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Now as he laid in bed, moonlight streaming through the window across the room, he wondered what else Cate had missed out on besides the teenage rite of passage of obtaining a driver’s license. Don’t go there, he warned himself. But it was already too late. His thoughts winged to the scars on her wrists he’d noticed at dinner, and what they meant. What they had to mean. He gritted his teeth as he heard Alec saying, “You really don’t want to know. I wish I didn’t.”
But he did want to know. He wanted to know everything. And he wanted Cate to be the one to tell him. He wanted her to trust him as much as she trusted Alec, and he wanted her to confide in him the way she’d confided in Alec.
Jealousy reared its ugly head again. It made no sense. Cate didn’t belong to him and he had no right to feel possessive of her. No rights at all where she was concerned. Especially when it came to his brother. His married brother. But that didn’t stop Liam feeling as if he did. As if somehow...someway...as if saving Cate’s life gave him the right to care about her. Not just her future, but her past, too.
Liam’s older brothers Shane and Niall used to tease Liam when he was little, saying Liam had been born in the wrong time. That Liam should have been a knight-errant in the twelfth century, roaming the world saving damsels in distress. He’d hated that designation as a boy—hated being teased—but as a man Liam had to admit there was more than a little truth to it.
Wasn’t that why he’d been so upset when it seemed as if Trace McKinnon was taking advantage of Princess Mara back when the three of them—McKinnon, Alec and Liam—were guarding her? Wasn’t that why he’d wanted to confront McKinnon about how obviously in love with him the princess was, even though he’d let Alec talk him out of that confrontation?
And wasn’t that why—when he and Alec had drawn straws to see which one of them got to tell McKinnon what the princess had left behind for him when she’d unexpectedly returned to Zakhar—he’d almost decked Alec when Alec had won the draw? Because he’d wanted to be the one defending the princess. Because he’d wanted to be the one making McKinnon pay for hurting her so grievously.
Liam sighed and turned over restlessly, the sheets rustling softly around him. “You can’t escape who you are, Jones,” he muttered, punching up his pillow. And on that note he finally fell asleep. But his sleep was rocked by dreams. Dreams of Cate. Dreams of saving her from a fire-breathing dragon...a dungeon...the black knight, who bore a strong resemblance to Aleksandrov Vishenko in armor. Dreams of riding off with Cate on horseback, her slender body cradled protectively in his arms. Even in his dreams he knew it was ridiculous—he didn’t know how to ride. But that detail wasn’t germane, because in his dreams he was invincible—he could damn near do anything he wanted to...in his dreams. And what he wanted to do more than anything was keep Cate safe. No matter what he had to do.
Chapter 5
Aleksandrov Vishenko jerked awake, his heart pounding, shreds of a nightmare still lingering in his mind. He sat up and reached for the ever-present water bottle he kept beside his bed and drank deeply.
A body stirred beside him. “What is it?” the young woman asked drowsily.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep,” he answered in harsh tones.
She obeyed, resettling her blond head on her pillow—they always obey—he told himself contemptuously. Whores always obey. Only one woman had defied him. One woman had fought him for more than a year, as if she was still the virgin she’d been the first time he’d taken her. Her desperate struggles had added immeasurably to his excitement, and he’d relished conquering her. Each time. Every time.
Caterina hadn’t cried after the first night. Hadn’t begged him to let her go. Hadn’t begged him for anything. But her eyes...her eyes had betrayed her. He’d still been virile enough then to lust after her at least every day. Overpowering her futile struggles—laughing even, when she fought him—his ultimate victory ramping up his sexual prowess in a way he hadn’t achieved since his teenage years. Every time he forced her to admit defeat he walked away feeling like a king. Like a god.
Then she’d surrendered—or seemed to—and that conquest had been even sweeter. Infinitely sweeter. Knowing she acknowledged him as her master. Knowing, too, she hated his touch despite her surface acquiescence—ahhh, that had kept his excitement flowing. He’d known she tried to escape him in her mind, but he hadn’t cared...so long as her body belonged to him.
Then she’d escaped in truth, taking all the evidence of his crimes she could lay her hands on. And his life had never been the same. At first he’d tried to find her because he was afraid she’d take her evidence to the authorities. But when the arrest he’d expected almost hourly failed to materialize, his motive for finding her changed. Then he’d thought it was because she’d dared to run, diminishing him in his men’s eyes. In the first year after her departure he’d been forced to put down two attempted takeovers of his empire by men within his organization who’d thought he was losing his touch...just because Caterina had made him look foolish by escaping.
