In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,46

she woke up, every day she looked in the mirror, it was there, a visible reminder of her foolishness. Her ineptness. “In a battle, Lila,” he said softly, “you don’t use your fists. You use your nails. Your feet. Even your goddamned teeth in order to survive.”

She waited for him to release her, but he didn’t.

And more, she didn’t want him to.

Her heart began to pound . . . not at those remembered horrors of yesteryear, but because of this man. And his touch.

The air crackled and sizzled with the same volatile thrum that had rolled through St. Peter’s Field. But at the same time, differently. This was not born of danger but rather some other unbridled, raw, and powerful emotion.

Hugh’s gaze slipped over her face, and she remained absolutely still; her eyes, however, moved a similar path along his.

The slight scruff upon cheeks that had missed their morning shave. The crooked angle of a nose that had been broken undoubtedly too many times.

She continued her search lower.

And then stopped, lingering on a number inked upon his chest, revealed only because of the slight gape in fabric. Of their own volition, her fingers came up, and she found herself caressing that mark. Him.

“Sixteen,” she murmured. That same number so significant to the date that had changed everything.

The muscles in his chiseled face rippled; the energy all around them continued to pulse with a harder, more unremittent pounding.

“Why do you have this here?” she whispered, breaking the rules he’d laid out, but unable to care. Because she needed to know. About the mark. About him.

“I don’t answer questions.” His breath rasped against her mouth.

And then his lips were on hers.

At last.

And it was, all at once, everything she’d hungered for, and nothing she could have ever prepared for or dreamed of.

Nay, it was him. This man. His kiss.

It was The Kiss she’d never thought to know for the sheltered life she lived, only to find life did still exist in glorious color.

He licked at her lips, like she was some confectionary treat he was both discovering and savoring. And she groaned.

Or mayhap that little rumble belonged to him because her lips thrummed and trembled.

Lila curled her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt; a wall of corded muscles rippled. Because of her. Her touch. And she thrilled at the discovery of her own feminine power.

He deepened their kiss, the bold slash of his lips, over and over again, and Lila couldn’t make sense over why women worried after their reputations or sin and scandal when there was anything so glorious as this.

Her heart was pounding wildly.

Hard and fast and loud.

Wait . . . Confusion rooted around her brain—it wasn’t her heart.

It was . . . heavy footfalls.

Hugh tore his mouth from hers.

“You have to go,” he whispered roughly against her mouth.

Lila tried to blink back the haze of desire and confusion. Go? Go where? She couldn’t leave. She didn’t want to leave. Not him. Not this moment. “But . . .”

Sprinting across the room, Hugh gathered up her things and tossed them into her arms. Then, taking her by the hand, he steered her to the door.

Lila dug her heels in. “My hour is not up.”

“Something has come up,” he gritted, grabbing the door handle.

She refused to budge. “But . . .”

“What’s the meaning of this?”

Her words trailed off as she turned and caught sight of the men who’d greeted her two days earlier. “Oh.” This was why he was sending her packing so quickly. At her first encounter with his partners, they had been all mocking condescension. Now, a dangerous fury poured from Maynard’s muscle-hewn frame.

The taller fighter, Bragger, looked at them. “What the hell is she doing here?”

Quietly cursing, Hugh positioned himself between her and his partners. “She was—”

She stepped out from behind the shield of his body. “I was receiving lessons.”

The pair of surly fighters glanced at one another, and then both turned those street-hardened stares upon Lila and Hugh.

Chapter 11

Bloody hell, this was bad.

Tension hung over the room like a palpable force.

It was certainly not the first they’d brimmed with barely suppressed fury. It was, however, the first time that rage had been directed Hugh’s way. What in hell were they doing here? The arena was quiet from four thirty to nine o’clock.

Bragger’s eyes formed razor slits, the knowing glint indicating the other man knew precisely what he’d been thinking. But then, nothing was truly Hugh’s. He owned nothing. And he owed everything to the very