And he sure as hell did not want to give another moment’s thought to the kiss he stole from Melena back in the Anzio cave. He’d had no right to take that liberty either. But was the kiss truly stolen if she didn’t seem to mind that he did it?

She’d told him she enjoyed it, for f**k’s sake.

His blood rushed a bit faster, disturbingly hotter, at just the thought. And a lot of that blood was making a swift run south. It pounded through his veins like liquid fire, settling in his groin when he recalled how soft and inviting her mouth had been under his.

Melena had more than liked his kiss. She’d welcomed it. Wanted more.

Wanted him.

Christ, he couldn’t get away from her fast enough after that kiss. He still couldn’t put enough distance between them for his peace of mind. How he was going to manage the long hours between now and their departure for D.C. tomorrow evening, he had no damned idea.

More than likely, he’d be spending that stretch of time with a constant hard-on and a fevered hunger that bordered on madness. He needed to exorcise that hunger, and soon. He was on his way to the weapons room to sweat out some of his aggression with his blades and pistols when one of his men met him in the corridor.

Trygg had been the only one of the unit with sense enough to avoid their pretty, uninvited guest. The bald, menacing looking Breed male carried a long, cream-colored box in his arms. “Package you ordered this morning just arrived.”

Lazaro grunted as he took the box from the most intimidating member of his team.

“You want me to deliver it to her?” Trygg suggested.

“No.” The reply came out too quickly, too forcefully, but there it was. Melena had been through enough of a scare already; she didn’t need a brutal killer like Trygg showing up at her door, even if he did it with an unlikely gift in his hands.

Besides, Lazaro had placed the order for her as something more than just a courtesy. He supposed he’d been hoping it would also serve as some kind of apology. He’d been a warrior for twenty years, but he liked to think there was still some sense of decency in him. Given the way he’d treated Melena so far, she might be hard-pressed to agree.

“I’ll bring it myself,” he told Trygg. The vampire merely stared, his shrewd eyes unblinking, far too knowing. Lazaro tucked the long box under his arm. “There is something you can do. Locate Derek Walsh. Melena said her brother’s been spending his time between Paris and the United Kingdom. When you’ve got a bead on him, let me know.”

Trygg gave a slight nod. “Done.”

Lazaro stalked through the command center to the attached, four-story residential quarters. The Roman villa had ten bedrooms, but Melena had been placed in the largest suite in the estate. It was also the one place where he knew neither of her newest admirers would be tempted to seek her out.

Paused outside the closed door of his private quarters on the top floor, Lazaro noted she’d left the tray of food he’d delivered hours earlier untouched. It didn’t appear she’d even come out to look at it.

He listened for movement on the other side. Hearing nothing, he rapped his knuckles on the carved wooden door. He waited, feeling both awkward and annoyed.

When he knocked again and got no response, he started to get concerned.

He opened the door and peered inside. “Melena?”

His suite spanned the entirety of the villa’s fourth floor. He didn’t see her anywhere, not even in the spacious bedroom. He dropped the box on the end of the king-sized bed, then noticed the door to the en suite bath was cracked open.

Through the thin wedge, he saw her slip into a terry robe, apparently having just stepped out of the tub. He caught an unexpected glimpse of her bare skin—delectable curves, lovely br**sts peaked with dusky peach ni**les...the hint of dark curls at the V of her creamy thighs.

Ah, damn, she was gorgeous.

Everything male in him responded as swiftly—and as obviously—as everything Breed in him. His pulse jackhammered, the drum filling his ears with a rush of hot need. The tips of his fangs dug into his tongue, and as he stared at her, his gaze grew heated as his pupils thinned with his hunger and his c**k thickened with desire.

Until he spotted the bruises that still lingered on her. His own wounds had healed, thanks to his Gen One metabolism, but Melena still carried numerous contusions on her ribs and delicate belly.

“Fuck.” Lazaro’s growled reaction made her look up sharply. Too late to pivot around and leave. Too late to pretend he hadn’t just crept into the room and stood there ogling her in open lust. Or to hope she wouldn’t notice how powerfully she affected him.

Her expression was guarded, wary. She opened the door wider, but he noticed how tightly she now gripped the edges of the robe at her chest. When Lazaro took a step toward her, she slipped out of the bathroom and into the larger space of the bedroom.

With some effort, he curbed the presence of his fangs. His vision was still awash in amber, but he could feel his pupils resuming a less feral state. And as for the state of his arousal, that was a more difficult thing to hide, let alone suppress. But while his body was still thrumming with awareness—and want—of her, his primary interest in that moment was Melena’s well being.

“Jehan was supposed to look after your injuries when you arrived,” he muttered angrily. “He’s skilled with ointments and herbs. He should’ve given you something to help you heal.”

“I told Jehan I was fine. And I am...or at least, I can try to be, once you and the Order allow me to go home.”