Her pulse hammered at her neck in rhythm to the beat of his heart pounding at her back as he trapped her between his body and the counter. Hard body pressed behind hers, his hips pushed her into the counter. Staring at their reflection in the mirror, she saw with clinical dispassion just how good-looking he was. Even in the unflattering fluorescent lighting. And this, Claire mused quite irrationally, was vastly, horribly unfair. A manhandling brute should be ugly as sin.

His broad hand covered the bottom half of her face, his tanned skin a dark contrast to her paleness. Her lips parted and she tasted the saltiness of his skin with a dart of her tongue, detecting the rush of his blood just below the surface of his palm. Her breasts tightened and grew heavy and she had to resist the urge to take them in her hands and squeeze them.

Her attention moved to his eyes. Green. A pale green. At the moment those lovely eyes—unbefitting such a cold, harsh man—glared at her in the mirror. She focused on the tiny flecks of gold, too numerous to count near the night-dark pupils.

The hand on her waist moved to the opening of her robe and yanked it open, giving further credence to his utter ruthlessness. She gave a tiny gasp, mortified when the robe parted down to her navel. Thankfully the sash was belted tight enough to keep at least some of her business private. But not all. A single breast spilled out of her robe. She grappled to cover herself, but he was bent on his own agenda. He bared her shoulder and thrust it forward until her head almost touched the mirror.

Her gaze dropped to her shoulder. With a single, ruthless yank he tore off her bandage, and she quickly forgot about covering herself. Smooth, unblemished skin was all she saw. Not a scratch in sight. It was a miracle.

“Holy shit,” she muttered into his warm hand, doubly shocking herself at her use of profanity. She rarely swore. Her father insisted ladies did not curse. Yet if there was ever a time for profanity, this was it.

“There’s nothing holy about it. Your DNA regenerates at a greater speed now,” he replied, apparently able to decipher her muffled exclamation. “You’re facing a bleak future… the loss of your soul… unless you start listening to me.” He dropped his hand from her mouth and cocked an eyebrow in question.

Their gazes clashed in silent struggle: his urging her to accept the impossible, hers steadfast in disbelief. Although more disturbed by the disappearance of her wound than she was willing to admit, that didn’t mean she bought into his outrageous claims.