His father had taken advantage of that law. His mother had been young and impressionable. An older, handsome man, strong, a village leader, she’d been flattered that he’d courted her. When he pushed his suit before her time, she’d made the mistake of marking him. There was no one capable of challenging him for her hand, and wherever her true mate was, if he was even alive, he hadn’t been in the village to save her.

He could hear the water turn off abruptly in the shower. The scent of lavender drifted to him through the open door. He sat waiting for her on the bed. She was exhausted—so was he—but there was one more task he had to finish tonight. He smiled as he looked out the large picture window. Moonlight barely managed to make it through the high canopy, but there were breaks where the trees had been cleared to make room for the cabin, and beams burst into the room, spilling silver across the tiled floor.

He leaned back and stared at the high ceiling, a light wood with darker knots scattered all through it. The cabin’s walls were wood and covered in rake marks. He could see deep furrows decorating each of the four sides and the ends of his fingers tingled with the need to leave his own mark. He should have left his mark on Isabeau.

He’d been saving that ritual for marriage, but he should have done it. Any male would have thought twice before trying to force a claim. Ottila had judged correctly that she was innocent and wouldn’t have knowledge enough, or control enough, to elude his trap. He swore under his breath. It was his fault. Any other male would have made certain she was marked. It was just that . . .

He sighed. He’d betrayed her by seducing her while he was working a job. She hadn’t even known his real name. He wanted choices for her. He wanted to be certain he was her choice—Isabeau—the woman—not her leopard. He wanted all of her to be his.

“Damn it.” He raked his fingers through his hair, angry with himself.

“What’s wrong?”

She leaned one slim hip against the doorjamb, a towel wrapped like a sarong around her body while she towel-dried her hair. The shower had done her good. Her skin wasn’t quite so pale, although the bruises on her arms stood out.

His breath suddenly caught in his throat. “Did he put his mark on you?”

She frowned. “Like how?”

“Did he bite you? Claw you?” He leapt up, one fluid movement, swift and purposeful, but obviously intimidating. She retreated into the hall, her eyes wide.