Anger still flares behind Hector’s tone as he speaks. “He attacked Sol.”
Cenric glances between the dead man and me. “Why? He’s Bloodstone.”
“That’s precisely what we need to find out.” Hector nods his chin toward the stranger. “Get him out of here.”
“My pleasure. But don’t you think people will wonder why I’m carrying around a dead man?”
“You will think of something.”
“Must I always do your dirty work?” Cenric sighs, leans down, and grabs the man. With a grunt, he throws my attacker over his shoulder and walks from the room.
“If you hadn’t broken the man’s neck, you could have questioned him,” I say the moment we’re all alone, and the door shuts behind Cenric.
Hector walks to where I sit and places his hand against my chin and lifts my face toward his. “He didn’t deserve to draw another breath.”
“But…”
“Nobody touches you, Sol.” Ferocity smolders behind Hector’s words.
Using his fingertips, he traces them along my cheek, his touch gentle, stirring, despite the violence that happened here. I inch a little closer to Hector and run my left hand against his arm, admiring his strength, his power. He should frighten me. After all, he killed a man moments ago with his bare hands. Yet, the action brings me even closer to him, binding me in a way it probably shouldn’t.
A woman made of light wouldn’t be drawn to him.
Hector removes the broken pottery still clutched in my right hand. I flex and unflex my fingers as he turns to observe what I did to the jar.
“Again?” He shakes his head. “When are you going to stop destroying all the pottery?”
“When you give me back my dagger.”
He sets the fragmented piece on the table and pulls me close again. “I might have to, or we won’t have any pottery left.” His hand returns to my jaw, tracing, touching, stirring. “You are so fierce. That man never stood a chance.”
“You didn’t give me the opportunity to stab him a second time,” I say as I think of the rage on Hector’s face.
He swipes his calloused fingers across my skin and leans down until his mouth is near my ear. “I like you fierce.”
Tickles of pleasure brush against my cheek—tickles traveling lower and lower. The kind that, if allowed, could make me forget everything that separates us.
“I thought most men want a meek, humble wife,” I say when I manage to calm my ridiculous thoughts.
“Not me.” He kisses my neck, and my pulse thrashes in my throat. “It makes me want you more than ever before.”
“And here I thought it was my womanly wiles that would make you want me.” I inch back enough to meet his eyes. “Who knew that it would take me stabbing someone to get your attention?”
Humor twinkles in Hector’s eyes as he smiles, and my pulse thrashes harder and harder.
“I have wanted you from the moment you first offered yourself to me.” Warmth burrows into his words. So much warmth.
My mouth falls open as I think of his rejection that day. “You rejected me.”
“In the sweat lodge, during our binding ceremony, when you were barely clothed, I thought I would cave. I even considered it,” he says, his words stirring everything I have subdued. All that longing.
“You said, I would do.” Using my index finger, I poke him in the chest. “You wounded my pride.”
He catches my hand and brings my knuckles to his mouth. “I didn’t mean to wound your pride. I merely meant to suppress my lust.”
My heart thrums against my chest as my eyes land on Hector’s satchel, and my memories of Malachi flood back. I jerk away from Hector, needing distance, clarity, to find a way to forgive him for what happened with Malachi.
“Have I upset you?” Hurt thickens Hector’s tone.
