* * * *

What the f**k was he doing?

Lazaro came to his senses as if physically struck. He was still buried inside Melena’s hot, wet heat, his pulse still charged and racing. His c**k was still hard, still greedy, even after the cl**ax that had ripped through him with brutal ferocity.

And he’d been reckless enough to let his fevered gaze drift to the vein that throbbed so enticingly in the side of her vulnerable throat.

Christ.

He’d nearly lost control—something he never allowed to happen. Not once in twenty years had he even been tempted. His guard was always up, his will impenetrable.

Even then, he’d made a habit of avoiding women like Melena, females with the Breedmate mark. To drink from one of her kind would tie him to her singularly, irrevocably. He would always crave her. He would always feel her in his blood, in the root of his soul...unless death severed the bond, as it did when he lost Ellie.

Why the thought didn’t freeze his thirst or shrivel his desire for Melena, he didn’t want to know. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit there pondering that fact as she gaped at him in mute terror.

“Damn it.” He pulled out of her on a roar. As difficult as it was to deny himself the feel of her silken grip on his shaft—as much as he wanted to have her now, still, again and again—he needed the separation more.

What he needed was to put as much distance as possible between her soft, inviting body and the blood hunger that was suddenly twisting him in vicious knots.

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.