The Darkness in Dreams (Enforcer's Legacy, #1)(47)

But his attention drifted to her body and he relaxed his grip. She was away from him. He recovered quickly, caged her with his arm. His heavy body levered over hers, pressing hard into her back as she tried to scoot away.

“Going somewhere?”

“Cheat much?”

He crouched above her, and it was almost too much after the way he spread her with such carnal need. For both of them. He wanted to slide his hands beneath her stomach, lift her hips against his, got hard just at the thought and it pissed him off. All that earlier talk about control, even to himself and in his mind? Right out the window. He was an Enforcer. He was used to discipline. He required it. For himself and for those under his command. And she was demolishing it.

Lexi slammed her elbow back against his head, then rolled, grabbed his shirt and twisted it around his neck. With a quick move, she was out from beneath him and running wildly for the door. Christan closed the distance. She turned to the right and dropped to her knees, rolling when he lunged. Christan grunted in surprise, remembered how he’d taught her the maneuver. The image of another place and time flashed so bright and clean it overwhelmed him with anger. She was racing in another direction, trying to escape. He crashed into her from behind. Lexi fell onto the mat, crushed by an enormous predator.

“You shifted on me?”

Christan loomed over her, the soft fur standing up, the overhead lights silvering the amber-gold pelt. He made the mistake of letting her roll to her back and she hit him again, right on his grinning lion snout.

“You bastard,” she gritted, while he tipped his head to the side and studied her. His lips pulled back. Wicked canines gleamed while he pressed the weight of his broad chest and powerfully muscled legs, knowing he could crush her with the slightest effort. The absolute necessity to move was so strong he could feel her vibrating with it. His eyes drifted partially closed. A rumble moved roughly in his chest.

“Let me up,” she said between her teeth.

With a violent, rolling pressure, Christan shifted back into his human form. His head lifted. He still caged her, the tattoos on his bicep writhing as they came into contact with her skin. Those tattoos had always been a barbaric mystery to her, beyond comprehension, and Christan’s rage mixed with memory. Blond hair was loose and spread around her shoulders in a silken wave. Christan fisted his hand deep, twisting her head around until she couldn’t avoid looking at him, feeling a heavy, pounding need until her eyes filled with shards of ice, or something ice-like, maybe ice melting. She blinked to remove the evidence.

“Dammit, Christan.”

It was Gemma’s voice he heard, Gemma’s tears he remembered now, when he’d entered her body despite the lies on his lips. The emptiness when he finished and she rolled away, leaving him lying there with his arm over his eyes. He remembered the soft sobs in the dark. The answers he wouldn’t give, the divided loyalties. He would be gone for weeks, often for months, fighting the pointless wars. Once he’d been gone for a year, and when he returned, he let her deepest fear fester because it was easier that way. Easier than explaining why he put another woman first—because he always put Three first. He belonged to the immortal Calata member. First. Last. And Three believed she owned him as only the Calata could believe.

His expression was implacable.

Any question in her eyes was not answered in his.

“Children.” Marge stood in the doorway. “I need to break up playtime. Arsen wants you in the conference room in five minutes.” Marge paused, and her expression was sober. “It’s important. Leave whatever that was here where it belongs.”





CHAPTER 19





Arsen waited in a room filled with tension. Robbie was already at the table, Marge at his side. Lexi had changed into jeans and a shirt, while Christan remained in black; he held out a chair, waiting for Lexi to sit before taking a seat beside her. A voice, male and casual, could be heard coming from one of the video monitors mounted on the wall.

“Ethan. San Francisco,” Christan mouthed as Lexi looked at him. “Your research buddy.”

Ethan was discussing nodes and servers, and the difficulty of tracing something. He sounded the way he looked, open and friendly—a college grad student demonstrating a clear mastery of the subject. His sun-streaked brown hair was long and neat, his face attractive. But Lexi was too on edge to concentrate. Christan asked probing questions. There were others on the wide split screen: a dark-haired man in Portland, named Darius, three in Italy, named Luca, Giam and Dante. After a moment, the Italians were the ones explaining.

“Which one is he?” Lexi whispered as one man seemed to dominate.

“Luca. He’s in charge. The larger man is Dante, the man with the lighter brown hair is Giam.”

Lexi didn’t need to ask; by the size and physicality of them, they were warriors. Black and white photos, interspersed with some in color, flashed on a second monitor mounted beside the first; the conference room was more elaborate and secure than most government installations.

“We’ll start with Renata—Dante’s mate,” the Italian said. An image filled the screen of a woman with dark hair, running down an alley, looking back over her shoulder. Lexi recognized the terror in her eyes—desperate, unbelieving and yet aware. “She was attacked at the outdoor market near the Piazza di San Lorenzo two weeks ago.”