Edge Of Oblivion

7

It was a problem that defied solution. Pardon was out of the question. Execution was out of the question. Indefinite imprisonment was out of the question, because she knew that would be worse than death for someone like Morgan, so fierce and proud.

But her betrayal had cut Jenna to the bone, both literally and figuratively. And Leander’s sister, Daria, was still in grave condition, most likely to be maimed for life.

There was the undeniable fact, however, that Jenna, though angry and betrayed and quite wounded herself, understood exactly why she’d done it. Which left her right back where she had started, pondering what was to be Morgan’s punishment.

It hadn’t come upon her until she’d caught herself staring blankly at one of the gilt-framed oils in the Gallery of Alphas. She’d gone nearly every day to stare at it, drawn by a combination of curiosity, nostalgia, and the faint, nagging feeling of something obvious that was being missed. It was a portrait done with care and precision, the image of a handsome, unsmiling man with a sharp jaw and a wide forehead, done in severe umbers and charcoal, lit from above. His blistering green eyes stared down from the canvas, just as feral and canny as her own.

Because they were. The portrait was of her father.

He’d been an outlaw to the tribe, too, and paid the ultimate price.

“She reminds me of my father, in a way,” Jenna mused aloud, watching a skein of swallows rise from the tree line beyond the windows. They scattered in quicksilver flashes of gray and black, melting into the sky.

“Really?” Leander’s murmured response was wry, not a question at all. The pacing stopped for a moment, then started up anew.

She turned to face him in a rustle of taffeta and satin, reminding herself to change out of this ridiculous dress as soon as possible. The Assembly inevitably required formal dress for these occasions, though she hated it. Even her wild Leander was dressed formally in a beautifully cut suit of navy so deep it was almost black, gleaming Italian loafers, cuff links, and a starched shirt and silk tie. Only his hair remained untamed, a glossy jet tangle that brushed his shoulders, always appearing windblown even just after it had been combed.

Naked. He looked far better naked. Though she supposed he needed to wear something, clothes only served to mask his true glory.

The formal-dress problem would soon be remedied, she told herself firmly. She was fully healed now from all her wounds, and it was time to step up to the plate and begin revising the old rules.

The first item of business was Morgan.

“They’re both rebels—”

“With very different motives,” he interrupted, still wry, still pacing with his hands clasped behind his back. He shot her a measured, heated glance from beneath sooty lashes.

Her mouth quirked. “One for love, one for freedom. Both noble ideals—”

“Noble?” He came to an abrupt halt and gazed at her from across the room. His expression bordered on severe. “Jenna.”

He said her name in that particular way he did when he thought she was being unreasonable, chiding yet stroking, tender yet reproachful, and she was abruptly angry. She pushed away from the window, crossed her arms over her chest, and went to stand in front of the massive, unlit hearth. She kicked at the foot of the scrolled iron screen that shielded it and was rewarded with a black smudge of ash across the toe of her ivory satin slipper.

“You couldn’t understand, Leander. You’ve had your freedom your entire life. She’s been locked up, locked away, denied the most basic rights—”

“For her safety. For our safety,” he reminded her.

When she didn’t answer, he came up behind her and stood with the broad expanse of his chest pressed against her back. His hands lifted to gently encircle her shoulders. He brushed aside the gold mass of her long hair and pressed a soft kiss to the bare nape of her neck. She scowled down at the ashen, chunky remnants of some long-dead fire and refused to turn around and wind her arms up around his neck, though she wanted to with a desire so strong it still took her by surprise.

Always, always this need for him. For his body and his heart and his proximity, even when she was irritated with him, even when he was driving her mad with his cold, calculated logic. She simply could not imagine being without him, for one second of one day. Just the thought of it caused her physical pain.

Love, she had learned, was its own kind of prison. With chains and locks invisible but just as real and unyielding as those of steel.

“You know what’s out there,” he murmured. His lips brushed her skin with a gentleness that left gooseflesh in their wake. “You know better than most.”

She closed her eyes and inhaled, letting him draw her nearer, letting his scent of spice and smoke and virile man envelop her. His lips slid down her neck; the soft press of his teeth against her jugular made her shiver in delight. But she was still angry with him. Definitely.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” she said, leaning into him. She let her head drop back and rest against his shoulder. He turned his lips to her cheek.

“Hmmm,” he murmured, unconvinced. He wound his arms around her in a gentle, possessive embrace and nuzzled his face into her neck. She had to press the smile from her lips. He sensed the shift in her mood and pressed his advantage. “Compromise,” he whispered near her ear, “can be a beautiful thing.”

Her eyes blinked open. Instantly on guard, she stiffened. “Compromise?”

He breathed a low laugh down her neck that sent warmth surging through her entire body. It softened her, made her think of pillows and sheets and their very fine bed, of him ardent and warm and naked beside her.

Inside her.