It meant she could go. She didn’t have to do this. She could …

No. Knigh had too much of her. Was too dangerous. He would let her down soon enough, and she needed to do this to … to …

Why? 

Because I must. 

Because Knigh wasn’t special. Because it was just sex, which meant she could have just sex with anyone.

Because FitzRoy meant nothing. He was safe. And if she threw her body at him, it meant she didn’t need Knigh, wasn’t relying on him, and thus wouldn’t hurt when he let her down.

With a ragged breath, she shoved her hair back over her shoulder. She let the necklace catch the sunlight spilling through the stern windows.

Predictably, FitzRoy’s gaze fell to the glimmering gold, and his eyes lit up, breaths deepening.

“You’ve been too busy for too long,” she purred. “And so troubled. I thought”—she raised an eyebrow, placing her foot on the edge of his chair, brushing his thigh—“perhaps I could help take your mind off whatever it is.”

“Vice,” he breathed, “damn you, but you’re a hard woman to resist.”

Then he was tempted. Excellent. Exactly what she wanted. Precisely why she was here. Perfect.

Her stomach twisted again.

Yes, this was absolutely as planned. Physical reactions. Just bodies doing what bodies wanted to do.

Safe and under her control. No feelings involved.

With half a smile, she rose from the table and slid into his lap, across the chair, legs hooked over its arm. “Why resist?” She placed a stiff hand on his chest, thumb brushing a leather pouch hanging from a cord around his neck. That was new. And surprisingly plain for him.

His jaw knotted, but the pulse below it jumped, and his hand slipped up her back. “I suppose just a short distraction,” he murmured, face inches from hers. His fingers sank into her hair, and he pulled her head back.

She gritted her teeth as he kissed her throat. The manoeuvre had played havoc with her three years ago. She’d been a girl then, easily impressed by how masterful he was. Then, she hadn’t minded submitting, had even found it thrilling.

But now … Now his arm wrapped around her too tightly and his grip on her hair was more the gesture of someone baring a victim’s throat for cutting. This was nothing more than a powerful man taking pleasure in exerting—in proving his dominance over her. And his tobacco and musk scent was … wrong.

Not cinnamon and soap, that traitorous corner of her mind whispered.

Shut up.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced her breaths deep, trying to calm her heartbeat, which raced but not with desire.

No, no, this was desire, just … just different from what she felt with Knigh. She wanted this.

No I don’t.

With a groan, he yanked her head back, other hand flicking open the top button of her shirt.