by Nadia Aidan
There was some measure of truth to her words. There was always a choice.
He could have let her die.
With her knife still firmly in her grasp, she circled him, a caged tiger assessing its prey. He held perfectly still, his gaze trained on the framed picture of a sallow, white orchid hanging along the grey wall of his suite.
She stopped before him, blocking out the image of the flower, trapping him with her swirling topaz eyes. She was so close he could touch her, nearly taste her on his lips and tongue. He drew in shallow breaths so the rich, heady scent of her wouldn’t overwhelm his senses as it had only moments before.
“I have not been with a man since you.”
Ice. Cold, frigid, unyielding ice hardened his insides, froze the blood in his veins. Her revelation was blurted out, as though wrenched from her, while her gaze danced back and forth between him and the object on his table.
“Why not?” His voice was ragged and raw, straining through the glacial barrier of his lungs.
Before she even spoke he glimpsed the pain, the damage he’d done. He tightened his fists so he wouldn’t reach out and stroke her cheek…or slam one into the wall beside him.
“I could not trust anyone after you.”
“You need not trust to give your body to another.”
“I disagree.” She cocked her head to the side, her ink-black hair slipping over one sequined shoulder. “To make love to a man, you must trust him implicitly with your body, your wants, your needs—”
“What we did was not making love,” he lashed out and she reared back as if he’d struck her. He would never describe what they’d shared as making love. To even say it was to dishonour her, to disregard what she’d endured. “You should have taken a lover,” he said, his voice softer this time.
“Why?”
To ease the pain of our time together…to fill you with new memories, happier memories.
“Why not?” was what he said instead as he stepped closer, but stopped when she shrank away.
She shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the raw emotion blazing across her face. “Soon after, I was shipped off to a convent. I never had the opportunity or the desire.”
“You had the desire,” he whispered, his expression daring her to say otherwise.
She didn’t contradict him, at least not aloud. She remained silent but he heard what she did not say. He had been her only lover. He’d given her pleasure but he’d ravished her soul. With every thrust inside her body, he’d taken a piece of her beauty, her joy…the essence of her. She feared the inharmonious dichotomy of her body and mind. That was why she’d never taken a lover. She could not be certain of her body’s response, that it wouldn’t betray her as it had done once before… with him.
She feared the consequences of the intimacy that would come with making love. She’d once trusted him, once loved him, only to have been destroyed by him. She’d never recovered from what he’d done to her, but she longed to. That was truly why she was there. That was why she had yet to kill him. She didn’t even realise it, but he did.
“I cannot promise you I have the power to fix this,” he said finally, acknowledging what remained unspoken between them. “I have no idea how you will feel when this is over…”
“But?”
“I want you to feel again. I want you to trust again, to know true desire and revel in it.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
He reached for the button that held his trousers together. Her nostrils flared as she watched him, and with achingly slow movements he unzipped his pants then slid them down his legs before kicking the discarded garment aside. He could almost feel her desire, her arousal, hovering between them.
She may not trust, but she wanted. She still desired.
He stood fully naked before her, his skin bare beneath the warm lights
“What would you have me do next?”
She glanced over to his table for the third time.
“This does not change anything,” she said finally after a long silence. “I will still kill you in the end.”
He nodded in understanding. She would exact her revenge upon his body then do what she’d ultimately come there to do.
“That is your choice.”
There was always a choice.
The air in Selena’s chest remained trapped there, suspended in her lungs. Sixteen years ago she’d been helpless, at his mercy. He’d stripped her of her power and control. Now he wished to return it.
It was too late.
She would have her revenge, and then she would take his life. She just hoped it did not cost her what was left of her soul.
“You can put the knife down. I will not take it from you, nor will I stop you when you decide to use it. But you won’t need it for what comes next.”
That raised her eyebrows. “You do not care that after I use you I plan to kill you?”
Her words raised his eyebrows. “I resigned myself to death long ago.” He turned his back to her. “And if anyone deserves to die by your hands, it is me.”
She registered his declaration with silence as she wordlessly studied the ridges along his back. His flesh was puckered and welted, and the red scars stared angrily at her. They had not been there before. He’d been burned, whipped…
His entire back had been marred with fire and lashes. The perfect beauty of his muscled frame, a sculpted Adonis… It was flawed. He was flawed—imperfect.
“What happened to your back?”
He looked at her from over his shoulder, his golden hair gently caressing his sun-bronzed skin.
“I was punished.”
She sheathed her knife. He was right—she did not need it for what would come next. Whatever demons haunted Adonis, they were the reason why he would not stop her when she sought his death. Gazing upon him, looking into his eyes, she saw the truth of his words—he would not try to escape his death when the time came. Which made her wonder…why? Why did he seek death? What crime had he committed that was so heinous he’d deserved to have his perfect beauty marred?
“Why were you punished?” she asked quietly.
He held her gaze, intensely, intently for several seconds, before he looked away.
“Why are any of us punished? I did something wrong.”
She believed him even as she doubted his sincerity. That he’d done something wrong, there was no doubt. But Adonis was too meticulous, too thorough, to ever be caught…unless he wanted to be. Unless he’d wanted to be punished.
“You will not tell me what you did.” It wasn’t a question, and his stoic silence was his only response.
He faced her again and his probing stare bore into her. Under the weight of his gilded gaze, her heart thumped louder, her blood pumped faster. He stood before her, bare of clothing. His skin was taut across chiselled muscles, while his manhood jutted out from its nest of tawny curls.
Anticipation, not fear, aroused him.
It was the opposite for her.
She had not touched a man intimately since him. She’d not kissed one, made love to one, felt his skin bare and slick with sweat against hers. She ached to experience such intimacy.
She feared it.
He offered memories—fresh, new ones to chase away the old—because those of the past were as painful as they were tragic. Endless days and unending nights she’d spent alone in her modest room at the convent with the image of him as her only companion.
Adonis had destroyed her life. This had all begun with him, would end with him, and only he could make this right again.
That was what she had told herself, but what if it was a lie?
What if she did to him what he’d done to her? What if she killed him after? Would his pain, his death fill the emptiness inside her, the void? What would become of her if Adonis suffered and died and nothing changed? What then?
“I want you to bathe.”
He looked at her curiously, as though he were amused. When he spoke, she knew th
at he was. “I did not know it was necessary for me to be clean in order to experience pain and die.”
“You smelled of sandalwood and masculinity when you took me. You smell of it now. I do not wish to be reminded of my vulnerability, especially not on this evening.”
He understood, so he nodded and she watched the taut, tight muscles of his backside cross the room until he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.
Once inside, he did not close the door.
Metal twisted against metal as he turned the knobs, followed by the faint thud of his bare feet as he entered the tub.
Water pelted his skin and the porcelain basin. She heard every sound wafting from the bathroom.
She entered moments later, hovering just beyond the doorway.
Trimmed in gold, the glass of the shower door sparkled in the muted light as steam rose up, filling the room. It fogged the glass, obscuring her view of him, but not completely.
Her breasts grew heavy within the confines of her dress, her nipples tight as she followed him with her gaze. His movements were efficient and precise as he ran the cloth across his skin, cleansing the scents of the past from his body.
Her heart pumped violently, wildly—as fast as a runaway train, spiralling out of control.
Adonis.
His name was only ever spoken in the deep recesses of her mind. He’d stripped her of her virginity and ushered her into womanhood. The act had been tender, when it could have been violent. His motivations had been less noble, just as they were shrouded in mystery.
And so much of this man was a mystery. His past, his life before her…since her. Why she’d been the one he’d chosen to ruin. There were others far more beautiful—why her? Why her, when she’d loved him—so fully and so deeply that she would have eagerly given him her body, her very soul? He needn’t have taken it only to so cruelly discard her.
She hated him for what he’d done and hated him more for concealing the truth.
He was mistaken about the main reason for her presence here tonight. She was here to kill him—that had not changed. But, before she did, she wanted the truth. She wanted to know why.
Selena had only wanted him to give her the truth before she took his life. She’d never expected that he’d offer her the gift of revenge.
But she would take it…all of it.
The absence of sound was what drew her attention back to him, just as he slid the door open and stepped from the tub.
He pulled a towel from one of the marble hanging rails and began to dry himself. The soft material of the cloth wiped away the spray of droplets and—for the briefest of moments, buried deep in a forbidden place inside her—she imagined she stood in place of that towel, licking every bead of water and sweat from his naked flesh.
She shivered—partially from desire, the rest from shame.
“You still want me,” he said—his statement a declaration, not a question. His face revealed neither arrogance nor pleasure at the notion. If anything, his eyes were tinged with sadness.
“I do,” she admitted. He would soon die—there was no need to conceal the truth, even if it shamed her.
“Did you think of me all those years inside the convent?”
“Every day,” she whispered. “And every night.”
His eyes probed her. “Tell me. When you thought of me, what did you imagine?”
He seemed almost desperate to hear what she would say, and she stepped closer, the moisture-laden air clinging to her skin. “I imagined I killed you a thousand times.” His eyes darkened. “I imagined I fucked you a thousand more.” His amber gaze was almost as dark as her own rosewood eyes.
“Why?”
“Why what?” She cocked her head slightly. “Why did I think of you? Why did I imagine killing you, fucking you—?”
“The last one. Why did you think of fucking me? Why would you ever imagine me touching you? After everything I did to you? After all the pain I caused you…”
“Because you stirred me.” Her stare sharpened on his face. “You’re the only man who has ever hurt me. You’re the only man who has ever brought me pleasure—”
“Because you’ve never found another—”
“Because I’ve never wanted to.”
He studied her for a long while before he spoke again. “To still desire my touch would make you a masochist, Selena.”
Sadness and amusement reverberated in his deep voice, and, for the first time in a long time, she felt the hint of a smile. He could be right. To desire the touch of the man who’d destroyed her life was masochistic, indeed. But, then, what did that make him? A man who begged for his death, begged her to avenge herself upon his body.
“I imagine we are both masochistic,” she said finally.
He draped the towel over the shower wall and brushed past her to enter the bedroom. “You will find everything you need inside the closet,” he called from behind her.
She glanced at him briefly, before turning her attention to the doors of his closet, which were carved from cherry oak. She crossed the room towards it. Flinging the double doors open, a gasp unwittingly tumbled from her lips at what she found inside.
She whipped around to meet his impassive stare.
“You know my profession.” He shrugged. “Besides, I knew you were coming.”
His voice was soft and seductive even though she knew he did not intend to seduce. He simply could not help it. Everything about Adonis was designed to engender pleasure.
She did not realise he’d closed the distance between them until she was forced to tilt her head back, dragging in the clean, flowery scent of him.
She stilled. He smelt of honey and vanilla.
She smelt of honey and vanilla.
“Do you often use feminine soap to bathe yourself?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is it coincidence that we bathe in the same fragrance?”
“No.”
He reached out then with blinding speed, but not so fast that she did not guess his intent and drew away before he could grasp her chin or cup her cheek.
His arm fell soundlessly back to his naked side.
“Every day I think of you, Selena. And every night.” He turned so that she could see the ravaged scars that marred his back.
“And when you think of me, what do you imagine?” she asked, though she did not know why. She was certain she didn’t want to know, but her curiosity overrode logic.
He didn’t look at her when he spoke. “I imagine making love to you. Truly making love to you as I did not before. I imagine myself having been with you these past sixteen years, protecting you, healing you, easing you of the pain I caused you.”
He turned this time, his gaze slamming into her from over his shoulder and she swore he stole her breath with that single look.
“It is not a coincidence that we bathe in the same soap. I know everything about you, Selena. I have made it my entire life’s purpose to know of yours. Your wants, your needs, your deepest fears—I know them all.”
“Why?”
Molten fire swirled in the depths of his golden eyes, blazing hot and intense. “How long has it been since you’ve been with a man?”
She started to demand to know what that had to do with anything, especially when she’d already told him, but the look in his eyes forced her to say it again. “Sixteen years.”
He broke their connection and looked away. When he spoke, she almost didn’t hear him, his voice was so low, the emotion in it so raw.
“Sixteen years, Selena. Sixteen years, to this day.” He glanced at the clock hanging over his bed. “And seven hours. That is how long it has been for me since I’ve been with a woman—since I’ve been with you. ”
She shook her head, though she knew he couldn’t see it with his gaze averted. “Why?” she demanded.
“The same reason as you.”
No. She refused to accept the truth of his words and what they meant, as tears scorched her eyes.
&nb
sp; “You broke my heart.” She bit back a sob, clinging to everything she believed about him.
He was cruel.
He was heartless.
What he’d just revealed said otherwise.
“I know.” He hung his head. “And, when I broke yours, I broke mine. Then, I wanted no other woman but you. And I’ve wanted no other woman since.”
Her anger flared, somewhere between despair and desire…somewhere between hope and need.
Damn him.
Damn him.
This changed nothing.
This changed everything.
She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t have the words to voice the discordant emotions bombarding her.
She didn’t need to.
Before she could part her lips, the double oak doors to the suite splintered open, the ravaged wood crashing against the walls.
Chapter Two
A dozen guards poured into the room, their weapons trained upon her.
Her knife was across the room. The gun that had been tucked inside her dress was already firmly in her palm.
She pointed it at Adonis, who stood calmly, his attention fixed solely on her, seemingly unnerved by his naked state. She remembered he’d once made his living as a consort, a whore. He’d probably spent more of his life nude than clothed.
“I will kill him,” she threatened, her voice as hard and cold as the ice storms that plagued the northern plains just beyond the city.
The threat stilled them, the coldness in her voice made them wary. They glanced between their employer—the man whose life they’d sworn to protect—and her, the woman who sought to take it.
“One bullet from your gun might kill me, but twelve from theirs would certainly kill you. ”
Selena didn’t flinch, nor did she take her eyes off the guards before her. “I would kill you. With my last breath I would see to it.”
“I am not afraid of death.”
This time she did look at him, briefly. “And neither am I.”
A golden ember flared in his eyes then quickly disappeared.