Kate Cross - Touch of Steel

She took a drink of the wine that accompanied her supper. It was good—slightly sweet—and dulled the ache of self-pity in her chest all the faster with barely any food in her belly. She needn’t worry about rotting in Warden custody; she’d just waste away at this rate.

He hadn’t tried to see her. What did she expect? She’d told them she didn’t want to see him. Did she think he’d scale the side of the building, pull the bars off her window and risk his life and his future to whisk her away? Of course she didn’t, but a girl could dream. It was a foolish, romantic dream, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

Claire drained the glass in one long swallow and filled it again with what was left in the decanter. What a horrible life this was, being a prisoner of the Wardens. Wine every night, crystal and silverware. A window through which to view the world, books to read and company on occasion. Evie—she was no longer Dr. Stone in her mind—came to visit every few days, bringing news and sometimes a treat, such as chocolate or tea.

She hadn’t been tortured; she hadn’t been mistreated. Perhaps this would continue only so long as she proved useful. After all, she had so much information to give about the Company, its spies and practices. The information she had on her own brother was enough to keep her in comfort for a few more months at least. She hadn’t asked about her brother. She didn’t want to know. Perhaps he was dining on steak and wine right now as well. God willing, he’d choke.

Robert’s betrayal scored her to the bone, proving that trust was not something lightly given or assumed simply because of blood. Alastair had been the last person she thought she could trust; yet he ended up being the most trustworthy man she’d ever known.

And none of it mattered because she’d given up her life—or at least her freedom—for a man who did not deserve her sacrifice. What a fool she was.

She thought about Alastair often—every few moments during the day, and some during the night. She remembered his scent, his smile. She missed the grooves around his mouth. She missed how his eyes flashed like a cat’s.

The locks on her cell door disengaged with a now-familiar clink-whir-clink-thunk. It wasn’t Evie’s usual time to visit, and she hadn’t been told that the director would be coming by. She took another drink from her glass as she turned to face the guard. Was it time to fetch her tray already?

But it wasn’t a guard who crossed the threshold. No guard had the ability to rob her of breath and reason, or the power to stop her heart in midbeat.

Alastair .

The glass dropped from her hand, landing with a dull thud on the carpet. The sturdy crystal didn’t break, but there was wine everywhere.

Claire didn’t give a rat’s ass. Her every sense was attuned to him. He was all that mattered.

He wasn’t wearing a hat, and the thick waves of his hair shone with copper in the lamplight. He looked tired but gorgeous, his eyes the color of a rainy afternoon. He wore a long gray greatcoat over a black jacket and putty-colored trousers. He was whole. Healthy. Alive.

Tears threatened, burning the back of her eyes, but Claire held them at bay. It took every ounce of her strength not to fall to the floor in a sobbing heap. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

It was so good to see him. It was like feeling rain on her face after days roasting in a desert.

The door shut, locking him in the cell with her. He removed his long coat and tossed it over the footboard of the bed, walking toward her with slow, measured steps. He was all grace and control, that intense gaze never leaving her face. She stood, trembling—weak in the knees—as he drew closer. His scent—cardamom and man—filled her senses and flooded her chest. Claire closed her eyes, wet heat greeting her lashes.

Strong hands cupped her face. She opened her eyes again, unable to prevent a tear from slipping free; a fat drop of regret that burned her cheek. Alastair caught it with his thumb.

“Don’t ever say you don’t want to see me.” His voice was a silken rasp. “Don’t start lying to me now, Claire. Not after all we’ve been through.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears made a blur of his face, and she blinked them away. She didn’t want to miss looking at him. Her hands gripped the lapels of his jacket. “I thought it would be easier if I turned you away.”

“I won’t let you,” he vowed. “I refuse to let you go.”

He would have to. Surely he knew that? There was no future for them, but at that moment, Claire didn’t care. She couldn’t think of it. All that mattered was that he was there with her.

Warm, firm lips came down on hers. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs as she kissed him back, opening her mouth to his, tasting him and the salt of her own tears.

She was not a woman who cried often. She was not a woman who considered herself weak, but with this man she didn’t care. Let him see what effect he had on her. So much of her life had been about subterfuge and hiding her true feelings. Not any more. She would not be ashamed to cry in sheer joy of seeing him.

Pins scattered as Alastair slid his fingers into her hair. The knot slid free, sending the heavy mass tumbling around her shoulders and down her back. Claire’s own hands moved down his chest, across the plane of his stomach and beneath his jacket to press against his back. She could feel the heat of him through his clothes, and it seeped into her fingers, relieving a chill she hadn’t even felt until then.

He kissed her eyelids, her forehead and cheeks, brushing his lips against her skin with a tenderness that made her chest ache.

When he began removing her clothing, she didn’t fight. Why would she when she wanted this as much as he? Her own fingers went to work divesting him of the layers of cloth that kept her from being able to feel his skin against hers.

Finally they stood face-to-face, naked. Alastair’s gaze traveled the length of her with a possessive glint that brought a shiver trickling down her spine. He didn’t comment that she had lost weight, even though she knew he noticed. It was as though he found her perfect regardless.

The scar on his chest from where Robert had shot him was the size of a silver dollar. Pale pink, it marred the golden perfection of his skin. She pressed her lips to the light dusting of freckles around it, and finally against the scar itself, infusing the kiss with every ounce of regret that memories of that night wrought.

His arms came around her, engulfing her in warm strength. He was so strong. So tender. When she raised her head, his mouth found hers again, and for a moment she thought she tasted wet salt on his lips.

He reached down and hooked one arm beneath her knees, sweeping her off her feet like a damsel in a novel. He carried her the few feet to the bed and placed her on the quilt before settling his larger frame beside her. The bed gave a little under his augmented weight but held firm.

Warm fingers brushed her face, her throat, breasts, belly and lower. Claire opened her legs to him, letting him slip those incredibly talented fingers inside where she wanted them most. She sighed into his hair as his mouth closed over one of her nipples, laving the puckered flesh with the warm lash of his tongue. She slid one of her hands down between their bodies and closed her fingers around the length of his cock, moving them up and down. Alastair groaned against her breast, changing the tempo of his fingers inside her so that she gasped.

They caressed each other and tasted each other for what felt like hours. He brought her to climax with firm, unhurried strokes of his tongue, and she took him into her own mouth until he pulled her hair and begged her to stop. And then he pushed her back on the mattress as he knelt before her, lifted her bottom so that it rested on the top of his thighs, and slid inside her with one smooth thrust of his hips. Claire cried out in delight.