Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

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He wasn’t a good man.

What was he going to do?

Tomorrow she would tell him the truth, all of it. And if she refused? He’d make love to her until she was crazy.

Would she withdraw from him? Remember the pain and be afraid of him? He drew her closer. “Byrony,” he whispered against her temple, “I’m sorry.”

She mumbled something in her sleep and pressed closer, her hand fisting against his chest.

SEVENTEEN

Byrony awoke suddenly, disoriented, and aware of soreness between her legs. She frowned a moment, not remembering. She felt the warmth of him, felt his hand touching her hip. Brent moved closer to her, and she slowly turned her head to look at him.

His dark hair was tousled, his cheeks covered with dark stubble. There was a slight smile on his lips in his sleep.

I’m a woman now, she thought, and swallowed, easing slowly away from him. She felt sore and sticky. She jerked up, lowering the covers. There was blood on her thighs and on the sheet beneath her. My blood, she thought. She remembered the pain when he’d entered her. She wondered if blood signified her passage into womanhood. No one had ever told her about that. She remembered at the age of fourteen she’d begun her monthly flow. Aunt Ida had merely nodded when Byrony had told her, fear thick in her young voice, and told her, her eyes not quite meeting Byrony’s, it was something she would have to bear for many years.

“What the hell happened to your back?”

She’d pulled her hair over her shoulder and unconsciously begun to weave her fingers through it to get out the tangles.

“Byrony, answer me.”

She felt his fingers lightly touching her and shivered. She grabbed the covers and pulled them to her chin, but of course her back was bare to his eyes. Slowly she turned her head to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“There are scars on your back, faded, but there. Who the hell beat you?”

She’d expected his anger, indeed, was ready for it. But his anger was directed against another this time. “It was a long time ago,” she said.

“Who, Byrony? That husband of yours?”

“No, Ira never touched me.”

He laughed roughly, falling off into a near-moan. “God, I know that well enough—firsthand.”

“It’s raining,” she said, staring toward the windows.

“Who, Byrony?—And yes, I see it’s raining.”

“My—my mother’s husband.”

“Your stepfather?”

“Father.”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t let him beat my mother,” she said calmly. “Not in front of me, at any rate.”

It was that acceptance in her voice that shook him profoundly.

“He’d hurt her so many times before, you see. That was why she sent me to live with her sister in Boston. To protect me. I’d only been back in San Diego for six months when I first met you.”

He lay back, pillowing his head on his arms. She was still sitting up, her long hair rippling over her shoulder, the covers to her chin, her back naked. She looked so beautiful, so innocent, so accepting, that he wanted to yell.

His hands clenched, but he kept them where they were. If he touched her, he’d make love to her again. He was hard. He raised his knees slightly under the cover so she wouldn’t see. She wasn’t ready for that. He had no intention of hurting her again.