How remarkable, really, that a word might be damnable to one man and merely tease another. And Drake would find a pinch teasing. Of that, she had no doubt. He might even enjoy it.
What was a woman to do with this man?
She thought of his bond with his brothers. They probably had their own meaning for the term punishment. A meaning soaked with brotherly affection. Love. A bond most likely forged in loyalty rather than sentiment. The sort of devotion that closed ranks without question and answered threats without mercy. To stand within such a circle was to be protected utterly or crushed without apology.
And Drake stood at its center.
At least from what she’d glimpsed so far.
And that, she suspected, was the true danger of him. Not the violence he could unleash, but the discipline with which he mastered it. He was not ruled by his darkness; he commanded it. Every measure of him spoke of limits chosen, not imposed. Of a man who knew precisely where his boundaries lay and guarded them as fiercely as he guarded his own family.
Violet’s gaze softened despite herself.
That was why she stayed, she supposed. Not because he was Hades, king of some shadowed dominion, but because even their underworld had its laws. In some cases, laws much more honorable than her world. And Drake Fury, for all his rough edges and dangerous glances, was a man who abided by them.
Perhaps courage was not found in staying or fleeing at all.
Perhaps strength was knowing which was required and daring to choose it, even when the world expected the opposite.
A groan dragged itself from him, followed by a muttered curse.
Violet lurched up, relief blossoming almost instantly. “Drake?”
His lashes fluttered. One eye cracked open, then the other. “Where am I?” he asked hoarsely. “And what year is this?”
A rattled burst of laughter escaped her lips. “You are in hell,” she informed him flatly. “The year is two thousand.”
“Ah.” His mouth tipped faintly at one corner. “Then the little flame is still here.”
“You expected to leave a damsel in distress behind?”
His brows puckered as he shifted, bracing his palms against the floor. He managed to lift himself onto his elbows before the effort clearly exacted its toll. A grunt tore free of him, followed by more cursing.
“What damsel?” he muttered. “Help me to the bed, will you?”
Violet rolled her eyes but set the bottle aside at once, crossing the short distance to him. She helped him upright inch by inch, her shoulder wedged beneath his arm. He hissed softly when she guided him to the edge of the bed. “Let’s remove this bloody shirt first. I couldn’t manage with you being insensible and all.”
“I merely took a short rest.”
“Which should I rebuke first,” she asked sweetly, “theshortor therest?”
“Why don’t we just focus on the task at hand?”
She harrumphed, then ordered, “Lift your arms.”
He didn’t quibble, raising his arms just enough for her to tug the shirt upward and over his head. Once done, he settled into the cot, gaze falling on the cognac she placed aside.
“Give me some of that.”
Violet picked up the bottle, took a deliberate swallow, and only then handed it to him.
“You enjoy tormenting injured men?”
“Only when it’s you. Then, yes, immensely.”
He drank, grimaced, then sighed. “Worth it.”
She watched him for a moment before the question slipped free. “How could a powerful man like you just crumble like that?”
