“Oh, God. I’m sorry.” She blinked as if suddenly shaken from an impulse she’d had no ability to control. Her hand cradled against her chest, she took a step away from him. Then another. “Scythe, forgive me. I—”
“Forget it,” he snarled, although the gravel in his voice had less to do with anger than with the hard pound of blood rushing through his veins. His cock pressed against the zipper of his black jeans, having gone as hard as stone long before she’d been so foolish as to touch him.
He stared down at her, at a loss as to how to proceed. So far, she’d either shocked or defied him at every turn, neither of which he could allow. If he was to keep her safe, he needed to maintain a strict control.
Running roughshod over her hadn’t worked, and God knew he had no idea how to navigate around other people. He was accustomed to working alone, being alone. Concerning himself with another person’s feelings and emotions—especially a woman’s—wasn’t anything he’d needed to practice in years.
Not since Mayrene.
The thought of her sent a shaft of pain through him and he steeled himself against it, blocking the weakness of his emotion as he’d been so expertly trained to do. Thinking of the other time he’d tried, and failed, to protect someone would do him no good here.
He wasn’t going to fail Chiara.
He would die before he had to live through another loss like that.
Scythe raked his hand over his scalp on a low curse. “Sunrise will be here soon. Go to bed, Chiara. I’ll secure the premises and begin my watch.”
She nodded, still backing away from him as if she’d just been burned.
He kept his gaze locked on the wall so as not to stare at the gentle sway of her hips as she finally turned around and left the kitchen. His cock was still throbbing from the touch of her fingers on his skin, and the last thing he needed was more reason to regret pushing her away.
He clutched the car keys in his hand and headed back outside, his mood getting blacker by the moment.
To think he’d considered Pietro to be the bigger distraction to his mission. He’d been so concerned about a child’s presence wreaking havoc on his mental state that he’d completely underestimated how thoroughly Chiara might distract him. Even now, she was out of sight, but he felt her presence burrowing deeper and deeper into his senses.
Stalking out to the vehicle, Scythe grabbed his gear and set about preparing for his task at hand. As relieved as he was to know that Chiara was safe and sound under his watch now, a part of him yearned for her attacker to make his move—and soon.
Because the faster he could finish this assignment, the faster he could move on and try to put Chiara Genova out of his mind.
His plan for the remainder of the night entailed constructing a strong defense. Then it would end with a call to the Order in Rome to ensure that they were working on a plan for the offense as well.
And when this ordeal was all over? Brethren or not, Scythe was going to tell Trygg to do him a favor and lose his fucking number.
Chapter 4
Chiara swiped a hand over her sweaty forehead and looked up into the late afternoon sky with a sigh of relief. The faint pulling sensation in her lower back was almost welcome. It meant that she'd done a hard day's work, and just maybe she'd get some sleep tonight.
She’d needed the physical outlet and time in the sun so badly. Thankfully, Scythe hadn’t fought her too hard on it, if only because the daylight was a guaranteed protection against any Breed with designs on harming her.
Nevertheless, she’d felt Scythe’s constant gaze on her from inside the villa all day—courtesy of the network of hidden motion sensors he’d placed all around the property while she’d slept last night. Or tried to sleep, at any rate.
She thought back to the night before and winced, her cheeks heating with embarrassment.
Oh, my God.
What kind of lunatic just started touching a man like she had last night? Especially a man she hardly knew.
But something had taken hold of her as they’d faced off in her kitchen, and it wasn't until she’d noticed the glyphs at the top of his chest changing color that she realized she had acted on her impulse to touch him. The intense curiosity—and, yes, the irresistible desire—to explore all those hard edges and battle scars had overwhelmed all of her good sense. To say nothing of her propriety.
Not that Scythe seemed to be the kind of male who knew anything about that.
How had he come to be the man he was? Rude. Arrogant, for sure. But wounded and dark too. As much as he had tried to convince her otherwise, there was an integrity about him. A sense of honor that she doubted he let many people see. She had witnessed it in the way he'd treated Pietro back in Matera, then again in Rome last night.