Page 71 of The Hunter
“I’d slaughter every soul in this city if it meant you’d let me fuck you again.” That blue fire had returned to his eyes, the flames licking at her from across the room. “If you would just—” His mouth clamped shut, and he shook his head, whether at her or to himself, she couldn’t be certain. “It was sufficient, it was what we agreed upon. But itwasn’tenough, damn you.” Turning on the heel of his boot, he stalked to the door, slamming it behind him and leaving her alone in a shaft of cold moonlight.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Christopher rose at dawn, as was his habit, and dressed in the loose-fitting silk trousers he wore for martial art training. Stepping out of his room, he paused to study the closed door at the end of the hall. Did the woman behind it sleep well, or was she plagued with fitful dreams? Did she sincerely trust him to keep her alive? How did she fare, he wondered, after last night’s encounter?
Turning, he strode toward the stairs, feeling the need to punish himself physically with some brutal drills. A drop of awareness trickled down his spine, and he paused to glance back at Millie’s room, expecting to see her standing there.
She wasn’t, but his feet remained rooted to the floor as he, again, contemplated the door and the woman who slept on the other side.
Millie.
He’d taken her virginity. Coerced it from her. Mounted her like a randy stallion and pushed inside of her like a brute.
Christopher pressed his lips together, as the contrasting memory of her unparalleled warmth combined with the cold discovery of her blood on him. He’d washed the evidence from his body that night when he’d bathed after leaving her room. His fingers had lingered over the wet patches her tears had left on his shirt and, in a moment of unguarded sentimentality, he’d lifted the garment to his cheek in the chance he might catch some of her warmth left from where she’d clung to him.
He’d sent a bath to her, as well, hoping to assuage the tight and uncomfortably oily sensation he’d been unable to escape from. No matter how vigorously he scrubbed, his skin felt tainted by his own impulsive, undignified need.
Was this what shame felt like?
If so, he didn’t at all like it, or its bedfellows, whom he’d hesitantly identified as doubt, regret, and concern. He’d lain up half the night picturing Millie in her canopied bed, vigorously hating him, or worse, hurting because of him.
Where there was blood, there was a wound. One he’d created, one that nature had made necessary, to be sure, but even so…
It troubled him in a way it never had that he’d caused her pain. Which bemused him further because pain was his business, was an intrinsic part of his life. He’d been born to it. Pain had honed him to a razor’s edge, a weapon as sharp and lethal as any blade. So why would it bother him so much that he’d caused her even the slightest pinch?
Because she’d met his sharp edges and rough ways with softness and amiability. Because beneath all that smooth, creamy skin and sweetness, was a woman with untold courage and strength. Because she’d fallen apart in his arms, and he’d somehow helped to stitch her back together.
Because the thought of her hurting set his muscles to twitching and an uncomfortable fury simmering through his veins. There in his cavernous hallway, surrounded by emptiness, something cold and sharp found him. Something he thought he’d left in the iron darkness of Newgate. It washed over him with the breathtaking shock of the Thames in winter, bringing with it a myriad of rapid-fire questions ricocheting through the quietude.
Fear?
What about when this was all over and he was no longer at her side? Who would protect Millie and her son from the dangers that lurked in the shadows? From men like him? What if someone else hurt her?
The thought had barely formed before he found himself at her door, pushing it open and plunging into the dark room. With the heavy drapes drawn closed, he could only make out little silvery motes of dust sparkling in the sliver of daylight that filtered through the slit in the curtains. Making his way to the window, he bashed the meat of his thigh on an unfamiliar piece of furniture and swallowed a grunt before he reached it and threw open the drapes.
Turning, he caught his breath as the silver rays of dawn illuminated her dark hair with angelic beams of light. Millie slept curled on her side, her knees drawn up and her elegant fingers cupped ever so slightly in repose. Her skin, nearly as pale as the linens upon which she lay, created the most stunning contrast to the inky curls draped behind her on the pillow.
Christopher had seen her from every perspective imaginable. On stage, glittering like the empire’s crown jewel. In the shadows, lids heavy with desire. At the bathhouse, naked, wet, and slippery. Bent over this very bed, exposed, lush, and warm.
But not like this. Not quiet and unguarded, the electric life in her eyes dormant and the smile she shared with the world hidden behind slack, slightly parted lips.
The ridiculous notion to kiss her soft mouth awake caused Christopher to swallow profusely.
Twice.
He didn’t dare move, couldn’t trust himself not to do something idiotic, like curl himself around her body and cradle her against him. To use his own mangled flesh as a shield for her perfection.
She looked so young like this, her black lashes fluttering against cheeks flushed pink with warmth and slumber. It struck him just how small and helpless she really was. Granted, the bed could have comfortably been rowed down the Thames by a dozen burly sailors, but her slight form and delicate bones barely seemed to interrupt the mountain of covers Welton had piled over it.
Soundlessly gliding to the bedside, Christopher lurked over her, his hands clenched, and arms tensed. Never in his life had he possessed anything so beautiful. Even the mansion in which he resided wasn’t technically his. He knew he could afford things, anything really, but it had never made much sense to him to accumulate objects he might lose. If the philosophies of Sifu Wu Ping had taught him anything, it was that desire leads to disappointment, and attachment only brings suffering.
Christopher was well acquainted with suffering in all its forms.
In the middle of this room, draped in soothing colors and lovely, filmy things, a dangerous desire flared inside of him with such ferocity he shuddered with it. Not the kind of sexual desire he’d experienced with her last night, though he’d be fooling himself if he didn’t admit a strong component of that, but a stark pang of yearning that pulsed inside his chest.
For her, forthis,for all of it.
This strange and unfamiliar fantasy in the middle of his own bleak house. Decorations that warmed the chilly rooms and dazzled the eye. Beds of soft down with a softer woman inside of it beckoning him to join her, to be a part of this fantasy. A fantasy she lived every day. Not just any woman,thiswoman. The most coveted female in the empire and several countries on the Continent.
