Page 113 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
“What is that mysterious look of yours, love of mine?” he whispered, stroking her face.
“Do you notice anything different about me?” she said coyly.
He let his gaze drift over her naked body. “If I say no,” he said, husky, “how much trouble will I be in?”
; “A lot,” she laughed, “considering you’re the one who put the damn thing on!”
He frowned and she stretched back her head, gazed at him from beneath her lashes, and trailed her fingers down her throat with a flourish. “Your friend Mateo is quite good with a blowtorch. Didn’t even leave a mark.”
He inhaled sharply. The collar: it was gone. Feeling a tightness in his chest, he brushed his fingers over her neck, the fine sweep of her collarbones. The blowtorch hadn’t left a mark, but a faint ring of circular bruises the size of his thumb marred the perfect skin just over her jugular on the left side of her neck. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, disgusted with himself.
I will never, he thought as a violent rush of love and possessiveness swept through him, do anything to hurt her again.
He opened his eyes and quietly said, “I was wrong to do that. I’ve been wrong about so much.
You’ll have to be patient with me, Morgan, because I’m stubborn and temperamental and I’m going to make stupid mistakes, probably a lot of them. But I swear I’ll do my best to make you happy every single day of your life, if you let me. I will love you, and no other, until I take my last breath, and when I’m dead I’ll keep on loving you. Forever.”
She swallowed and turned away for a moment, took a few deep breaths. Her eyes closed and then blinked open, and she turned back to him and whispered, “I was wrong about something, too.”
“What?”
She smiled and cupped her hand against his face. “There are happy endings for people like us.
Welcome to our happily ever after, my love.”
Then she leaned in and very softly pressed her lips against his.
Epilogue
Saturday, the twelfth of August, 20—
Another sweltering day, another endless night. Everything is so different here. It is difficult to adjust.
My brother and I and a small group of loyalists from the colony have settled near the basilica of the Sacré Coeur in Montmartre, on the top floor of a tall building at the crest of the city’s highest hill. Sometimes we are lost in the clouds here. Sometimes it seems the horizon stretches on forever.
I find myself often wandering the shadowed crypts of the nearby catacombs, so much more familiar than my new house in the sky. On those wandering walks, my mind is a black tangle of schemes and memories and unanswered questions. Like a ghost I haunt the twisting corridors in those silent, dark hours before dawn, my thoughts a sea of hungry rats, chewing holes in my mind, devouring the memory of the naive girl I was. Devouring any shadow of softness that still lingers.
I wish the hungry rats would eat the memory of him.
But that is the one thing they leave untouched. Traitorous rats.
At least I’m not alone; that I don’t think I could bear. I have others here to help me finish the work my father started—and this will be difficult, as his journals were left behind and he never shared his vision with me—others that believe as I do that what he had planned for his people must have been good, that his death must not go unavenged. We are few and they are many, so for now I must be content to stalk the bone-lined corridors of les carrières de Paris while plans are made and alliances are forged.
While the blueprint for vengeance is drawn.
“Eliana.”
She spun from her desk at the sound of the voice, relaxing only when she saw the familiar face at the door, the piercing dark eyes and aquiline nose.
“You scared me,” she said, irritated. She closed her journal, pushed back the chair, and went to stand at the tall, dormered window. The oppressive heat of the day had given way to an evening thunderstorm; rain peppered the glass, running down the panes in long, silvery tears.
“I’m sorry, my Queen.”
He’d taken to calling her that of late. It got on her nerves.
She spoke to the window, not bothering to turn around. “What is it?”
