If she didn’t think he’d snap her fingers off at the roots, she might have braved it in spite of his forbidding glower.
And yet, there was something more in his eyes as he looked at her. As much as she was drawn to him tonight, she couldn’t help feeling that he was aware of her too. Not as the hapless girl he’d fished out of a frozen pond, not even as the grown-up daughter of a colleague and friend.
He was annoyed with her tonight, no question. Given a choice, he’d probably still prefer her gone. But Lazaro Archer was also looking at her the way a man looked at a woman. And she couldn’t deny that his interest made her pulse trip into a faster tempo.
“What are you doing here, Melena?” His gruff question caught her off guard.
Did she even know the answer to that? She shrugged lamely. “I guess I just...I don’t think I ever got the chance to thank you—”
“No.” He cocked his head slightly, those unsettling eyes narrowing shrewdly now. “I mean, what are you doing here at this meeting? As skilled of an interpreter as you are, I think we both know there’s something you’re not saying.”
She stared at him, wondering how he’d gone from looking at her like he wanted to touch her—maybe even kiss her—to pinning her in a suspicious glare. Maybe he hadn’t been ignoring her all evening, but silently assessing her, even now.
Part of her wanted to tell him the truth. That she’d been a psychic insurance policy, to make certain her father wasn’t walking into a trap with Turati or his men, regardless of the Order’s assurances. Lazaro would be furious to hear it, no doubt. That she and her father had defied diplomatic protocol to insert her into a top secret meeting without the knowledge or permission of the Order or the GNC? She didn’t even want to consider the ramifications of that, for her or her father.
And anyway, it wasn’t her place to publicly voice her father’s fears or suspicions, not even to Lazaro Archer. If any of Byron Walsh’s colleagues knew how paralyzing his paranoia had become lately, he would surely lose his position on the Council. Her father lived for his work, and Melena would not be the one to jeopardize that for him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured, hating that she had to deceive Lazaro. “And I really ought to get back inside now.”
“You’re protecting him. From what?” Lazaro took hold of her by the arms, preventing her from escaping his knowing stare or his questions. His large hands gripped her firmly, strong fingers searing her with the heat of his touch. “What is your father trying to hide?”
“Nothing, I swear—”
He wasn’t buying it. Anger flashed in his eyes. Behind his full upper lip, she glimpsed the sharp points of his emerging fangs. “Tell me what he’s afraid of, Melena. Tell me now, before I go in there and haul his ass out here to tell me himself.”
“It’s nothing,” she insisted, finding it impossible to break Lazaro’s hold or his stare. “It doesn’t matter anyway. He had no reason to be afraid tonight. Turati’s intentions are good, he means no harm to—”
She wasn’t able to finish what she was saying because in that same instant, Lazaro tensed. His head snapped up, eyes searching the dark sky. Some of the blood seemed to drain out of his grim face in that fraction of a second.
“Fuck,” he snarled, his grip tightening on Melena’s arms. “Goddamnit, no.”
He lunged into motion, yanking her against him protectively. His arms wrapped around her. He then tumbled her over the railing of the second-level deck along with him...
Just as a screaming object arrowed down from the sky.
It hit the yacht, a direct, dead center strike.
The vessel exploded. On the deafening boom of impact, Melena crashed into the hard waves with Lazaro. Engulfed by the cold, horrified by what she was seeing, all the air left her lungs on an anguished cry. She tried to break away, but Lazaro held her close, refusing to let her swim back up to find her father.
Together she and Lazaro sank deep into the water, falling down, and down, and down...
Far above them, a hellish ball of flame had erupted on the surface. Fiery chunks of debris dropped into the sea everywhere she looked.
There was only ruin left up there.
The yacht and all of its occupants obliterated in an instant.
CHAPTER 3
By Lazaro’s guess, they had been in the water roughly two hours before Anzio’s cliff-edged shore was finally within sight. Bleeding from shrapnel wounds and battered by the long journey, he was close to exhaustion—even with the preternatural strength and speed of Breed genetics at his command.
Melena was faring far worse. She was limp against him, having fallen unconscious somewhere around the halfway point of their swim. Although she wasn’t entirely mortal either, her human metabolism could not cope with the prolonged exposure in the cold seawater.
In that regard, Lazaro was doubly fortunate. Being Breed had given him another advantage. The same one that had allowed him to pull Melena out of the frozen pond twenty-two years ago. His ability to withstand extreme temperatures had given him the strength to search for her under the ice and pull her to safety before she drowned.
He hoped he hadn’t lost her tonight.
Lazaro held her close at his side as he paddled the last few hundred yards with his free arm. As soon as his bare feet were able to touch ground, he repositioned Melena in both arms and ran her toward the empty, moonlit beach.