Baden carried her around the desk, out of striking distance.
“Let me go!” She fought him with all of her strength, scratching his arms, punching, kicking. “Don’t you dare whisk me—”
The bunker vanished, a bedroom quickly taking shape around her.
She wrenched free and tried to orient herself. Little details hit her awareness. Masculine furnishings. A massive sleigh bed with a dark brown comforter. Aged stone walls, like those she’d seen when her family toured the abandoned castles in Romania and Budapest—when life was wondrous, happiness the norm. Wrought-iron sconces and a cracked marble fireplace boasting hand-carved roses.
Another prison? Well, this one was well earned. She hadn’t protected her babies. When they’d needed her most, she’d failed them. They’d died in pain, alone and afraid, after she’d promised to always protect them.
Guilt and sorrow joined the rage, leaching what remained of her strength, and her knees crumpled. She would have crashed into the floor if Baden hadn’t caught her and eased her down.
She kicked him. “Panchart! Don’t you dare touch me.” She’d tried to scream the words at him, but the lump in her throat caused her to whisper. “I hate you.”
He straightened and held up his gloved hands in a sign of surrender. A lie! This male never surrendered.
“Hate you,” she repeated. The toxic mix of emotions wrapped her in a cold embrace. She wanted to cry. She wanted to cry so badly. The dogs deserved her tears, but there was no telltale burn in her eyes.
Baden rubbed the spot just above his heart. “You lost loved ones?”
For the first time in their acquaintance, there was a note of gentleness in his voice. A note she resented. Where had this softer side been as she’d begged him to let her search Alek’s homes?
“Katarina,” he prompted, still gentle.
“My dogs, the most precious fur babies ever born, are dead. Gone.” She didn’t even have pictures of them. The fire had destroyed physical copies, and Alek and Dominik had crashed her website. “They were murdered. And you are the man who prevented me from saving them. Does that please you and your beast?”
“No. I’m sorry, Katarina.” He crouched beside her and reached out, running a fingertip along the corner of her eye. Was he searching for a teardrop?
“Save your sorry and get out of my face, kretén.”
“Had I known—”
“Get out!”
He blanched, but stubborn bastard that he was, he remained in place.
The protective sheath around her heart suddenly cracked, all the rage, guilt and sorrow spewing out; the emotions became a gale force she couldn’t fight, destroying her.
She curled into a ball, shaking so forcefully her muscles soon gave out, her bones as limp as noodles. She hated anyone— especially this man—seeing her in such a helpless state, but she no longer cared to maintain a brave face.
“Katarina.” He reached for her again. “I need to—”
She rolled away, done with him, done with the conversation—done with life.
* * *
Besieged by helplessness, Baden plowed a hand through his hair. Katarina loved her dogs the way he loved his friends. All-encompassing. Never-ending. Nothing held back. He had no doubts about that. Even without a flood of tears, so much sadness and misery radiated from her, she rivaled Cameo.
In an attempt to save her dogs, Katarina had sacrificed her happiness and her future. And, during Baden’s short acquaintance with her, he’d repeatedly mocked her for it. He’d sneered at her and insulted her. His actions had even spurred Aleksander’s, leading to the untimely deaths of the animals.
She hated Aleksander, and she hated Baden. She had every right.
She’s just a means to an end. I don’t need her admiration.
But there was an ache in his chest now. One he couldn’t shake. He knew the horror of losing loved ones, of feeling as if you’d been dropped in the middle of an ocean during a turbulent storm, wave after wave crashing over you, rocks scraping you; again and again you swallowed too much water, but still you fought to breathe, to rise. The moment you breached the surface, hoping you were in the clear, you were swept under again.
How many centuries had passed before he’d stopped missing his friends? Trick question. He’d never stopped.
Far too vividly he remembered the centuries he’d been imprisoned, the rats his only friends. He’d adored those rats...had cried when he’d had to eat them to survive.
Survival before sentiment.
No, no. The rats...not Baden’s memory but Destruction’s.