When she opened her eyes, he was caught in their blue web.
“Where’d you come from?” she asked, voice thick.
Turning from her, taking in the room, anything but her, he said, “I never left.”
She nodded. “And you’ve been tracking me?”
“Yes,” he said. He saw no reason to deny it.
“You came in through the trellis?” she asked.
He nodded.
Rubbing her neck, she yawned. “That’s crazy. I never sleep that hard.”
His narrowed eyes shot to her, but her own were closed as she stretched her neck. It would have been a good opportunity for her to tell him.
She didn’t.
His stomach churned and he looked away again.
Following his gaze, unaware of his inner turbulence, a grin stretched across her face, her chin taking on the arrogant tilt he had learned to find both maddening and delightful, and she said, “That was my first win against my father.”
He lifted an eyebrow at the rug. There were at least a hundred shades of blue in it, its huge round form taking up a remarkable amount of space.
She laughed, a little breathless in her pride, even now, what he imagined was a long time later.
“You made it?” he asked.
She nodded. “It took two hundred and sixty-eight T-shirts and an entire summer to secretly complete. I got the idea online and when I showed my parents, my father said, ‘Playing with garbage is for trash, Helene.’ Mother and I redesigned my entire suite around it.”
It was a small battle, but he could tell it was meaningful. “How old were you?” he asked.
She looked out the window in an evasive move that was obvious. “Ten.”
At his side, his fist clenched, though he had intended not to react. “A big project for someone so young.”
She turned to him then, wearing a real smile, unguarded and true, as opposed to sarcastic and unbothered, and it hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. Resisting the urge to go to her, he frowned, but the expression did nothing to dim her light.
“My mother said something along those lines. She loved it,” she said. Her voice always softened when she spoke about her mother. A phantom of sadness flashed across her clear blue eyes, but when she spoke, her words echoed his earlier thoughts. “I’m the only one who’s ever been able to stand up to him.”
He wondered if she realized how often she slipped into present tense when speaking about her father.
Haunting his daughter was just another sin to add to Dominic d’Tierrza’s long list. Not for the first time since he’d learned of the man’s death three years ago, Drake wished him back to life, just for the chance to be the one to destroy him. Now that his plan had been achieved, however, he would have to settle for stealing his legacy.
But not without settling things with his daughter first. She’d earned that much.
“It’s no small feat.”
He could see her blush, even through the darkness.
With forced lightness, she chuckled. “No one had ever accused me of having small feet.”
Laughing softly, his voice playful in a way even those closest to him wouldn’t recognize, he said, “Oh, really?”
“I bet you never thought death wore a size-eleven heel,” she said.
He snorted. “My death doesn’t wear heels at all. My death is a kindly elderly lady who prefers house slippers and nodding off peacefully in front of the television.”
She laughed. “You’re fooling yourself if you think that’s true. You’re a pirate, for crying out loud.”
“Privateer,” he corrected. “I have legal authority to take every prize I bring in.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Every prize?”
This time he laughed, perfectly picking up on her meaning. “Perhaps not every prize,” he acknowledged. “But, one small deviation does not a pirate make one. I am a respected retired navy admiral. I have earned my rest and my peaceful passing. Unlike some of us, I’m content to go gently into that good night. I somehow get the impression you’re more the down-in-a-fiery-blaze type.”
Helene shook her head exaggeratedly. “Absolutely not. I’m more the disappear-in-a-transatlantic-flight type.”
“Not you,” he countered. “Too subtle. You’re more direct than that.”
“Speaking of direct... Why are you here?” she asked, bringing it all crashing back to reality.
He was here because she was carrying his child and keeping it from him. He was here not just to devour her, but to take her heart, as well.
“You’re pregnant,” he said. She wasn’t the only one who could be direct. “What are the odds?”
The color drained from her face, the pallor quickly bolstered by her lip curled in disgust as knowing dawned on her face. “And you’re here to collect for your revenge?”
He placed a finger on her lips, shaking his head with a smile. “No. You’re pregnant, and I am in love with you. And I’m going to marry you, whether that means I have to accidentally kidnap you or not.”
As it had the first time she’d gotten a look at him, her mouth dropped open, and while it wasn’t words, he had to smile at the expression on her face, a wide grin stretching across his own. As it had that not-so-long-ago day, appreciation and hunger lit her eyes.
Today, though, she didn’t run. Today, she sat up, leaned into him and gently laid her palms on either side of his face. She looked at him closely, as if memorizing his face, then took one long slow blink, opened her eyes and said, “I love you, Drake Andros.”
Something shifted within him—was knocked over, cracked and grew bigger. And for the first time in his life, Drake Andros, the exiled duke, scrappy sailor, deadly admiral, vengeance reaper and feared privateer was satisfied.
Wrapping her in his arms, he held her with all the joy that sneaking into her room late at
