackle of obligation he’s tried to affix to them.”
As they spoke, the door opened again and the blond warrior came in. He grinned, his hazel eyes bouncing off Jehan for a second before fixing on Melena. “I see Prince Jehan is already trying to dazzle you with his long, boring pedigree.”
Melena swung a questioning look on the enigmatic warrior. “Prince?”
Jehan grunted under his breath, but didn’t deny it. “What are you doing here, Sav? You know damned well Lazaro’s orders were that no one enter this room or speak to Melena without his permission.”
Melena wanted to be offended by the news of that domineering command, but her two visitors were a welcome distraction from everything else going on. Not the least of which being Lazaro Archer’s stinging rejection of her in the cave. A sting that hurt all the worse for his tenderness when he touched her...kissed her.
“We weren’t properly introduced,” Sav said. “Ettore Roberto Selvaggio.”
His dimples deepened along with his heart-stopping smile. His Italian accent seemed to deepen as well, the kind of accent that probably ensured he never wanted for female company.
“Melena Walsh,” she replied. “I thought I heard Lazaro call you Savage.”
“Lazaro?” he echoed.
She felt color rise to her cheeks. “Your commander. Mr. Archer. Whatever I should call him,” she muttered. The man who saved her life, awoke an irresistible desire in her, but made her feel as if he might have rather left her behind in Anzio a few hours ago. “I think he despises me.”
The two Breed males now exchanged a look. Jehan was the first to talk. “Don’t let him scare you. It’s just his way.”
“Come on, man,” his comrade said. “It goes a bit deeper than that.”
Melena glanced at them both. “What do you mean?”
“The way I heard it, Archer’s never been the same since he lost his family back in Boston twenty years ago,” Sav said. “He blames himself, I imagine.”
“Why would he do that?” She couldn’t begin to guess how Lazaro could hold himself even the least responsible for what happened to his kin. “The Darkhaven was attacked while he wasn’t home. It was razed to the ground.”
“Yes,” Jehan agreed soberly. “And now imagine you have the incredible gift of walking into even the most extreme temperature and emerging wholly unscathed. But you’re not there when the attack on your own loved ones takes place.”
“You have the ability to save some of them—maybe all of them,” Sav added. “Instead, you lose them all in one fell swoop.”
Melena couldn’t speak. She wasn’t even sure she was breathing as the weight of what she’d just heard settled on her.
She hadn’t known about Lazaro’s Breed gift. Now it made sense, of course. His ability to search for her for so long in the frozen pond all those years ago. The fact that he’d swum across nearly half of the Tyrrhenian Sea to save her tonight, impervious to the cold, unlike her.
He’d saved her twice, but had been unable to save the ones he loved. Including his blood-bonded Breedmate.
“He will not be pleased if he knew we told you,” Jehan warned grimly.
Sav gave a nod. “Probably want to stake both of us out in the sun. Or worse.” He glanced at Melena. “So, not a word, yeah?”
“Okay,” she murmured woodenly. But oh, God, her heart ached for Lazaro now.
“Enough about him,” Sav said, grinning as if he wanted to lighten the grave mood. “You asked about me, if I recall. So, to answer your question, yes. Most people who know me call me Savage.”