Page 14 of Rapture's Edge (Night Prowler 3)
She enunciated each word carefully. “What is your point, Silas?”
He stretched out his arm, leisurely, unhurried, inspected the manicured crescents of his fingernails, and straightened the cuff of his crisp black shirtsleeve. Then, almost casually, he said, “When his goals for the production of the antiserum and the construction of the stronghold have been fulfilled and you’re not quite so necessary to him anymore…marriage to me…” He hesitated, and Eliana sat there staring at him in growing dismay, feeling her heart thrum in her chest. “You know the influence I have over him,” he murmured, his voice almost seductive. In contrast to
his silky voice, his smile grew positively chilling.
He lowered his arm and lifted his gaze straight to hers. “I could offer you protection.”
So. There it was.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Eliana lifted her chin and gazed in stiff silence at the rose garden, a profusion of white blossoms nodding in the cool morning breeze. Their scent sweetened the air but did nothing to remove the sudden, sour taste in her mouth.
Though he was eldest and a boy and therefore automatically held in higher esteem by the custom of their people, Caesar had been born Giftless, and so their father—brilliant, brooding Dominus who prized honor above all—had favored Eliana. He never said it, but it was crystal clear through years of sour looks and cold shoulders that their father considered Caesar a failure, a stain upon the honor of his powerful Bloodline.
Dedecus. A disgrace.
Eliana had done her best to shield Caesar from the relentless disappointment that emanated from Dominus. Caesar, though unGifted, was smart enough to recognize the disdain that oozed from their father like pus from a sore, and he resented Eliana all the more for trying to protect him from it.
No matter how she tried to bridge the gap between them, Caesar was as unpredictable as a crossbred dog, and she was never quite sure from one moment to the next if her olive branches would be met with smiles or snarls.
She knew he was flawed—worse than that, possibly—but he was the only family she had left. Her mother had died giving birth to her, her father had died only three years ago, and she had no other siblings and no immediate family since they’d fled Rome. Without him, she’d be alone.
Utterly alone.
It was her deepest fear, and one of which she was even more deeply ashamed. It made her feel like a coward, and right after liars, she despised cowards more than anything else on earth.
“I’m his Blood,” she said, soft and vehement, more to herself than to Silas. “Beneath it all, he loves me. I don’t need protection from him.”
Silas’s brows shot up as if she’d just said something very stupid. “Jealousy has darkened his heart,” he answered, almost managing to sound truly regretful. “Who can say what a jealous king will do, even to those he loves?”
Heat flashed over her, scalding hot. She gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to threaten me into marriage, trying to turn me against my own—”
“Morning, kiddies,” a languid voice drawled from behind her. Eliana turned slowly in her chair to glare at its owner.
“Caesar. How kind of you to join us.”
If he noted the sarcasm in her voice, he didn’t acknowledge it. Clad all in white, with the winter morning sun behind him flared into a nimbus around his head, he appeared like a seraph, otherworldly and darkly dangerous. He’d inherited their father’s breadth of shoulders and powerful, elegant frame, their mother’s sculpted lips and eloquent eyes. Golden-skinned and long-limbed, he was gorgeous, and as one could easily tell by the insolent way he moved and spoke and even breathed, he knew it.
“Having a little argument?” he asked lightly as he seated himself at the table. He gracefully unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap, picked up his fork, and leaned over Eliana’s plate to spear a piece of ripe melon. He popped it in his mouth and sat back in his chair, watching the two of them with bright, laughing eyes.
“We were just talking about the stronghold,” Eliana said, still stiff and seething, glaring now at Silas. “We’ll need to choose a final location so we can get started on the architectural plans.”
“Well,” said Caesar around the melon in his mouth, “we’ve all agreed on the Congo basin in Africa, which is apropos considering that’s where the Ikati originated.” He sighed. “Though I admit, I’ll miss France. The people here are so…friendly.”
The women, he meant. The paid ones. “But the final location,” Eliana insisted, but Caesar cut her off.
“I think it’s more important we discuss the name.”
Caught off guard, Eliana blinked at him in surprise. “The name?”
He took his time selecting another piece of melon from her plate. “Hmmm,” he said, sifting through her food with his fork. “An important country needs an important name.”
Silas and Eliana exchanged a look. “Country, my lord? Our planned stronghold might be a little small to call itself a country—”
“If the Vatican can be called a country, so can Zion,” pronounced Caesar, eating two pieces of melon in quick succession. Eliana had the urge to smack the fork out of his hand and tell him to get his own damn plate, but she contained it by curling her hands into fists in her lap. “It will definitely be the more important of the two, in the long run.”
“Zion,” Eliana repeated. “How dramatic. And maybe a tad too biblical, don’t you think? We’ll have the apocalyptic wackos descending on us in droves. All those Mayan calendar doomsdayers will think we’re the next best thing.”
“Actually, it’s perfect,” purred Silas, with a sideways glance in her direction. So he’d chosen sides and was punishing her. Her fists curled tighter in her lap. “Zion refers to the world to come,” he continued, “the promised land, the spiritual and physical homeland of an oppressed people, wandering and longing for safety.”
