“How, without proof?”
“Get proof. You told me you were going to hunt down Broderick. So do it. Drag him back here and make him confess.”
Rangar’s eyes wavered as his hands tightened around her waist. “And leave you here alone? And my father on his deathbed? And Val?”
“I’ll care for your family,” she assured him.
Tension was coursing through him. Rangar’s eyes were damp, but he didn’t cry—Rangar Barendur never cries.His muscles were tensing and untensing erratically. Breathing hard, he pressed his forehead against hers.
“I’m no murderer, Bryn.”
“I know that, Rangar.”
His lips were close enough to hers to brush them when he spoke. A spark shot between them. There was such tension throughout Barendur Hold that it felt as though a storm had settled within the walls. Bryn expected thunder and lightning to crash around them at any moment.
Rangar’s hand fell lower on her hip. He palmed her dress’s fabric like he wanted to tear it off. “Tell me again that you love me.”
“I love you.”
“Tell me you belong to me.”
“I do—and you belong to me.”
He captured her lips in a fiery kiss. There was lust behind it—there was always lust in Rangar’s kisses—but Bryn would have been a fool not to have also picked up on the pain there. There was grief and fear and doubt all tied up in his embrace, lending it an almost violent urgency. His teeth grazed her bottom lip hard.
Before she knew it, he picked her up around the waist as though she was a log for the fire and tossed her onto the bed. She fell on the mattress with a squeak.
“Rangar—”
“No. Enough talk.” He stalked toward her like a cursed beast himself, his damp eyes hardened now. He prowled his way on top of her, caging her head with his arms, and looked down at her on the bed like he wanted to devour her to quench his own grief. “I’ve had enough talk for a lifetime. Now, I want you to moan for me.”
Chapter 9
MERCILESS . . . house arrest . . . three gifts . . . brave Calista . . . a brother who doesn't want the throne
Rangar’s lovemaking was merciless. Bryn knew that his reputation as a savage was unwarranted—mostly—but he seemed determined to prove her wrong as he ripped at her clothes, letting his hands and mouth claim every piece of her.
She tossed her head back and gave in to the rush of desire that threatened to consume them both. It was clear that Rangar needed this. He was so filled to the brim with pain that he was practically trembling. If he’d had his sword, he likely would have gone out and fought some pine trees to work out his grief that way, but this way also had its benefits.
I need it, too.
Bryn had been so focused on how Rangar felt about his homecoming that she hadn’t realized that she’d neglected her own emotional peaks. She, too, had much to grieve and even more to fear. She clung to Rangar around his neck, fingers twisting in his shirt.
“Take this off,” she ordered breathlessly, pulling urgently at the fabric.
Rangar tore his lips off her neck long enough to drag his shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then he fell on her again with a visceral need. His knee thrust between her legs, parting them. Her skirt was a tangle around her lower half, and he wrestled it up around her waist.
“I’d sooner you never wear clothes again,” he said in a growling voice.
“What kind of queen would that make me?” she teased.
“The perfect kind.”
He burned his lips over her skin. She squeezed his shoulders so hard it must have been painful, but he only seemed to crave more. He kissed the hexmark on her ear, then the one on her left shoulder, then the one the side of her wrist.
“I want to take you from behind,” he panted as he dropped her wrist. “Turn around.”
Her eyes widened as she did as he ordered. She’d heard about people coupling in this way, like animals—she hadn’t known it wastrue. He thrust her skirt around her waist so her ass was bare except for her chemise. He soon shoved aside that silk garment, too. His fingers gripped the sides of her hips hard. Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing her down against the bed, and hissed in her ear.
