My Spartan Hellion (39 page)

“What would you have me do, then?” She managed to find her voice somewhere between determination and desire. “If not death, then what do you deserve?”

“Revenge, Selena. I deserve your revenge.” He transformed before her eyes. The seducer became the killer. His eyes hardened and the perfect beauty of his face darkened.

He slammed her against the wall in a matter of seconds, forcing the air to whoosh from her lungs, his arm pinned to her neck. She didn’t move or flinch. Her eyes didn’t widen, and she didn’t gasp for air.

She nudged the sharp blade of the knife she’d drawn from beneath her dress, strapped to her silken thigh, against his belly, ready to rip through muscle and flesh, bone and entrails with a single, deadly thrust.

“You deserve every measure of my revenge,” she breathed out against the pressure along her neck. “That is why I shall kill you.” Her eyes became topaz slits. “I could kill you now. With just a simple flick of my wrist, I could end your life.”

“But you won’t.”

His words startled her.

“If you wanted me dead, I would be dead.” He leaned in, his liquor-laced, sweet breath warming her face. “You do not want me dead, because you want me to suffer. And I deserve to suffer.”

Pain—naked, raw pain—swirled in the depths of his golden eyes. He hurt for her. He suffered for her. She did not care. His pain and his suffering were not enough.

“I deserve your hate. I deserve your revenge.” He drew away from her, her neck free so she could breathe. And then she couldn’t. She couldn’t breathe as she watched him remove his tuxedo jacket, followed by his black cummerbund. Then the long, tanned length of his fingers began to undo the buttons of his white dress shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“I am giving you your revenge.”

“What? By stripping naked? How is that my revenge?” she spat.

His eyes held hers, and she saw herself, sixteen years ago to the day. A nineteen year-old girl on the cusp of womanhood—full of innocence and blind naiveté. He’d taken her innocence, taken her youth…her virtue. She’d never been the same after that. After that night, she’d been broken, crippled, irreparably and irrevocably damaged.

His shirt hung open, revealing the golden planes of his hard muscled torso. Hair a darker hue than the silver blond locks that hung to his shoulders wove a straight path across the centre of his ridged abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.

He was beautiful, as perfect as an angel, a god…

He was the devil himself.

“You cannot have your revenge if I am fully clothed. That would be less than I deserve. Just as the peacefulness of death would be less than I deserve.”

“And what is it that you deserve?” she asked softly, almost breathless.

“I deserve to suffer as you did.” His full sensual mouth dipped, and even his frown was seductive. “I deserve to experience the pain you experienced, the loss you felt. I deserve your revenge.”

She suddenly burned with anger—an emotion she’d thought she’d buried long ago and replaced by cold, calculated hatred. “You can never suffer as I did. You will never know the pain I felt, the loss I experienced. You destroyed my life. Killing you is the only way to destroy yours.”

He looked down his nose at her. “If that were true then you would not hesitate.”

Her palm throbbed under the weight of the knife in her hand, the braided leather of the hilt heavy in her grasp.

Four paces separated them, maybe less. She’d been trained to hurl a blade from much farther, with deadly accuracy. Her eyes narrowed on his chest. His death would be painful, but it would be quick.

“I deserve to suffer, Selena,” he whispered, drawing her attention to his face. His golden eyes practically begged it of her.
I deserve your revenge, your pain. I deserve it all.

“It is impossible for you to experience what I did,” she rasped, her voice suddenly ragged and hoarse.

“Is it?”

His eyes flickered and she followed the direction of his gaze to his bedside table. And that was when she saw it—the hard, sculpted object that lay there, benign for now—an innocent tool for pleasure that could easily wield pain. Nothing shocked her anymore, had not since that day sixteen years ago…until now.

“I will still destroy you in the end,” she remarked coldly. “Why endure this humiliation only to die?”

“Because I deserve it. I deserve to know the pain you did.”

She glared at him. “I do not believe you will truly suffer. I believe you will enjoy it.”

“I might.” His lips curled into a knowing grin, and her blood turned to scarlet ice at the male satisfaction blazing in his eyes. “I might enjoy it just as you did.”

His head swivelled violently with the impact as she struck his face.

“I did not enjoy what you did to me. I hated it. Every moment of it, I hated.”

Fury lashed him, not because of his burning cheek, but because the sweet smell of her desire hovered between them heavy in the air, filling up every crevice inside his lungs, just as it had sixteen years ago.

“You’re a liar,” he said coldly. “You cried out my name. Every time I made you come, you screamed my name in pleasure—none of it pain.”

“There was no pleasure in what you did to me. You violated me.”

He stilled. “I did.” His hands curled into fists. “I had no choice.”

“There is always a choice.”

If she believed that then she was still the naive, foolish girl she’d been. He knew better…just as he knew it was easier for her to hate him—blame him—than to blame the one responsible or to admit that she was ashamed of her body’s response. He’d been as much the victim as she, but she’d never believe that. And that was why he would allow her to have her revenge.

There was some measure of truth to her words. There was
always
a choice.

He could have let her die.

With her knife still firmly in her grasp, she circled him, a caged tiger assessing its prey. He held perfectly still, his gaze trained on the framed picture of a sallow, white orchid hanging along the grey wall of his suite.

She stopped before him, blocking out the image of the flower, trapping him with her swirling topaz eyes. She was so close he could touch her, nearly taste her on his lips and tongue. He drew in shallow breaths so the rich, heady scent of her wouldn’t overwhelm his senses as it had only moments before.

“I have not been with a man since you.”

Ice.
Cold, frigid, unyielding ice hardened his insides, froze the blood in his veins. Her revelation was blurted out, as though wrenched from her, while her gaze danced back and forth between him and the object on his table.

“Why not?” His voice was ragged and raw, straining through the glacial barrier of his lungs.

Before she even spoke he glimpsed the pain, the damage he’d done. He tightened his fists so he wouldn’t reach out and stroke her cheek…or slam one into the wall beside him.

“I could not trust anyone after you.”

“You need not trust to give your body to another.”

“I disagree.” She cocked her head to the side, her ink-black hair slipping over one sequined shoulder. “To make love to a man, you must trust him implicitly with your body, your wants, your needs—”

“What we did was not making love,” he lashed out and she reared back as if he’d struck her. He would never describe what they’d shared as making love. To even say it was to dishonour her, to disregard what she’d endured. “You should have taken a lover,” he said, his voice softer this time.

“Why?”

To ease the pain of our time together…to fill you with new memories, happier memories.

“Why not?” was what he said instead as he stepped closer, but stopped when she shrank away.

She shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the raw emotion blazing across her face. “Soon after, I was shipped off to a convent. I never had the opportunity or the desire.”

“You had the desire,” he whispered, his expression daring her to say otherwise.

She didn’t contradict him, at least not aloud. She remained silent but he heard what she did not say. He had been her only lover. He’d given her pleasure but he’d ravished her soul. With every thrust inside her body, he’d taken a piece of her beauty, her joy…the essence of her. She feared the inharmonious dichotomy of her body and mind. That was why she’d never taken a lover. She could not be certain of her body’s response, that it wouldn’t betray her as it had done once before…
with him
.

She feared the consequences of the intimacy that would come with making love. She’d once trusted him, once loved him, only to have been destroyed by him. She’d never recovered from what he’d done to her, but she longed to. That was truly why she was there. That was why she had yet to kill him. She didn’t even realise it, but he did.

“I cannot promise you I have the power to fix this,” he said finally, acknowledging what remained unspoken between them. “I have no idea how you will feel when this is over…”

“But?”

“I want you to feel again. I want you to trust again, to know true desire and revel in it.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

He reached for the button that held his trousers together. Her nostrils flared as she watched him, and with achingly slow movements he unzipped his pants then slid them down his legs before kicking the discarded garment aside. He could almost feel her desire, her arousal, hovering between them.

She may not trust, but she wanted. She still desired.

He stood fully naked before her, his skin bare beneath the warm lights

“What would you have me do next?”

She glanced over to his table for the third time.

“This does not change anything,” she said finally after a long silence. “I will still kill you in the end.”

He nodded in understanding. She would exact her revenge upon his body then do what she’d ultimately come there to do.

“That is your choice.”

There was
always
a choice.

The air in Selena’s chest remained trapped there, suspended in her lungs. Sixteen years ago she’d been helpless, at his mercy. He’d stripped her of her power and control. Now he wished to return it.

It was too late.

She would have her revenge, and then she would take his life. She just hoped it did not cost her what was left of her soul.

“You can put the knife down. I will not take it from you, nor will I stop you when you decide to use it. But you won’t need it for what comes next.”

That raised her eyebrows. “You do not care that after I use you I plan to kill you?”

Her words raised
his
eyebrows. “I resigned myself to death long ago.” He turned his back to her. “And if anyone deserves to die by your hands, it is me.”

She registered his declaration with silence as she wordlessly studied the ridges along his back. His flesh was puckered and welted, and the red scars stared angrily at her. They had not been there before. He’d been burned, whipped…

His entire back had been marred with fire and lashes. The perfect beauty of his muscled frame, a sculpted Adonis… It was
flawed
.
He
was flawed—imperfect.

“What happened to your back?”

He looked at her from over his shoulder, his golden hair gently caressing his sun-bronzed skin.

“I was punished.”

She sheathed her knife. He was right—she did not need it for what would come next. Whatever demons haunted Adonis, they were the reason why he would not stop her when she sought his death. Gazing upon him, looking into his eyes, she saw the truth of his words—he would not try to escape his death when the time came. Which made her wonder…why? Why did he
seek
death? What crime had he committed that was so heinous he’d deserved to have his perfect beauty marred?

“Why were you punished?” she asked quietly.

He held her gaze, intensely, intently for several seconds, before he looked away.

“Why are any of us punished? I did something wrong.”

She believed him even as she doubted his sincerity. That he’d done something wrong, there was no doubt. But Adonis was too meticulous, too thorough, to ever be caught…unless he wanted to be. Unless he’d
wanted
to be punished.

“You will not tell me what you did.” It wasn’t a question, and his stoic silence was his only response.

He faced her again and his probing stare bore into her. Under the weight of his gilded gaze, her heart thumped louder, her blood pumped faster. He stood before her, bare of clothing. His skin was taut across chiselled muscles, while his manhood jutted out from its nest of tawny curls.

Anticipation, not fear, aroused him.

It was the opposite for her.

She had not touched a man intimately since him. She’d not kissed one, made love to one, felt his skin bare and slick with sweat against hers. She ached to experience such intimacy.

She feared it.

He offered memories—fresh, new ones to chase away the old—because those of the past were as painful as they were tragic. Endless days and unending nights she’d spent alone in her modest room at the convent with the image of him as her only companion.

Adonis had destroyed her life. This had all begun with him, would end with him, and only he could make this right again.

That was what she had told herself, but what if it was a lie?

What if she did to him what he’d done to her? What if she killed him after? Would his pain, his death fill the emptiness inside her, the void? What would become of her if Adonis suffered and died and nothing changed? What then?

“I want you to bathe.”

He looked at her curiously, as though he were amused. When he spoke, she knew that he was. “I did not know it was necessary for me to be clean in order to experience pain and die.”

“You smelled of sandalwood and masculinity when you took me. You smell of it now. I do not wish to be reminded of my vulnerability, especially not on this evening.”

He understood, so he nodded and she watched the taut, tight muscles of his backside cross the room until he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

Once inside, he did not close the door.