The Nymph King

exquisite bliss. As if, in his mind, she was already naked and he was already inside her. She had no response for him—not one she was comfortable giving.

Silence once again encompassed them; this time it was a knowing silence, a heavy silence. A tempting silence. He waited, letting her mind and body battle for supremacy. Stay strong. Be cold. If he touched her... Wait. He was touching her, and it felt good.

She ripped free from his clasp and inched backward, not caring if the action was cowardly. 'I'll clean your wound, but that's it. Nothing more. Do you understand?'

He considered her words as he stared into her eyes, gauging her inner resolve. 'Are you resistant to me because I almost killed a man?'

'No,' she admitted.

'Then why? Some women abhor violence. Some are titillated by it.' Closer, closer he came to her. 'Which are you?'

'Neither,' she said, and backed herself straight into the wall. She gasped. 'I just don't—' say it, hurt him '—like you.'

He stilled, popped his jaw. Maybe she had hurt him, maybe she hadn't. She'd definitely hurt herself. Lying like that caused her stomach to clench painfully and her throat to constrict.

'Very well, then,' he said, toneless. 'I will allow you to care for my wounds. Both of my arms need tending.'

Be casual, unaffected. 'Gee, thanks. You will allow me.' She snorted, hoping she appeared properly unimpressed. While she administered aid, would he 'accidentally' touch her? Would he purr his warm breath into her ears, over her skin, and let his white-hot gaze devour her? 'But there will be no... petting.'

Because here was a better question: Would she be able to resist him?

Already her resolve teetered on precarious ground. Perhaps playing doctor wasn't so smart, after all. She would have to be on full alert. Being with Valerian, she suspected, would be like shooting herself full of heroin. Addictive, lethal and absolutely stupid. If she could resist taking that first, experimental taste, she wouldn't have to deal with withdrawal. And after she patched him up, she could leave him with a clear conscience.

You've already had a taste. Remember that white-hot kiss? Shut up!

'While you help me,' he said, 'I will not pet you. If, however, you change your mind and wish me to do so, you have only to say.'

Not giving her time to respond, he grabbed her hand, pivoted and kicked back into motion. With his final words ringing in her ears, she was aware of every point of contact between them. Smoothness against rough calluses.

'Do you have any Neosporin?' she asked, hoping to get her mind off everything related to sex.

'I have no idea, as I do not know what that is.'

When his hair was damp, it had a little curl to it, she realized. Then she scowled. Why did she care about his stupid hair? 'It's medicine for your arms.'

'I will gather everything that you need.' They came to the room's entrance, and with his free hand, he swished aside the white lace.

He stepped inside; she followed on his heels. Though the room was located in the same corridor as the one she had slept in, it was more masculine than hers, a combination of battleground and leisure. A large bed occupied the far section, with rumpled violet-and-gold sheets and the imprint of a large male body. Gold armor and an arsenal of weapons hung on ruby hooks. Rainbow lights glistened from the walls, like diamonds trapped in glass.

To the side, steam curled from a bathing pool, twining around the flower petals that floated on the surface. That was a very feminine touch, and she knew Valerian was not responsible. One of his many lovers must have prepared the water.

'This is your main bedroom?' she asked.

'Yes.' He released her hand.

Slowly she twirled around. 'I noticed that some of the walls have holes, as if things have been scraped out of them. Jewels, right? Like these?'

'Yes,' he repeated.

'Why is this room still intact? And the other room of yours, the one I slept in?'

'After I took possession, I made sure they were worthy of me.'

He spoke with no hint of smugness, no hint of pride. Only truth. 'You don't think too highly of yourself, I see.'

Standing there, Valerian drank in the sight of his woman. Then he drank in the sight of the bed. Large, beckoning. Violet sheets with golden trim. He wanted Shaye there, splayed and open for his view. For his touch. Being inside his room, having a bed nearby and Shaye within reach, proved an intoxicating dilemma.

Why had he promised not to touch her sexually while she tended him?

He'd never had to seduce a woman before. They always desired him, no provocation needed. Shaye made him feel at a loss. While he hungered for every part of her, she continually pushed him away. And of all the women in the world, she should want him most.

How much longer could his body withstand the rejection?

Not much, he suspected.

He gathered clean rags, a basin of hot water, a jar of cleaning oil, and a vial of healing sand from the Forest of the Dragons. He placed all of them on a tray. His ears remained attuned to Shaye's every movement, lest she decide to bolt for the door. Surprisingly, she didn't. She remained exactly where he'd left her, in the center, gazing around.

Their eyes locked as he walked toward her. Gods, she was lovely. Her pale hair was pulled over her shoulders, an erotic curtain. Kiss her. Instead of placing the tray in her outstretched hands, he leaned down, slowly, giving her ample time to realize what he was doing.

He couldn't resist. He had to do this, was helpless to stop. Not petting, he rationalized.

His lips lightly brushed hers. A gentle kiss, no tongue, but arousing all the same. Her snow-sweet scent filled his nostrils as he captured her gasp in his mouth. 'Thank you for tending me,' he said, his voice as soft as his touch.

Her eyes had widened and now they glinted with a trace of fear. Of him? Or herself? 'I'm not known for my gentleness,' she warned. Her voice trembled. 'So you might want to save your thanks.'

He fought a smile and straightened. 'Then what are you known for, little moonbeam?'

'Being a bitch.' Biting her lip, she appropriated the tray from his grasp and spun on her heel.

'That is not a compliment, I take it?'

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug as she moved toward an amethyst chest. 'Not to some.' She anchored the tray on the surface.

After he explained what she needed to do with each item, he hefted the room's only chair—trying not to grimace—and placed it next to Shaye. 'You like people to think you are cold and unfeeling. You have even tried your hardest to convince me of this. Several times. Why?'

Her lips pursed, and she motioned to the chair with a wave of her hand. 'Just sit down and shut up. My mom made me see shrinks when I was a kid, so I don't need an amateur diagnosis right now.'

'Tell me,' he beseeched. He remained standing. She might think she wanted to be cold, but he saw the moments of warmth and softness she tried so hard to hide. He noticed the way she sometimes hesitated before she issued an insult, as if she had to force herself to say it. And when she spoke of her uncaring nature, there was wistfulness in her brown eyes, a neediness she hadn't yet accepted.

'There's nothing to tell, really. Over the years, I learned that emotions bring only pain and upset.' She pushed on his shoulders. Her strength was no match for his, but he eased into the chair nonetheless.

With somewhat shaky fingers, she brushed the dark sand from his shoulder, careful to avoid his wound. He winced as sharp pain radiated from one corner of his body to the other.

He frowned. 'I would not be suffering right now if you would simply accept the inevitable and make love with me.'