He got off the bed to collect his clothes.
“What are you doing?” Melena asked from behind him. When he began to dress, he heard her slide across the sheets. “Talk to me, please.”
He couldn’t form words, let alone push them out of his mouth. He still wanted her too much, and he feared that if he let himself cave to that need now, he might not be able to reign it back in. He zipped up his pants, ignoring the persistent bulge of his uncooperative arousal. His hands moved hastily, aggressively, as he donned his shirt, then bent to retrieve his boots.
He had plenty of human females he could call upon to slake his needs. A pity he didn’t think to do that before he made the mistake of putting himself alone in the company of a Breedmate as tempting as Melena.
And what a feeble f**king rationalization that was.
Nothing would satisfy him more than to dismiss his near-mistake as something that might have occurred with any female sporting the teardrop-and-crescent-moon birthmark. Far more troubling to realize that it was this woman who tempted him like no other.
Melena Walsh would continue to tempt him for as long as she remained in his care, under his dubious protection.
He didn’t know how a woman who’d come into his life so unexpectedly—not to mention temporarily—was making him hungry for things that would come with a very permanent price.
“You’re just going to walk away then?” She stood beside the bed, watching him prepare to make his escape. For a long moment, she said nothing more, her silence ripe with hurt and confusion, almost too much for him to bear. “You’re not even going to acknowledge what almost happened just now?”
That he was only an instant away from taking her vein between his teeth? Or that every particle of his being was so ravenous for a taste of her Breedmate blood, there was a chance he might still act on the powerful impulse?
The memory of her blood scent hadn’t left him since he’d first caught a trace of it back in the cave. He knew what she would taste like: caramel and dark, ripe cherries. On top of the other decadent sweetness that still lingered on his tongue from his carnal exploration of her body.
Lazaro cursed roundly, a nasty profanity spoken in a language only the eldest of the Breed like him would comprehend.
“No, Melena, I’m not going to acknowledge it.” He caught her gaze, knowing how cold his own must look through her eyes. Yet even as he glowered, furious with his own lack of control, his traitorous body had lost none of its interest in her. “And yes, I am going to walk away, and what happened here will not happen again.”
She stared at him. “I think we both know better than that. You still want me, Lazaro. I don’t need to read your aura to see that.”
“This was a mistake,” he snarled through teeth and fangs. “I damned well won’t complicate it any more by letting it become something both of us will regret forever.”
He turned and walked out the door.
Before his shaky resolve could break completely.
CHAPTER 8
True to his word, he didn’t return.
She had showered and dressed, even eaten a fresh meal that Jehan had brought up to her sometime after Lazaro had gone. That was hours ago, according to the old grandfather clock in the hallway. It was well into the evening before she’d finally given up waiting, wondering...God, pitifully hoping, that he would come back and at least talk to her after the incredible passion they’d shared.
Her psychic gift prevented her from sulking over doubts about Lazaro’s intentions. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her tonight. He’d left because he wanted her too much.
But that didn’t change the fact that he was quite obviously avoiding her.
She’d since begun pacing the residential suites in the clothing he bought for her, feeling like a prisoner in a beautiful, unlocked cage. Although she had the entire fourth floor to explore, decency kept her from snooping too avidly through Lazaro’s home. Not that she’d find anything very personal in his quarters, she’d realized fairly quickly.
Each room was consummately appointed with elegant furnishings and a variety of fine things. Sophisticated pieces, tasteful antiques, a wealth of heirloom Oriental rugs—the kind of things she might expect someone who’d lived as long as him would appreciate.
But there was nothing personal in Lazaro’s home. Nothing modern.
There were no photographs on the bureaus or sofa tables or walls. No mementoes scattered about in any of the meticulously kept rooms. There was nothing to remind him of the past century, let alone the past twenty years.
He lived here in a carefully curated, elegant isolation.
Her conversation with Jehan and Savage came back to her now. The fact that Lazaro had never fully gotten over the deaths of his mate and family. That he blamed himself for not being able to save them. And so he’d joined the Order and exiled himself to this place.
If he hadn’t found room in his heart for anything or anyone in the past two decades, how could she hope he might let her in after just a couple of days?
She had half a mind to confront him about the way he was living his life. Maybe it wasn’t her place to call him on it. Maybe she’d be better off leaving well enough alone and simply wait to return home to the States, where she had her own life to manage.
A life that no longer included her father, she thought, swamped with a fresh wave of grief to think that Lazaro’s entry into her life came at the loss of someone else she loved. But even before losing her father last night, even before the loss of her dear mother years before, Melena realized that her life was missing something vital.