The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Reaching the top, she let her skirts fall. “We’ll need to tend that cut.” Turning, she headed for his room.

He frowned, and followed. “It’s nothing. I can’t even feel it.”

“Cuts people can’t feel have been known to turn gangrenous.” Reaching his room, she turned to look at him. “You can’t possibly be worried about washing and salving it. If you can’t feel it, it isn’t going to hurt.”

He halted before her, looked down into her face—determined, stubborn—and still ghostly pale. It was going to hurt, just not in the way she meant. Setting his jaw, he reached past her and pushed the door wide. “If you insist.”

She did, of course, and he had to surrender. Had to sit bare-chested on the end of the bed and let her fuss and fret.

From his earliest years, he’d hated having any female fuss over him—passionately hated having his hurts tended. He had more than his share of scars because of it, but the scars didn’t bother him—feminine fussing, especially the focused, tender care, always had.

Still did; he gritted his teeth, swallowed his pride, and let her get on with it.

He still felt like a conqueror reduced to a helpless six-year-old—helpless in the face of the feminine need to care. In some indefinable way trapped by it, held by it.

He focused on her face, watched, outwardly stoic as she gently bathed, anointed, and bound the cut—which was deeper than he’d supposed. She smoothed gauze about his arm; he looked down at her fingers, long, supple, slender, just like her.

Felt the emotions he had until then held at bay rush in. Fill him.

He lifted his head as those minutes on the terrace replayed in his mind; his muscles hardened in inevitable reaction.

She’d been within his sight, yet he’d come so very close to losing her.

The instant she straightened, he rose and walked to the window. Away from her. Away from the temptation to end the game and seize, claim, decree, and take her from here, out of all danger.

Fought to remember there was more than one way of losing her.

Portia watched him walk away, noticed the stiffness, the way his fists had clenched. Letting him go, she tidied away the basin and cloths. That done, she paused by the bed and studied him.

He stood by the window, looking out, so tensed for action yet so restrained, his will was like a living thing, binding him, constraining him. That suppressed inner tension—was it fear or the reaction to fear, to

danger, to her being in danger?—was palpable, thrumming through him, emanating from him, affecting him, and her.

It was all the murderer’s fault. The urn had been the last straw. She’d been frightened, upset, more than she’d realized, but now she was getting angry.

Bad enough that the fiend had murdered, not once but twice, but what he was doing to her now—even worse, what the situation was doing to Simon, to what they were trying to come to grips with between them . . . she’d never been one to let anyone tamper with her life.

Irritation edging through annoyance into outright anger rode her; her temper had always outweighed her fear. She walked to lean against the other side of the window frame. Looked at him across it. “What is it?”

He glanced at her, considered, for once didn’t attempt to evade the question. “I want you safe.”

She considered what she could see in his face, in his eyes. Hear in the harsh tones of his voice. “Why is my safety so important? Why have you always needed to protect me?”

“Because I do.” He looked away, out over the garden. “I always have.”

“I know. But why?”

His jaw set; for one long moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, his voice low, “Because you’re important to me. Because . . . in protecting you, I’m protecting myself. Some part of me.” The words, ones of discovery, hadn’t come easily. He turned his head, met her gaze, considered, but left the admission unchanged, unmodified.

She crossed her arms, looked into his eyes. “So what’s really worrying you? You know I’ll let you hover, that I’ll let you protect me, that I’m unlikely to do anything rash, so it’s not that.”

His resistance was a tangible thing, a shimmering wall he slowly, gradually, deliberately, let fall. “I want you mine.” His jaw clenched. “And I don’t want this getting in the way.” He drew a deep breath, looked out again. “I want you to promise you won’t hold whatever happens here—whatever happens between us because of this—against me.” Again he met her gaze. “That you won’t put it in your scales. Let it affect your decision.”

She read his eyes, saw both the turmoil, and the lurking predator. The power, the raw force, the primitive need he held back. The masculine need to dominate, reined in only by his iron will; it took courage to see it, recognize it, know she was its object, and not flee.

Equally, its very strength bore witness to his commitment to adjusting as much as he was able, to be her champion against his own instincts.

She held his gaze. “I can’t promise that. I’ll never close my eyes and not see you for what you are, or myself for what I am.”