Alex had vowed then and there that he would never dishonor another woman like that. He would never take someone to his bed for the simple reason of slaking his lust. Something so intimate had to mean something, and he vowed to give it the respect it deserved. He would not take another woman to bed who was not his wife.

He’d never told anyone of his vow. Most of his fellow soldiers probably assumed he just kept such things private. Alex suspected that Raider and maybe a couple of the others had guessed—they’d spent too much time together to not notice him never taking a woman to his bed—but surprisingly no one had ever said anything.

Even when they could have. He cringed when he thought of all the self-righteous condemnation he’d heaped on Raider for taking Rosalin to his bed while she’d been their hostage. If Boyd had loved her, Alex had accused him, he should have proved it by marrying her, not seducing her.

Alex had thought himself above such base desires as lust and held himself to a higher standard. But look at him. He was every inch the unprincipled, uncivilized barbarian he’d accused his former partner of being.

He’d condemned his partner for the very thing he’d just done, and the irony was as bitter as it was unwelcome.

“Alex?”

He heard the question in her voice, and he wanted to say something to ease it, but he was too ashamed to even look at her. And maybe a little too angry as well. Not just for coming to his room as she had, but for not caring enough to realize this was special. For not realizing how much it meant. What had happened between them was incredible—special—how could she not see that?

When she leaned over and put her hand on his chest, he flinched as if burned and practically jumped off the bed.

The first thing he saw was the cup of whisky she’d set down on the table. It seemed he was weak after all.

He reached for the cup.

“Alex, no! Wait!”

She tried to grab his arm, but he ignored her and downed the cup in one long swallow. The trail of fire had barely reached his stomach before he reached for the jug to pour another.

Only after a third did he brace himself to turn to look at her.

She looked like a debauched angel. Her dark-as-night hair was gorgeously mussed with one long silken thread tangled in her lashes, her mouth was slightly swollen and as red as crushed strawberries, her delicate skin was pink from the scrape of his beard along her jaw and throat, and her chemise had come open and was slinking around her shoulders provocatively.