My chest squeezes at the denial. They’re so similar, it’s painful. But Rowland probably hasn’t seen his own face since he started growing facial hair.
I place both hands on his cheeks, forcing him to stay still, and I look past the shock of recognition. Rowland is right. He’s not his brother. But he could wear that face like a glove. Besides, his features are more weathered, with lines bracketing his mouth from years of pain. Theposture is also different—more guarded, beaten down, less entitled.
Rochester moved through the world like he owned it. Rowland is a man barely clinging to survival. Rowland might have looked identical to his brother if he hadn’t lived a hard life instead of one cushioned by privilege and wealth.
“Do I look monstrous?” he whispers.
“No,” I blurt. “Never.”
Rowland glances away, breaking eye contact. The shame rolling off his shoulders is palpable, and I understand why. He isn’t just wearing his brother’s face. He’s becoming the murderer who tortured him for decades.
“Look at me,” I say, injecting my voice with command.
He sucks in a deep breath as though gathering his courage before returning his gaze to mine. Fear shines in his dark eyes, reminding me so much of how I felt before I finally escaped my previous life.
“You are not your brother,” I say, meaning every word. “After everything we’ve endured together, everything you’ve done to protect me, I could never see you as a monster.”
He starts to turn away again, but I catch his face in my hands, forcing him to maintain eye contact.
“But you saw me murder Morrison,” he mutters. “Doesn’t that sicken you?”
“We’re both killers,” I say with bite. “We did what we had to do to survive.”
Rowland doesn’t reply. But from his shallow breathing, I can tell he’s fighting an internal battle. He isn’t like me. I burned two men alive. I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Just let the flames do my work. Both threatened mewith something worse than death—a lifetime of hell. If I’d stayed married to Brother Matthew, he would have kept me enslaved and pregnant. Rochester would have worked me to death, then choked me for sport.
So if Rowland endured thirty years of that without killing, I would never judge him for slaying a cop for my protection.
Rising on my tip-toes, I press my lips to his. He stiffens for a heartbeat, then melts into the kiss with a deep groan.
“I need you, more than air,” he murmurs against my mouth. “You’re the only person in the world who makes me feel human. With you, I’m no longer a caged beast. I can finally be a man.”
He slips his fingers through my hair and kisses me again with desperate hunger, pulling me closer as if I can chase away his demons.
We tumble backward into the bedroom, the towel slipping from his hips, revealing lean muscles and that long, thick cock. I run my hands down his shoulders and chest, my fingers tracing decades-old scars. Burn marks, slashes, grooves lie beneath body hair as luxuriant as silk.
“I love you, Annalisa Burlington,” he says, his voice breathy with need.
I whisper it back. Not because I should. Because it’s the truth. “I love you, too.”
Rowland stiffens, his eyes widening. “Say it again.” His voice is rough, like he’s barely holding back. “Slower.”
“I… love you.”
“Don’t say it unless you mean it,” he growls. “Because if you do, I’ll never stop wanting you. Never.”
My pulse quickens. The hunger in his voice should be terrifying. After years of men who threw me away, I needto be wanted this desperately. I slide a hand over his scarred chest, meeting eyes that burn with need.
“Rowland, it’s you I love. Only you.”
His breathing becomes ragged, his grip on my waist tightening. I can feel him fighting for control, the decades of deprivation warring with his need to be gentle. “You have no idea what your love does to me. I’ve lived a hundred lives in agony, and you undo them with three words.”
“Deal with it,” I murmur against his lips. “Because you’re mine, forever.”
A sharp breath whistles through his teeth. Drawing back, he gazes down at me, his eyes blazing. I meet his stare, communicating everything I failed to say with words. Rowland means everything to me, and my heart beats only for him.
With a groan, he yanks me against him with bruising force, his mouth claiming mine with desperate intensity. His kisses travel down my chin, down the sensitive column of my neck, making me shiver. He roams his hands over my body like he’s memorizing every curve, every hollow, every place that makes me gasp.
“Mine,” he snarls against my throat, dragging his teeth along the pulse hammering beneath my skin. “Say it. Say who you belong to.”
