Page 72 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
He could not have been more astounded. “Offend me? Offend me?”
He repeated it twice because he couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say. She’d never done anything to offend him. On the contrary, she’d done everything to entice him, to enthrall him, to make him dream of her in night-sweat agony—
“I know I’ve done something because you are always so...so cold, but I don’t know what it could have been because I only want to...” She glanced up, her gaze lingered on his lips, and his stomach clenched to a fist. “My father has asked me to attend you, and so I must, but...but if you wish it I can tell him...that you’re fine, that you don’t need my help—” D couldn’t help himself. He leaned over and grasped her wrist. “I do want you—I want you—
your help,” he corrected, stumbling over his words in his rush to get them out, “and you have done nothing to offend me. On my life, I swear it.”
She sucked in a quick breath. Her eyes widened, her mouth made an “o” of surprise. The look on her face was pure revelation, amazement that turned quickly to something that had he not known better he would have thought was desire.
His body didn’t know the difference, however. Heat saturated the air between them, rushed pounding to his groin.
He released her wrist as if her skin burned him, which it did. He lay back against the cool sheets and closed his eyes once more, thinking that of all the things her father could have done to torture him, this was by far the worst.
Forbidden fruit was always the most tempting.
The clock on the wall, ticking, the low drone of fresh air that was pumped through the catacombs, Lix and Constantine flirting unabashedly with the Servus at the other end of the room.
Then Eliana’s voice, low and tentative. “I...I’ll need to clean the wound first, before I can suture it. It will hurt, but I’ll try and be as gentle as I can. All right?”
He nodded, then because he didn’t want her to think he was being cold, added, “Yes. Please.
Thank you.”
He hissed a breath through his teeth. What a disaster.
She worked on him a while in silence, wiping away blood and raindrops with soft towels, cleaning shallow scratches with pads dipped in alcohol, trailing her bare fingers over his skin. Pain and yearning lashed through him hot as the sun, and he wondered if she knew exactly what she was doing to him as she leaned over him, warming him with her scent and her nearness, addling him as if he’d had too much to drink.
He stiffened with a thought: Was this a trick? Was Dominus using her to—
“Here come the sutures,” she murmured. “Please hold as still as you can.”
The pain of the needle was nothing compared to the pain of lying half-naked next to her, thinking illicit thoughts, wondering if she was, even now, manipulating him. A little noise escaped his throat, and she froze, misunderstanding.
“I’m fine,” he said, jaw tight. He nodded to emphasize it. “Solid as a rock. Go on.”
She did. It was quiet between them for a moment, but not peaceful. He managed to keep his breathing even with an astonishingly difficult exertion of will.
He said, “When did you learn to do—this?”
She made a sound in her throat. Though sardonic, it was low and feminine and sent a rash of gooseflesh up his spine.
“Caesar used to pick a lot of fights when he was younger. He never won. But he didn’t want Dominus to know, so I had to be the one to fix him up. I learned early on to make sutures so fine they’d never even leave a scar.” Her voice took on a melancholy edge. “Learning new things has always helped me pass the time.”
There was a beat as he processed that. His regard for her stood in exact opposition to his loathing for her brother, who, though highborn, was unGifted. And the kind of coward that had to pick on others to make himself feel bigger. He wondered what it had been like for her, kept like a prized
, exotic bird in a cage her entire life, cleaning up her brother’s messes.
“You call your father Dominus?”
“Not to his face.”
He cracked an eye open to gauge her expression. Her shell-pink lips were twisted in a little, secret smile. She caught him looking and her smile deepened. “No one calls him anything to his face, isn’t that right?”
He let his silence be his answer.
She shrugged, a movement that seemed both casual and full of meaning. “I know. You can’t talk to me. No one can talk to me. I don’t blame you, I know what he’s like.”
“Do you?” he said harshly, before he could think. The minute it left his mouth he bit his lip, cursing himself. Her smile vanished.
