Where they’d been heading was Rome.
More specifically, the Order’s command center in that city.
Melena tried not to gape when she realized that’s where Lazaro had brought her. Neither the late-night sight of the illuminated Colosseum nor Pantheon had inspired more than a lingering look as they passed the monuments, but when the SUV approached a gated, secured mansion compound nestled in the heart of the sprawling city, Melena couldn’t help but sit up a little straighter in her seat and draw in her breath.
The stately white brick mansion with its elegant, carved marble detailing and old bronze fixtures looked as timeless as the city around it. But it didn’t take long to understand that the structure’s antiquity ended at the street. This was a modern fortress, beautiful and sturdy and impenetrable. Inside the massive gates, motion sensors followed the SUV’s progress toward an underground parking garage around back.
Once they got out of the vehicle, Lazaro sternly instructed her to follow him. The warrior who drove them lingered behind, leaving her alone to his commander’s dubious care.
Lazaro took her not into the living quarters of the compound, but to another wing of the estate that seemed to be where the warriors conducted Order business. She heard two male voices in one of the rooms they passed along the corridor, but her escort didn’t slow his pace at all.
Actually, it didn’t seem that he could get rid of her fast enough for his liking.
A few minutes later, Melena found herself abandoned to a vaguely medical-seeming room. The small space contained the hard bed she sat upon, and next to it a single chair. Glass-fronted cupboards mounted to the wall opposite her appeared to house bandages and other field dressing supplies.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, feeling awkward and unwanted in Lazaro’s domain. At some point, she dozed, still exhausted from her ordeal and the raw grief that clung to her. A couple of times, she’d glanced toward the window in the infirmary room door and saw one of the warriors stride past. The gorgeous blond who brought her there had smiled through the glass as he walked by. Another Breed male, a mean-looking warrior with a shaved head and a jagged facial scar that made him more suited to the name “Savage” than his friendly comrade, spared her only the briefest, disinterested glance.
But it was a different warrior altogether who finally came into the room. Hulking and immense, he had a mane of shoulder-length brown waves and skin the color of sun-kissed golden sand. Arresting sky-blue eyes scrutinized her from within his ruggedly handsome, exotic face. “Melena. How are you feeling?” As big and imposing as the Breed male was, he somehow moved with the easy, feline grace of a jungle cat as he approached. His voice was rich and deep and cultured. “I am Jehan.”
“Nice to meet you,” she replied, her manners on automatic pilot.
“Commander Archer sent me to see if your injuries need tending. I must apologize that we’re not equipped for treating wounds outside of the Breed, but I can get you medicine for your pain. There are ointments I can prepare to make the contusions heal faster.”
Melena shook her head. “Thank you, but no.” Compared to the pain of her grief and fear following the attack, and the lingering exhaustion from what she suspected had been hypothermia back in the cave, her assortment of cuts and bruises were a minor issue. “I’m okay.”
He eyed her skeptically, folding his glyph-covered muscled arms over his chest. “You’ve endured quite an ordeal. You’re certain there is nothing you need?”
Melena gave a vague shrug. She wasn’t certain of anything at the moment. Part of her wanted to bolt for the door and find the fastest way out of this nightmare, back home to Maryland. Another part of her just wanted to crawl under the covers of the bed and scream.
“I know this can’t be easy,” Jehan said, genuine concern in his low voice. “And I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Although she was well-versed in multiple languages, she couldn’t quite place his unusual accent. His name was old French, if she wasn’t mistaken, but the formal way he carried himself and the way he spoke had her curious. “Where are you from, Jehan?”
“All around,” he answered cryptically. “But it’s Morocco you hear in my voice. My father’s homeland.”
That explained it. He had the kind of voice that made her imagine moonlit desert plains and the spicy fragrance of incense and woodsmoke. “Your mother wasn’t Moroccan, though?”
“Born and raised in Paris,” he confirmed, his sensual mouth curving at the corners. “She and my father met in France. After they were mated, he brought her back with him to our tribe’s Darkhaven in his country.”