Page 38 of Warrior's Cross

Julian pushed away from him with one last growl and let his fingers around Cameron’s throat loosen slowly. He was breathing hard as he looked down at Cameron. “I’m sorry,” he panted.

Breathing brokenly, Cameron didn’t think. He reached out to catch the hand that had been at his throat, and he grasped Julian’s arm.

“Don’t . . . don’t go,” he rasped.

Julian licked his lips as he looked at him uncertainly. Cameron wavered between giving in and letting him move away and asking him again to continue. “Julian. I want you. And if that’s part of you,” he said with a gesture to his throat, “that’s what I want. You didn’t hurt me, and you’re not gonna break me!”

Julian lowered his head with a pained wince and shook it once.

“You shouldn’t see that part yet,” he told Cameron as he took a deep, calming breath.

It was one thing to be cared for and protected. It was another to be denied without an explanation, and after his willingness to accept and go along with anything Julian threw at him, it was frustrating to be turned down. Cameron grunted and pushed at Julian’s chest as hard as he could. Julian stumbled back and watched Cameron with a slightly wounded expression.

“Don’t give me that look,” Cameron complained. “What do you mean, ‘yet’? I realize you’re a very private man, Julian. You don’t share a lot about yourself. But how do you know you’re not exactly what I want?”

Julian stared at him, dumbstruck.

Cameron cocked his head, getting more upset as the other man didn’t answer. “Julian?” he asked plaintively.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Julian answered.

“You won’t,” Cameron said firmly. “Not on purpose. Or are we back to you thinking I shouldn’t trust you?” He rubbed his throat unconsciously. He could still feel Julian’s hand there. He wanted it there again; he wanted to feel possessed, knowing Julian wanted him that much.

The wounded look flitted across Julian’s eyes again. Cameron flinched and dropped his eyes, unable to keep eye contact any longer.

He’d tried. Cameron sighed and shifted away from the wall.

Julian’s hand shot out and grabbed him before he could move.

“Don’t,” he whispered. Cameron swallowed and stopped moving, but he didn’t look up. “I don’t want to scare you,” Julian told him calmly.

Forcing himself to look up, Cameron nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said. “But I wasn’t scared.”

“Yet,” Julian corrected quietly, but he didn’t look away. “I’m sorry,” he offered.

Cameron sighed. Julian had contradicted him again. He closed his arms around himself. “Me too,” he said. “I guess I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“It’s okay to push,” Julian said softly. Then his lips quirked into a smile, and he gave Cameron’s shoulder a shove.

Cameron flailed as his back hit the wall again, and he looked up in surprise to see a mischievous light back in Julian’s black eyes. “You could try the patience of a saint, you know that?” he claimed in annoyance.

“But it’s worth it,” Julian purred as he moved closer and pressed himself against Cameron once more, gently this time. “Thank you for letting me come back,” he whispered into Cameron’s ear.

Cameron opened his mouth to say the same in return, but realized he’d already said it more than once. So instead he nodded once, meeting Julian’s eyes as the man pulled away from him.

“Would you care for dessert?” Julian asked him, holding out his hand to escort Cameron to the bed.

When Cameron slid his hand into Julian’s, he knew this was only the beginning of what was sure to be a hell of a roller-coaster ride.

Julian Cross pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the men’s room on the lowest level of the Field Museum of Natural History. He stood motionless, looking around at the seemingly deserted space as the door swung shut behind him with a slight creak and a deep whoosh of air.

Emergency lights that ran at night after the museum closed lit the room. One of them flickered occasionally. A faucet dripped somewhere to his right. A toilet ran on the far left wall. The heating grate in the ceiling rattled as if it had recently been dislodged somehow. And a large metal trashcan lay on its side with trash spilled out across the tile.

That was the sound Julian had heard: the crash of the metal trashcan.

His black eyes lifted upward, narrowing at the grate in the ceiling.

In newer buildings, the heating ducts were only eighteen inches across: much too small for a grown man to squeeze through. But in the basement of the nearly ninety-year-old Field Museum, it was probably possible for his quarry to climb up there and crawl through the ductwork like an idiot, looking for a way out.

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