And Ria couldn't afford that shame, that hurt. Just as she couldn't afford to appear to be more than the employee the Vanderales depended so highly upon.
There it was. He frowned at the thought. Ria couldn't afford to become visible, because she feared losing the advantage she had in her job. Wallflowers faded among the crowd. No one noticed them. No one feared them, she had told him. But it was more than that. She held an advantage. One the Leo approved of, needed. She was a tool he used quite effectively. And the Vanderales were the only enduring thing in Ria's life.
She feared losing that one certainty. The family that had saved her. They hadn't raised her, but they had overseen her raising. They had educated her. They employed her. She was the poor orphan child everyone thought the powerful family felt sorry for.
The inner woman had no confidence in herself, in her ability to command the attention and power Mercury knew was her due.
He growled at the thought of it, his eyes narrowing into the dusky light of the room as he considered each avenue open for him to proceed.
He was her mate. It was his job to protect her, to assure her security, her happiness.
She was never going to believe he had mated her. That part of her that refused to allow her to accept anything as her own would always pull back. Because the mating heat hadn't made itself fully known until Alaiya's appearance.
He couldn't fully blame her, and yet he did. And he knew when she awoke, the fury of a woman terrified that she had something that didn't belong to her would blaze as high and as hot as the mating heat.
Simply telling her would never be enough. And it wasn't enough for him. She had enraged him when she ran from him. Torn at his own pride and sense of worth. This was his mate. She would fight for him. She would fight for him or there would be no fury greater than his own.
He lifted his head and focused on the open closet door. Within it were those ugly clothes she insisted on wearing. He looked at the clock, and a hard, determined smile pulled his lips back from his teeth.
He eased away from her, tucked the blankets around her and moved for that closet. He had a few hours before the heat would awaken her. Before the need would begin clawing through her.
He stepped into the large closet, closed the door behind him and switched on the light. He turned, and his eyes narrowed on the clothing before he looked down at his hands.
The clawlike nails were blunted, but they were still dangerous. He took the first skirt from its rack silently, and only the rending of cloth whispered through the night as he began the destruction. Every shred of dowdy, miserable clothing she had in her possession was dropped to the floor of the closet, shredded. Skirts, tops and slacks. Sweaters and blouses. They were all rent beyond repair.
The shoes came next. Excellent quality, perfect workmanship. They were no hindrance to the silent rage working through him. His mate hid, even from him, and he would allow it no longer.
When he finished with the closet, he moved to the dresser and chest. He left nothing but the sexiest underwear, the lightest, skimpiest gowns. He dropped each item to the floor as he finished with it. Ripping it, tearing it, destroying every last article that she had brought with her.
Except one outfit. One pair of jeans. One shirt. A pair of leather ankle boots. She would need something to wear when he took her into Buffalo Gap and bought her new clothes. Clothes that befit the woman he knew she was.
Arrogance surged through him. He had an abundance of it, there was no doubt. And he knew that the fury he would face tomorrow would be one he might wish he had avoided. But there was more at stake here than her anger, her pride. Her confidence and belief in him were at stake, and he'd be damned if he would lose any of that.
He was her mate. Damn her for thinking she could so easily give him to another. That she would simply walk away. He knew, had sensed and felt and been rocked by, the complete love that surrounded him when she stared at him. She was devoted to him. He knew this. And still, she had walked away.
Her selflessness went far deeper than his ever could. Because he would kill the man that tried to take her. Even before the mating, he would have torn any competitor for her heart, limb from limb. Shredded him just as he shredded her clothing.
Then, as though those shreds of fabric were no more important than the sigh of satisfaction he gave, he returned to the bed.
He curled around her once again, and as sleep came over him, he smiled. Ria was right, he could purr.
* * *
She was burning. Ria could feel the blistering arousal dragging her from sleep, imperative, tearing at her body and at her mind as she fought awareness. She didn't want to wake up. She wasn't ready to face reality.
She wasn't ready to face her own emotions. The ones that clawed at her far deeper than the arousal did. The satisfaction, because he had chosen her. Willingly, though she hadn't believed it was possible for a Breed to make such a choice. According to Elizabeth Vanderale, it wasn't possible. But Mercury had made that choice.
He had walked away from the woman whom nature had chosen for him years ago, and he had come to her. He had loosed the full force of all that savage hunger on her and she had taken it eagerly. Not just physically, but emotionally.
Something inside her had eased, while another part of her tensed. He chose her, for now. She was terrified the other shoe would drop later.
God, this was why she didn't involve herself in relationships. She had been terrified of caring to this depth about anyone. Scared of loving to the point that she didn't know how to walk away. And that was how she loved Mercury. When she did walk away from him, she didn't know how to go any further than the bed they shared.
His touch fed a part of her soul that had always been closed off from others.
But her body was ready to be fed now. It was hungry for the taste of Mercury. For the feel of him. His possession and his kiss.
She moved against him, feeling his erection pressing against her stomach, his hand petting her hair. Her own hands were pressed against him, the feel of his flesh warming them, exciting them.