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assumed she was simply a woman unawakened.
He knew better now.
Ivy, his Ivy, didn’t like sex because she was terrified of it. A man had hurt her. Taught her that sex was painful or evil or ugly.
Damian spat out a sharp, four-letter word. Ivy began to weep.
“I told you,” she sobbed, “I told you how it would be—”
“Who did this to you?”
She didn’t answer. He cursed again, took her in his arms, ignored her attempts to free herself and wrapped her in his embrace.
“Ivy. Agapi mou. Kardia mou. Do not cry. Ivy, my Ivy…”
He’d lost his accent his second year at Yale but it was back now, roughening his words and then he was talking in Greek, not the modern language he’d grown up speaking but the ancient one he’d studied in prep school.
The Greek of the Spartans and Athenians. His warrior ancestors.
He knew what they would have done. It was what he longed to do. Find the man who’d done this to Ivy and kill him.
Her soft, desperate sobs broke his heart.
He held her against him, rocking her, whispering to her, soft, sweet words he had never said to a woman before, never wanted to say and, at last, her tears stopped.
Gently he scooped her into his arms and put her in the center of his bed, stroked her tousled hair back from her damp cheeks.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Go to sleep, agapimeni. I’ll stay here and keep you safe.”
He drew the comforter over her. She clutched at it and rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. He wanted to reach for her again, to lie down and hold her, but instinct warned him not to. She was too fragile right now; God only knew what might push her over the edge.
So he sat beside her, watching until her breathing slowed and her lashes drooped against her cheeks.
“Ivy?” he said softly.
She was asleep.
Damian dropped a light kiss on her hair. Then he went into his dressing room, took off his clothes and put on an old, soft pair of Yale sweats. He padded back into the bedroom, drew an armchair next to the bed, sat down, stretched out his long legs and considered all the creative ways a man could deal with a son of a bitch who’d taught his Ivy that sex, the most intimate act a man and woman could share, was a thing to be feared.
He’d go from A to Z, he thought grimly. But “Assault” was too general. “Beating” was too simple.
“Castration” was a lot better. He stayed with that scenario until sleep finally dragged him under.
Something woke him.
The moon had disappeared, chased into hiding by wind and rain. The room was as black and frigid as Hecate’s heart.
Damian padded quickly to the French doors and closed them. Damn, it was cold! Was Ivy warm enough under the comforter? It was too dark to see anything but the outline of the big bed.
He turned on a lamp, adjusting the switch until the light was only a soft glow. Ivy lay as he’d left her but the covers had dropped from her shoulder.
He shut off the light. Carefully leaned over the bed, began drawing up the comforter…
Zzzzt!
A streak of blinding light, then the roar of thunder rolling across the sea.
Ivy sprang up in bed, saw him leaning over her…and screamed.
