“No.” Breanna shook her head, bile rising in her throat. “How did you get through it?”
“By becoming resourceful, learning never to fail. Every challenge my father hurled in my face, I mastered. Of course, that made him angrier. Which meant his challenges grew harder and his punishments more severe. He was determined to break me. It became his obsession. He was brilliant, vicious, and relentless. But, as you so astutely guessed, my will was stronger. I withstood his brutality for twelve long years. Then, I left for Eton. After that, I rarely came home. And once my mother died, I stopped coming altogether.”
“Your mother?” Breanna's head came up. “Didn't she intrude?”
“I wouldn't let her. Do you know what he would have done if his wife defied him? He would have brutalized her.”
“But you were a little boy.”
“I was a resilient little boy,” Royce corrected. “She was a broken, defenseless woman. I did what I had to. If anything, it made me stronger.”
“Stronger, perhaps,” Breanna concurred softly. “But scarred. And I don't mean physically. Your wounds are entrenched—permanently. I know that firsthand.”
“My wounds?” Royce shook his head. “I don't regard them as such. Probably because I don't regret what they made me. I suppose, in a way, my father did me a service.”
Something about Royce's words touched something inside her. Perhaps it was the similarity of their upbringing, perhaps it was the conclusion he'd reached—one Breanna understood and shared with regard to herself. Perhaps it was respect for the man he'd become.
Or perhaps it just was.
On sheer impulse, Breanna squirmed out from beneath the blankets, lowered herself onto the rug beside him. “Now I understand what you meant by those who destroy without killing. I also see why you're determined to outwit your enemies, even if it means taking risks—maybe especially if it means taking risks. Your father provided a service, all right. But not for you. For the rest of us—the people you help.” She reached out, trailed her fingertips across his jaw. “Thank you for confiding in me. You're a fascinating and complex man, Royce Chadwick.”
The impact of her touch was jarring. Undercurrents of sensation radiated through them both, jolting them from candid revelations to naked awareness.
Abruptly, the mood in the room altered.
Royce went taut, his gaze finding hers, delving inside her in way that made her breath catch.
“I am a complex man,” he said roughly. “I'm also a hard man. Despite how you perceive me, despite my concern for you and my attraction to you, I'm not given to tenderness or sentiment. They're not in my nature.”
“But compassion is.” Breanna's heartbeat had begun to accelerate.
“Compassion, yes. Compassion and passion” His reference was pointed, an intentional effort to assign a name to what he was feeling. Not for his sake. For hers.
He was trying to shock her into realizing they were alone in a bedchamber in the dead of night, where there was no one nearby to ensure they restrained themselves.
His efforts failed miserably.
“Passion—definitely. As I discovered earlier.” Breanna had no idea where her bravado was coming from. She only knew it was there. She also had no idea what she was striving for by flagrantly baiting him as she was. She only knew that she had to see where it led.
Her thumb just grazed his lips.
“Breanna, stop.”
Abandoning all subtlety, Royce caught her wrist, tiny sparks flaring in his midnight gaze. “You're not foxed now. And you're playing a dangerous game.”
“Yes, I recall. Fire, you said. And I said I wanted to get singed.”
“And I said you were going to get burned.”
She swallowed, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Maybe it's time I learned to take some risks.”
Royce's eyes narrowed on her face. “Not these kind. Not with me. I don't normally display the gallantry I did in that garden tonight.”
“Of course not. That would be a show of sentiment—something you're not given to.”
He was losing and he knew it. Breanna could actually see him weaken.
“Stop provoking me,” he commanded. “Don't you understand what I'm trying to tell you?”