Free Edge of Oblivion by J. T. Geissinger

was
not
hyperventilating.
    “And by the way,” he continued before she could reply, “let’s get something straight. You need to ask—nicely, which I know will present a challenge for you—for permission to leave the hotel. And if I grant that permission, it’s only on the condition that I’m coming with you. I need to know exactly where you are at all times, so in the future you’re not to go anywhere without asking me first.
    Understood?”
    Morgan had heard the term
blood boiling
on many occasions, but she suddenly, completely grasped its true meaning. Fire flowed through her veins, scorching hot.
    “I’m not going to ask your permission for anything, ever,” she enunciated slowly. “But I’ll
inform
you that I’m going to go down there,” she pointed to the shadowed floor of the amphitheater, “to take a look around.”
    Xander took a single step forward out of the shadows. His amber eyes burned like embers in the hard, dark angles of his face. Dressed entirely in black, he looked as if he’d been caught in an unexpected dust storm: a fine coat of pale yellow dust clung to his clothes and skin, even dulled the shine of his gleaming jet hair. She hated to admit it, but even dirty and angry, he was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen.
    In a tone filled with dark threat, he said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
    “Well, obviously you’re
not
me. And going down there is exactly what I’m going to do.”
    “No,” he replied, emphatic. “You’re not.”
    Morgan pushed her windblown hair from her eyes and glared at him. “I’m not asking permission!”
    “And I’m not making a suggestion. You’re not going anywhere but down those stairs”—he jerked his head, indicating the wide stone steps that led to the lower levels and the street—“and back to the hotel. With me.
Now.
”
    His hands were empty and flexed open. He stood with his legs apart, knees slightly bent, weight on the balls of his feet. Fighting stance. She recognized it from years of fencing lessons she’d been forced to take by her father. His archaic ideas of femininity were probably surpassed only by those of this dust-encrusted Spartan glaring daggers at her.
    “I didn’t realize Leander sent you along so you could irritate me to death.”
    He smiled—grim, without a trace of humor or warmth—and answered in the most menacing tone she’d ever heard, delivered soft as silk. “Whatever works.”
    Oh, oh, and
oh
. The flush of blood that crept up her neck to spread throbbing over her ears was hot, painfully so. She felt shamed and unsteady, unduly exposed, and knew without question he had aimed for exactly that.
    Don’t let him see it! Don’t let him win!
    “You’re lucky you collared me.” Her voice was steady, her face was composed, but everything inside was a riot of lashing emotion. The need to Shift ate through her blood like acid, but she was crippled by the damn collar. That’d
he’d
put on. She cocked her head and let her gaze travel over him.
    Measuring. “But I’ll bet...”
    “What?” he prompted. His fingers flexed.
    She smiled sweetly at him. “I’ll bet I’m still faster than you.”
    A heartbeat before he recognized the challenge, then his expression changed, a microscopic shift from flat contempt to something more heated, closer to curiosity, or anticipation. “Don’t even think—” Before he could finish his sentence, Morgan turned, took two long, running steps, and launched herself off the Colosseum’s highest wall and out into empty space.

8
    When she was fifteen years old, Morgan Shifted for the first time.
    Tremors of it had been surfacing for years. A flash of illusory pain in her bones, an unexpected sharpening of smell and hearing. All the
Ikati
had heightened senses from birth, but suddenly she was able to smell a bird on the wing from miles off and know if it was hawk or starling, suddenly she was able to see every dewdrop on every blade of grass on the lawn outside