He gathered his small scissors and his razor and shaving cream, and as he laid everything out, he tried not to think, particularly not of Morgan, but that was impossible. He was so upset. So angry.

What a piece of work she was. To think he’d wanted her back. To think he’d loved her. But how could he have loved her? She was shallow and superficial and so incredibly self-centered. It was always about her … what she wanted, what she needed, with no regard for anyone else’s needs.

As he changed the blade on his razor, he felt a heaviness inside, a dull ache in his chest, as if he’d cut his heart. And then Drakon took the razor to his beard.

He had loved her, and he had wanted her back. Wanted her home with him. But that was before he understood how disgusted she was with him, how disgusted she’d been by their marriage.

Disgust.

He knew that word, and knew disgust produced shame. His mother used to be disgusted by emotion, and as a young child, Drakon had felt constant shame in her presence, shame that he had such strong emotions, emotions she found appalling. He still remembered how wild he’d felt on the inside as a little boy, how desperate and confused he’d felt by her rejection, and how determined he’d been to win her affection, even if it meant destroying part of himself. And so that became the goal, his sole objective as a child. To master his hideous emotions. To master want and need, to stifle them, suppress them, thereby winning his mother’s approval and love.

He succeeded.

Drakon rinsed the shaving cream from his face and studied his smooth, clean jaw in the mirror. He’d forgotten what his face looked like without a beard, had forgotten how lean his cheeks were above his jutting chin. He had a hard chin, a stubborn chin, which was fitting since he knew he’d become a very hard, stubborn man.

A knock sounded on the outer door of his suite. Drakon mopped his damp face, grabbed a robe and crossed his room to open the door, expecting one of the villa staff.

It wasn’t one of the staff. It was Morgan.

Something surged in his chest, hot and fierce, and then it was gone, replaced by coldness. Why was she back? What game was she playing now? He leaned against the door frame, and looked her up and down, coolly, unkindly. “Need more money already?”

Color stained her cheeks, making her blue eyes even deeper, brighter. “You … shaved.”

“I did.”

“We need to talk.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Thank you, but no. I’ve heard more than enough from you already. Now if you’d be so good as to see yourself out, and get back into the helicopter—”

“The helicopter is gone. I sent him away.”

“That was foolish of you. How are you getting back home?”

“We’ll figure that out later.”

“You mean, you can figure that out later. There is no more we. I’m done with you, and done helping you. You’ve got your check, and in a month’s time you’ll receive your settlement, but that’s it. That’s all there is. I’ve nothing more for you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”