Unfaded Glory (13 page)

“Damara, if you'd let me snivel into your shirt, I'd find a reason to be there.”

She chuckled. “Stop making me laugh.”

“Truthfully, I only have one person I have to keep safe. You have a country. That's a little bit more pressing than toast.”

“I'm still hungry.” She hated how helpless she sounded, as though she expected him to fix it for her. But she supposed that she did. She kept waiting for him to ride to the rescue, but she was going to have to rescue herself. He wasn't always going to be there. He didn't want to be responsible for her safety even now. The sooner she could take care of herself, the better.

“Why don't we pick up some doughnuts from Sweet Thing and go to The Bullet Hole?”

“What's The Bullet Hole?” It sounded nefarious. Of course if it came with anything from Sweet Thing, she was in.

“It's a shooting range. You can practice with that .40 George brought you. I happen to know you're a lot better with weapons than kitchen appliances.”

It made her wonder about the future. Was this it for her? If she couldn't help her people, was she going to stay here and be his wife? What would she do with herself? How would she contribute to their household, or would he have to take care of her?

As a little girl, she used to dream about what it would be like to be just a girl—not a princess. Now that she was faced with that possibility, it was terrifying.

So was the thought of being married to a man who didn't love her, and she'd had a much longer time to get used to that idea.

She couldn't let herself think this way—about the what-ifs. The doubts. If she couldn't find one way, she'd find another. It didn't matter how many times it took, she would do this.

She studied him. Damara hadn't expected this kind of interaction with him after last night. She hadn't expected him to be cruel, but he seemed so warm and open. It was probably because she'd been crying. Most men, her brother being the exception, would do anything to get a woman to stop crying.

Damara sniffed. She hated crying and endeavored not to do it. Her tutors had told her that princesses didn't cry where anyone could see them. Her father had told her that was utter rot. It was okay to be moved by something, hurt by it, overwhelmed. It was okay to show pain and compassion. Being royal wasn't supposed to make you inhuman. If anything, her father had taught her it had to make her more human.

“So what do you say, Damara? Do you want to go?”

Shooting. He wanted to take her shooting. That was something she could do, something she was good at. Damara nodded. “Yes, I'd like to go shoot things.”

Damara didn't want to kill or hurt anyone, but she wasn't going to let anyone do those things to her, either. She needed to keep honing her skills. “Maybe you'll spar with me later?”

He raised a brow. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Because you think you'll beat me?” She sniffed again indelicately and put a hand on her hip.

“No.” His hand was dangerously low on her spine. “Because I think we'll both like it way more than we should.”

She fought her physical reaction to him.

Self-respect seemed a cold comfort when his arms were so strong and the heat of his palms scalded her through to a place beneath her skin.

“Maybe we will. It'll be a good teaching tool to learn to focus through distraction.” Her hands found purchase on his shoulders.

“You're a dangerous woman, Princess.” His voice was low and throaty.

All her instincts wanted her to lean in, to tilt her face up to his and part her lips. She wanted to invite him to kiss her, taste her, take her upstairs and— She tried to turn it off. But she knew she was right. If she could learn to fight through that kind of distraction, she could learn to fight through anything.

She smiled at him, trying not to think about the shape of his mouth and what it felt like on hers. “So what does a princess wear to shoot things?”

“What did you wear on Castallegna?”

“A dress.”

He arched a brow. “What are you going to wear to spar in?”

“This?” She looked down at the shirt.

“That's cheating.” His eyes raked over her.

She liked this easy back-and-forth between them. Damara wished she knew what to do to make it stay this way. If she gave in to her body's desires, they'd still be in the same place they'd been before. There'd be immediate gratification but nothing solved for her more tender feelings or her future.

How she wished things were different, that her people were free and Byron, too. Free from the pain and sorrow that chained him down. He was as much a prisoner as any of them. The thought of him dying before he had a chance to fly turned her stomach. Grisha and Vladimir wouldn't stop in their pursuit of her. They'd use anything they could to get at her, and they wouldn't hesitate to kill Byron Hawkins.

“You look like a storm cloud. What happened?” he asked her.

She looked up at him and knew if she confided her fears that he'd think she saw weakness in him and that wasn't it at all. “Just thinking too much. You know, the wishing in one hand, but the other one seems to be filling up really fast.”

He laughed. “It does that. Get moving if you want to go blow things up.”

She took the stairs quickly. It would be nice to do something that was practical but fun. Damara couldn't remember the last time she'd done something simply because she wanted to—Barcelona aside.

Damara rather imagined this to be like stealing a moment where she didn't have to be a princess, he didn't have to be a ranger, and they didn't have to worry how their actions impacted a country or who could see them. This didn't have to be about anything but the enjoyment of the action itself.

Too bad she couldn't approach going to bed with him the same way.

But, oh, what if she could? What if she could see it just as pleasure for the sake of pleasure? If she could just surrender to sensation.

She bit her lip and sat down on the bed, wondering what would happen if she were to call out to him and tell him what she wanted.

No, she didn't wonder. She knew. She'd find herself flat on her back with her ankles around his waist and the best orgasm she'd ever had. That's what would happen.

The after was really what she wanted to know about. How was it so easy for him to switch his emotions on and off? How could he be so intimate with her, so connected as they spiraled together, and then when it was over, it was like it had never happened?

Or worse, that it had and it didn't matter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

B
YRON
FELT
ONLY
a tiny flash of guilt enjoying the view from behind as she ran up the stairs in his T-shirt. It was obliterated by lust at the sight of all that delicious skin he'd touched but was now denied.

And it was his own fault, he knew. All he had to do was give her something he didn't have, and she'd surrender to him.

He was more determined now than ever not to break her, not to be the reason the light went out in her eyes. He shook his head. The woman wasn't afraid to stare down a Russian thug, but burning toast made her cry. She was a bundle of contradictions.

He trudged up the stairs after her, giving her ample time to get ready so he could change. A quick shower wouldn't be remiss. He couldn't believe he'd hugged her and she hadn't fallen over dead.

She popped out of the door, wearing another of his T-shirts and a pair of jeans that should have been illegal.

“I, uh, I'm grabbing a shower,” he managed, trying not to stare at her curves. He finished his shower and dried off, his cock still painfully aware of their every interaction.

He supposed what happened next was his fault for not making sure she'd gone downstairs. Or maybe there was part of him that wanted to show her what she was missing. He knew she liked looking at his body—and it made him feel strong, worthy, when she stared at him like that.

When he got out of the shower and opened the bathroom door, she was sitting on the bed. He could have called out to see if she was still in the room, but he hadn't.

Her eyes widened and her mouth made a soft little O shape that made him imagine it doing all sorts of things on his flesh.

The proper thing he knew was to cover himself, but she didn't want him to—not the way her eyes raked over him like hot coals. He knew he should say sorry, something, but there was a spell over them both.

“You're so...hard.”

It sounded like something out of a bad porno, but not when it came from her lips. It made him proud of his body and the work he put into it. Like it was good for something more than killing.

“Because I was thinking of you,” he answered in a measured tone. He forced himself to walk over to the closet and pull out clean clothes.

She reached out her hand to touch him, and as much as he wanted her to, she'd already told him strings were definitely attached. Yet she made contact before he could bring himself to stop her.

Damara's palm was flat on his abs and she dragged it down oh, so slowly.

And as she'd observed earlier, he was definitely hard. Everywhere.

“This is going to happen, isn't it?” she asked in a small voice, referring to the irrefutable draw between them, the desire.

“Not if you don't want it to.” He never wanted her to think that she owed him something, or that she had to sleep with him. He wasn't that kind of a bastard.

“Is it wrong that I do, but I don't?” Her hand was still on his oblique, tracing ever closer to the center of his need.

By God, how he wanted her to touch him, the sweet silk of her palm wrapped around him, that wide-eyed look on her face, her dewy lips—he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

This was his chance to be the good guy. He'd been offered it in Barcelona, but he'd taken what he wanted for himself instead. He could have her now; she'd let him push her back on the bed and make her come so hard she screamed the house down.

But that wasn't what she needed right now, and, deep down, it wasn't what she wanted. He'd sworn to himself that he would protect her from all threats foreign and domestic, including himself. He opened his eyes and forced himself to make eye contact.

“No, it's not wrong at all. It's how I feel, too.”

It was the first time he'd said that in a long time, acknowledged any sort of emotion aside from rage or guilt. It was a piece of himself—a small one—but he hoped it could be a kind of balm for them both.

“Really?” She finally dragged her gaze up to meet his.

He closed his fingers around her wrist, and, even though he wanted to push her hand lower, he brushed his lips across her knuckles and placed her hand back in her lap. “Really,” he admitted.

“I'm sorry,” she said when he'd turned away from her to dress.

“I knew you would be.” He didn't want to acknowledge that being right was a kick to the balls.

“Not about Barcelona. About you being stuck with me.” Her voice was so small and quiet. He knew what she was feeling because he'd be feeling the same way if the situation were reversed. He'd made her feel useless and unwanted. But he didn't know any other way to keep them from surrendering to the fire.

“We already determined there is no one else I'd trust with this job.”

“I don't want to be your responsibility,” she said softly.

“And I don't want to be something you regret. So we're even.”

“I don't regret you, Byron. I just wish you weren't so pretty.”

“Pretty?” He arched a brow. His chest might have puffed a fraction of an inch. No one had ever said he was pretty before. He'd been told he was hot, dangerous, all manner of things, but never pretty. Pretty was for kind things. No one had thought that about him.

“I just want to look at you all the time. I can't help myself. Whether it's the scars on your hands, or...or...”

“Or when I'm naked?” he offered, trying not to think about how easy it would be to cross the line. They both wanted to.

She blushed. “I used to have something called decorum. I'm not sure where it went. I can't believe I said that to you.”

“When you're running for your life, decorum seems useless.” He was happy to be back to safer subject matter, but he couldn't stop thinking about what she'd said about the scars on his hands. He'd never thought about them one way or another, but she seemed to actually like them. That led to him thinking about what it was like to put his hands on her body—the contrast between them. Her perfection and his...not.

Byron kept thinking that this tension between them would dissipate. She said she didn't want to want him, and he knew better, so why couldn't they stop?

She seemed to know what he was thinking. “I guess we should find a way to deal with this if we're going to be married.”

“Being married doesn't have anything to do with it, Damara. It's just a piece of paper, a legal shield against your brother and anyone who wants to take you away from my protection. Do you understand? Signing our names to that paper doesn't change anything between us.”

“Isn't it forever? Do you want to live this way forever?”

“It doesn't have to be. We get you safe, your people safe. Then if you want to divorce me, that's what we'll do.”

“What about what you want?”

He didn't dare think about what he wanted, deep down in that place where things secret and forbidden were kept hidden. What he wanted wasn't possible, so thinking about it, talking about it, breathing the idea into the corporeal world wasn't an option.

“That was shot to shit a long time before now.” He couldn't bring himself to say anything else until he saw something fragile in her eyes. “Don't mistake me. It's my honor to protect you, Damara. You're physical proof of the good in the world, and, after all the death, it's good to know it was for something.” Byron had to pull back. He couldn't risk sharing anything else. He'd probably already spilled too much. “Get your shoes if you still want to go.”

He fled downstairs to pull on his boots and put some space between them.

If he'd never left Glory, it would be such a normal thing to do, to take his woman to Sweet Thing or The Corner Pharmacy for breakfast on a lazy morning. Except he'd never done things like that with any woman. The only time he'd ever gone to breakfast with one had been a stripper who worked the little joint hidden on a country road between Glory and Lawrence.

She'd paid.

He'd left a failure in the back of a police car and he'd returned the same. Maybe not in the back of a police cruiser, but it was a government car and the rules were the same. Do what you're told, or you're going to prison.

He had no doubt if he screwed this up with Damara, Renner would follow through, but that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was that if he screwed up, if he failed again in any way, Damara would get hurt. He could stomach any outcome of this little scenario but that one.

He kept waiting for that earworm to push to the forefront again. He kept expecting to hear Austin Foxworth condemning him, but he didn't. He heard nothing but his own doubts and fears.

She was deceptively fast, darting back down the stairs wearing those illegal jeans and a soft sweater over his T-shirt. They clung to her luscious little curves in a way that made her outfit sexier than if she'd been wearing lingerie.

He especially liked her boots with the fur on top.

“It's not
that
cold.” He grinned. She looked as if she was preparing for the Iditarod.

“
And
I'm wearing a coat. It doesn't ever get this cold on Castallegna. I can't seem to get warm.” She snuggled down into the sweater.

It would have been an easy thing for him to pull her against his body and offer her his warmth. It's what every instinct inside him screamed to do. As if he was failing again somehow because she was cold. Instead of touching her, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “When summer gets here, you'll be wishing for the cold. We don't have the ocean to keep the temperature mild. It gets hotter than the devil's ball bag.”

“Is that a meteorological term?” she quipped.

“It is.” He nodded seriously.

“So, we can just go out—we can do that? I've never been able to just go somewhere because I wanted to.”

She was so damn beautiful, but she'd been a pretty bird in a gilded cage. He tried to remember that. And like a bird who'd never gotten used to her wings, she was likely to fly too far, too high, and not know how to get down without crashing. It was his job to make sure she didn't.

“Yeah, we can do whatever you want.” They had some time. It wouldn't hurt to indulge her.

“We don't have to take a car or...” She shrugged.

“If you want to walk to Sweet Thing, it's not that far.”

“Will there be coffee?” She perked.

“I'm sure there will.” Byron took a moment to check in with the security detail again to tell them where they were going.

They walked down the old-fashioned sidewalks and crossed into downtown, the area he'd deliberately avoided on his morning run. It hadn't changed much since he'd been gone. It was almost a caricature of small-town goodness with the cobbled sidewalks and wholesome storefronts.

“Your hometown is lovely, Byron.”

Byron guessed it was okay for antiquing and quilter types. He'd always wanted more adventure. He shrugged. “It's quaint.”

“I bet you were miserable here as a child. Not enough excitement.” She laughed, still taking in all the small-town charm.

“Maybe I was.” He nodded. It had been more than that—he'd just never felt as if he belonged anywhere.

After the press junket and all the to-do that had been made about his return, people waved at the princess (they still stared at him as if he were a leper), but they weren't mobbed. It was as though she'd already been welcomed into the fold.

He knew what was next.

Casseroles.

Bundt cakes.

Three-layer macaroni salads.

Maybe they should just turn around and— Nope. Any hope he'd had of dragging Damara elsewhere died a cold death when they smelled the bakeshop.

Damara inhaled deeply. “That smell is divine.”

“You can tell Betsy you think so. I'm sure an endorsement from a princess wouldn't hurt her business.”

“Is she your friend?”

“Everyone knows Betsy. She's Caleb's sister.”

She didn't say anything else until it was time for her to choose her pastry. All the patrons in the shop were staring at them. Their stares reminded him of his every sin. He wanted to rail at them, to growl and rage. He wanted to demand they stop studying him as if he were some infectious virus.

“What do you recommend?” Damara asked when it was their turn.

“Princess Damara! I'm so honored.” Betsy Lewis squealed. She came around from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, and embraced Damara as though they'd been friends since they were kids.

“You must be Betsy.” Damara allowed the hug.

Byron looked around the shop. Many people averted their eyes, until he saw Jack McConnell sitting in a corner. He knew the other man had returned home a hero. Jack was everything he wished he could've been. Prosthetic limb and all. His team had come home. He found it hard to meet the other man's eyes, but when he did, he saw the same horrible knowledge reflected back at him.

The same self-doubt, the same fears.

Byron nodded in acknowledgment, and Jack returned it.

He wondered how the other man could have that much pain and sorrow when he was a hero? It made him think that maybe everything wasn't as it seemed, perhaps for both of them.

Betsy promptly loaded Damara down with three of those purple boxes, at which Jack stood and made his way over.

“Hold on now—you can't give away all the maple bacon doughnuts. Those are mine, Sweet Thing,” Jack interrupted.

There was something in the way he said those words that Byron knew he and Betsy were together. Betsy had followed him around in school like a lovesick puppy. But they both seemed better for it.

“India brought over some Better Than Sex doughnuts last night. I can see why she ate them all the first time.”

Betsy arched a brow. “Oh, really? She told me Caleb ate the first box.”

They laughed. “Byron told me if I keep eating all these doughnuts and French fries I'm going to get fat.”