Edge of Oblivion by J. T. Geissinger Read Free Book Online Page B

smile that was both wicked and challenging. And not stupid at all.
    “Then by all means,” he drawled. He held out his hand in invitation.
“Touch
me.”
    Her heart screeched to a stop inside her chest. Then her mind took off, wild and careening, shooting a million miles out into space in the expanse of one second to the next.
    She could make him forget.
    She could make him forget and make him unconscious and then do the same for the pilot—
    well, maybe after they landed—and escape into the never-ending maze of Rome’s storied, sun-washed streets and never be seen again. It was only the three of them, it would be so easy, Leander hadn’t even sent any other guards. She could travel to Paris and Prague and even Iceland if she wanted, she could find her own way in the world and leave Sommerley and the Law and the
Ikati
all behind, forever.
    She could be free.
    Before he could change his mind, she seized his outstretched hand.
    Warmth and a charge of electricity, a tingle up her arm. “Forget me,” she whispered, vehement, staring into the depths of his kohl-rimmed amber eyes. “Forget me and sleep.”
    Then, quite inconveniently, nothing happened.
    Never, never, never, it’s never happened before. Since infancy I’ve had this Gift, and no one is impervious, no one can resist. I trained for years to be careful not to touch, not to hug, not to think any random thoughts that would hurt one of the tribe
—
    “
Meu caro
,” the assassin murmured. He gazed into her eyes, still with that sly, wicked smile, his hand grasped in hers. “My dear. How could one ever forget a woman like you?”
    It hit her like a wrecking ball, swift and solid and just as devastating: immune. He was immune. And
toying
with her.
    “Son of a bitch!” she hissed and snatched her hand away.
    That earned her a laugh, dark and dangerous. “Son of an
Alpha
,” he corrected, reaching behind him to grasp something clipped to his belt. He pulled it out in a move so fast all she registered was the glint of shining silver, the musical
chink
of metal sliding against metal, solid and sleek.
    Then his hands were around her throat.
    She screamed and pushed back, but she was held in place by the lap belt, her feet struggling to find purchase against the slick, low-nap rug. He was suddenly on top of her, muscle and heat and a low, growled curse, his leg over hers, his arms around her shoulders, his fingers tightening on her neck, cutting off her air. She swung out blindly and connected with his jaw, found a handful of his shining jet hair and yanked as hard as she could. Another curse and then he was off her, standing a few feet away, breathing hard and staring at her with glittering, wary eyes.
    She tore off the lap belt and leapt to her feet, lissome and lightning fast, and stood facing him in the middle of the aisle, her feet spread apart, legs flexed, hands balled to fists. Shaking and furious, she realized with a shock that her neck was throbbing and sore where he’d wrapped his hands around it.
    He’d
hurt
her.
    The urge to Shift came over her in a blinding white spark, violent and primal. Reason and caution and calm were stripped away, replaced by the instinctual and overpowering urge to claw her way out of her human skin and fly roaring through the air to land on top of him and slash out his eyes, tear off his arms, eat out his heart.
    “You are going to die,” she snarled and stepped forward.
    The heated charge came, then the flare that sparked and caught like gunpowder, then the scent of smoke and honey, the swift and terrible flash of pain as her muscles and tendons and bones began to transfigure into her other self, her
real
self. She inhaled, savoring the pain, savoring the thought of his blood on her tongue.
    And then...nothing.
    She faltered. The pain in her throat increased, pressure and an odd, electric hum that sent agony flaring down her spine and held her just at the brink of the turn. She lifted her hands to the pain, searching