Wagering she’d back down swiftly.

A perverse part of him daring her to end his dishonor at the end of his own sword.

Either way, he’d have more peace.

She’d accepted his blade and stayed. She didn’t ken the full significance of that. When a Druid offered his favored weapon, his Selvar, the one he wore against his skin, to a woman, he offered his protection. His guardianship. Forever.

And she’d taken it.

She was sleeping on her back, the only way she could, with her wrists restrained, though he’d left considerable play in the bonds. Her lovely breasts rose and fell with the gentle, slow breaths of deep slumber.

He should let her go.

And he knew he wasn’t going to. He wanted Chloe Zanders in ways he’d never wanted a lass before. She made him feel like a sapling lad, wanting to impress her with masculine feats of prowess, protect her, sate her every desire, to be the focus of her shiny bright heart, so full of innocence. As if she might somehow wash him clean again.

She was curiosity and wonder; he was cynicism and despair. She was bursting with dreams; he was carved out and hollow inside. Her heart was young and true; his was iced with disillusion, scarce beating enough to keep him alive.

She was all he’d dreamed of once, long ago. The kind of lass to whom he’d have given binding Druid vows, pledged his life to forever. Smart, the woman spoke four languages that he knew of. Tenacious, determined, logical in a circuitous way. Real, believing in things. Protective of the old ways, that was evident each time she watched him turn a page. Twice she’d handed him a tissue to do it with when he’d forgotten, lest he get the oil of his skin on the precious pages.

And he could sense in her a woman that wanted to break out. A woman who’d lived a quiet life, a respectable life, but hungered for more. He could sense, with the unerring instincts of a sexual predator, that Chloe was wanton at heart. That the man she chose to grant liberties to, would be granted them unconditionally. Sexually aggressive, dominant to the bone, he recognized in her his perfect bedmate.

He was a man who could offer no promises, no assurances. A man with a terrible darkness growing inside him.

And all he could think was . . .

. . . when he took her, he would strip the clothing from her body, baring every inch of her to his immense hunger.

He would stretch himself atop her, forearms flush to the bed on either side of her head, pinning her long hair beneath his weight. He would kiss her . . .

He was kissing her and she was drowning in the heat and sensuality of the man. Her hands tied to the bedposts, her body naked, she was lying in his bed, on fire. His for the taking.

He didn’t just kiss, he claimed ownership. Took her mouth with urgency, as if his life depended on his kissing her. Licked and nipped and tasted, sucking her lower lip, catching it with his teeth. His hands were on her breasts and her skin ached with need where he touched. He kissed her long and deep and slow, then kissed her hard and punishing and fast. . . .