When we break apart, we're both panting.
“You're making it very difficult to be a gentleman, lass,” I murmur against her lips.
“Maybe I don't want you to be a gentleman.”
Fire shoots through my veins. My cock hardens instantly, and I know she can feel it pressed against her.
“Don't say that unless you mean it,” I warn.
“I'm not ready for—” She swallows. “For everything. But I want—” She's blushing now, struggling. “I want to touch you. I want you to touch me. I want to know what this is between us.”
Christ, she's going to kill me.
I search her face for any sign of doubt, any hesitation. But all I see is want.
“Come with me,” I say, taking her hand.
I lead her back outside, where a sprinkle of sand still trickles from the break in the bag.
“I train every morning,” I tell her, positioning myself where she can see. “Have since I was fifteen. My uncle Tiernan taught me. Said a man needs to know how to fight to protect what's his.”
“Is that what I am?” she asks softly. “Yours?”
I meet her eyes. I’ll tell her every damn day if she needs to hear it. “Aye. You've been mine since the moment I saw you, lass. It just took you six years to catch up.”
I turn and face the bag again.
“This is who I am,” I say between moves. “I fight because if I don't, I'll go mad. I fight because it's the only way I know how to cope with wanting you every second of every day and not being able to have you.”
“We’re all mad here,” she says with a smile. “Remember? And you have me now.”
I stop mid-punch, breathing hard. “Do I?”
“I'm here, aren't I?”
“For how long?” The words come out raw, vulnerable in a way I hate. “Until you get scared again? Until you realize what a monster I am?”
“You're not a monster.”
“I've killed people, Bianca. More than I can count. I've done terrible things, things that would make you run screaming if you knew.”
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't back away.
“Have you killed anyone who didn't deserve it?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Have you killed innocent people? Children? Women who didn't pose a threat?”
“Never.”
“Then maybe you're not a monster.” She moves closer, and I'm frozen. “You're a weapon. There's a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” She traces the scar on my cheekbone, and I close my eyes at the gentleness of it. “Weapons can be used for good or evil. It's all about who's wielding them. Don’t you think I’ve learned anything reading reams of Arthurian legend?” She smiles. “That's not monstrous. That's?—”
“What?”
