J. Geissinger: Edge of Oblivion

tempered sort with some substantial insecurity issues, but on this he got it right. Vengeance is best left to the gods. Best left to me .”

Morgan shuddered. Beautiful and genius and completely insane, he had lured her into his trap and she had fallen willingly, like a honeybee drunk with the heady smell of nectar.

He came and stood beside her, touched a gentle hand to her hair. “Think of it,” he said, reasonably, as she shrank away. “No more running. No more hiding. No more living like mice, shaking in the baseboards. We’ll be free, Morgan. Free. ” His voice hardened. “And you—more like me than you’re willing to admit—will stand beside me. As my Queen.”

She stiffened, all her muscles tensed for flight, but before she could move he sensed her intention and yanked her head back with his hand fisted painfully in her hair.

“Or,” he said, gazing down at her, perfectly controlled, “you will end up there.”

He pointed, moving his hand and her head so she was forced to twist around in the chair, craning her neck.

Beyond the horned statue of the devil, beyond the gruesome pile of bones, even farther into the long, sliding shadows of the room stood a modern glass case against the wall, lighted from within to illuminate the contents, row after row of large, screw-top jars with bobbing dark somethings inside.

Heads.

Row upon row of heads preserved in pale yellow liquid with staring wide eyes and clouds of dark hair, desiccated flesh peeling from skulls, lips shrunken and curled back over grinning teeth, the very same heads Jenna had shown her what felt like a lifetime ago.

A roar rose in her ears, pain throbbed in her skull, she felt faint and nauseous and cold. The shaking began somewhere deep in her stomach and spread to her arms and legs, leaving her weak, wobbly as a foal.

“As I said before, I do not tolerate demands, and I do not tolerate disobedience of any kind,” Dominus said, holding her fast. “One act of defiance,” he lifted the index finger of his other hand, “ one , and I will not hesitate to put you in my trophy case along with all the others who didn’t see things my way.”

He smiled down at her, excitement burning hot in his eyes. “Obey me, submit to me, rule with me,” he whispered. “Or die. Choose. Now.”

Without thinking, without breaking eye contact, Morgan opened her mouth and very quietly said, “Fuck. You. ”

Faint surprise registered in his coal-black eyes. He blinked. Then, with his hand still fisted painfully in her hair, he rose to his full height and dragged her, limp, along with him.

“Interesting choice of words.”

He opened his fist and released her. She staggered back, panting in sudden terror, until she was brought up short by the icy, invading claw of pain that punched through her chest and flared out in a cold, crackling frost all over her body. The cold spread, hardening her muscles, immobilizing her.

Once again she was trapped, breathless, held hostage inside her own body.

With his arms folded across his broad chest, Dominus said, “Yes, very interesting choice of words, considering what I’m about to do to you.”

His tone was light, but the fury on his face was not, and if she thought she had been afraid before, she knew this was to be an education in fear.

Suddenly, with the numb, jerky movements of a marionette, her hands lifted and began to pull at the material of her dress, grabbing at it, sliding it up over her hips. She stared down at her alien hands in horror, and all she could think was, Xander! Xander! Xander!

“Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me,” Dominus said. “Your boyfriend is coming to save you, but I kill him before he can. Just thought you’d like to know. Now,” he said, his tone a little lower than before, “let’s get you out of that dress.”

And before she could open her mouth to scream, her own puppet hands had pulled the dress over her head and let it fall in a silent puddle to the bare stone floor.

D had shown Eliana as much as he could in the few short hours they had between twilight and the Purgare , cramming it all into a whirlwind, epic trip.

The Forum, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, his favorite ancient ruins and curio shops and the artifacts and arcades of Trajan’s market, the decadent Baths of Caracalla, the Piazza Navona with its lavish baroque fountains and busy cafés. He kept a motorcycle—Italian, of course, a sleek, muscular black Ducati—covered in a garage near the Domitilla, and they’d flown around the city with her thighs pressed against his, her arms wrapped tight around his waist, her heat and softness molded into the hard muscles of his back.

He’d never been happier in his life.

But now it was nearing midnight. Time was short.

“We have to get back,” he murmured, watching her devour a triple stracciatella gelato at the small sidewalk café they’d stopped at to eat.

“What is this?” she exclaimed around a mouthful, tapping the little wooden spoon against the plastic cup. “It’s like heaven in my mouth!”

Seeing her like this—awed, excited, full of wonder—was the best gift he’d had in a long, long time. Maybe ever. He inhaled, smelling citrus blossom from a pair of nearby lemon trees, tasting a bittersweet flavor on his tongue he imagined was the fleeting taste of joy.

“Chocolate chips with cream. Next time I’ll buy you the cinnamon pear.”

She swallowed the mouthful of gelato and batted her lashes. “Next time?” She put the wooden spoon in her mouth and slowly sucked on it, holding his gaze.

He leaned over the table and gently grasped her wrist, forcing the spoon out of her mouth.

“Yes, next time. And stop sucking so suggestively on that spoon, or I’ll think you’re teasing me on purpose.”

“And then you’ll have to spank me,” she whispered, eyes alight with mirth.

He growled and pulled her out of her chair and onto his lap. She squealed and dropped the cup of gelato while an elderly couple at a table nearby tutted their disapproval.

“Don’t make me do it right here,” he growled, nuzzling her neck.

She giggled and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Promises, promises,” she said, a little breathless, and then gazed at him with those dark, beautiful eyes that lit his soul aflame.

“ Principessa ,” he murmured, enthralled, “I would die a thousand deaths to wake a single morning to that smile.”

“Well,” she teased, leaning down to press her lips against his, “let’s hope it doesn’t have to come to that.”

And then they were kissing, passionately, oblivious to time or place or dark or light, wrapped so completely in one another, nothing else existed in that moment, nothing at all.

She broke away first, and he let out a soft moan at the loss of her warm, sweet mouth, at the bitter ache of withdrawal.

“I don’t want to go back,” she whispered, grasping the leather collar of his coat. “Not yet.”

He opened his eyes. “We have to. You know we have to.”

She traced the bow of his upper lip with the tip of a finger, trailing fire across his skin. “Are you going to keep pretending you can’t stand me?” she asked in a small voice.

D shook his head, bewildered by her beauty, by the sweet, loving look on her face. “Not if you don’t want me to,” he answered. He was rewarded by that brilliant smile again.

“Well, maybe just until we figure out...how...how we’re going to...”

She faltered, blinking, and he laid his head against her chest and closed his eyes. Her heartbeat thumped strong and even and calmed the burning fire in his chest.

“Don’t,” he whispered, inhaling the scent of her skin. “Please don’t.”