You're safe. She was safe.
Nothing happened. Nothing happened?
It's over. It was over.
I'm here. He was here.
Her voice was thinner than she wanted it to be and shamefully tremulous. "I … " Her voice failed her, the fear stealing away her ability to talk. She didn't want to be afraid because it would mean that Bartholomew had finally broken her, but God, God, oh God, he had terrified her.
Mary. Mary. Mary.
She looked at him again.
Rathe. It was Rathe. He was Rathe.
She gasped out, "Rathe."
The need in her voice ate at him, and he pulled her back into his arms. He would fucking kill that son of a bitch, Rathe thought. He would get his hands on him one day soon, and life as Bartholomew knew it would never be the same again. Oh no. That bloody bugger would wish he was dead after he experienced what Rathe had planned for him.
Looking down at the shaking girl in his arms, Rathe felt his chest constricting and contracting in fear. He didn't think he would ever forget the image of Mary, lying so helplessly on the floor like a broken doll.
"Mary." He said her name like it was a talisman, like it was proof that she was indeed alive in his arms.
She clutched his shoulders more tightly, as if him saying her name meant he was about to say goodbye to her. "Don't. Leave."
He laughed harshly. "No one can bloody take me away from you at this point." His heart thundered hard against his chest. How was it possible that this girl found it so bloody easy to get under his skin? He wasn't just sexually attracted to her now. He was bloody obsessed.
"Rathe … "
Hearing the plea in her voice, he cupped her face with both hands, making her look at him. "I'm sorry for not arriving sooner and preventing him from beating you up." Broken ribs, bruises all over, and a trauma that Rathe knew would take a long time for Mary to forget. All those were even more reasons for him to kill Bartholomew Grenville the moment Slater found him.
Just one powerful punch from Rathe was enough to get the man off Mary. Never an idiot when it came to self-preservation, Bartholomew hadn't paused for breath as he made his escape, knowing the other man would be too busy checking on Mary to go after him right away.
Mary's stepfather was now on the run with her mother in tow.
Shaking her head at Rathe's reassurances, she forced herself to speak of her greatest worry. "H-he … wanted to rape---"
"He wasn't able to."
Her eyes begged for him to say the truth.
"The doctors can prove it to you, little pearl. He did not rape you."
She started to cry. She would gladly let herself be beat up again rather than let Bartholomew take possession of her body. She felt Rathe pulling her towards him again, his embrace both fierce and gentle at the same time in its protectiveness.
"My mother?"
He answered grimly, "With your stepfather. But I've already set the best detective on their trail. We'll find them soon, I promise you." She didn't speak, but he could sense her unease and pain. "Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it for you."
She looked up at him with scared eyes. "Where do I go now?" She didn't think she could face being alone in her room, knew that the place would always remind her that she had almost been raped.
For once, his nobility was defeated, his instinct and training for doing what was right and just vanquished by the strength of his obsession.
Rathe said thickly, "You come to my side, where you belong."
She said shakily, "As your mistress?"
He did not answer, knowing he didn't need to.
Oh God, was she ready – would she ever be ready to be his mistress?
But then, did she really have a choice?
Slowly, she nodded.
His eyelids fell, hooding his gaze. He didn't want her to see the triumph blazing in his eyes. Rathe bent down to kiss her, sweetly taking her lips, reminding her that what a man and woman did could and would still be beautiful, given the right partner.
"You will be my mistress, little pearl?" He needed her to say it, needed her to openly accept his claim.
She took a deep breath. "I will be your mistress … for as long as you need me."
Rathe's chest eased. He hadn't realized he hadn't been bloody breathing until he had gotten the answer he wanted.
Gently, he laid her back on the bed and when he started to move away, her fingers curled around his wrist. The action seemed to surprise both of them, Rathe freezing while Mary let go of his wrist abruptly, her eyes bemused.
"What is it?" He tried to keep his voice calm, tried not to let her know how much the need in that touch had called out to Rathe.
She needed him.
He shouldn't like that she needed him, but he did.
Mary shook her head, looking away as she mumbled, "Nothing."
He took the vacant chair next to the bed, resting one elbow on the mattress as he gently reached out to her, making Mary face him again. Fear and confusion blended in her gaze.
Again, his chest contracted.
She needed him.
Why was that so addictive?
"Sleep now," he said thickly, unable to stop himself from reaching out to her again, caressing one pale cheek. He frowned, feeling it slightly wet, knowing it was because she had cried even in her sleep. "It will be fine now, Mary."
She only gazed at him.
"Do you believe me?"
Did she believe him?
It was so hard to think clearly when half of her remembered Bartholomew's brutal attack while the other half wanted to lose itself in Rathe, to hide inside him and let him use his strength and power to shield her from the world.
She felt his knuckle rubbing her cheek and she turned to it instinctively. "Yes." The word came from her heart.
He exhaled, as if releasing the last of the tension that kept his body stiff.
She inhaled, wanting to surround herself with his scent, knowing it would be her protection against the nightmares. She waited for him to leave, telling herself she would not make a fuss about being alone. But he did not, staying there all the time, quiet but alert, his body always in contact with hers. A brush of their arms, his fingers combing through her hair, his lips pressing against her cheek---
Was this how a man loved his mistress?
Perhaps it was, but she knew it would not be forever because that was how mistresses were throughout history. They were loved so passionately for a moment and despised for eternity after.
Her eyelids fell as drowsiness blanketed her entire mind. She said with a soft yawn she couldn't stop, "Rathe?"
"Mm?"
"What will happen now?"
He slowly smiled, reaching out to smooth her hair back and brush away her already longish bangs so he could see her completely. She was already half asleep, and he knew what he would say wouldn't really sink in.
"We look for a home."
She snuggled closer to his arm, the heat of his body warming her. She thought he had said they were going to look for a home, but surely she was mistaken.
Chapter Seven
"A house?" she asked dumbly the next day, gaping at Rathe, who had clearly lost his ducal mind. Why ever would they look for a house?
Across the living room, Rathe stood behind the wine bar, pouring himself a shot. He was dressed in a black turtleneck and dark gray slacks, which was the most casual she had seen of him. It was a new side to Rathe, and she instinctively knew that he did not dress so casually with anyone. The knowledge held her in quiet awe, making her feel even shyer and more awkward around him.
Rathe caught her gazing at him and she hurriedly looked away.
He laughed, the sound rich and dark, and even from across the room, it was a seductive sound that played with her senses like a musician's fingers played with the strings of a violin. Oh, how fast and hard she had fallen for him. One day, she was just Mary, the girl who longed childishly to be noticed by Professor Byron. Now, she was mistress to Rathe Wellesley, the Duke of Flanders – and let her not forget that he was also England's #1 Heartthrob.
She let out a little gasp when he was suddenly kneeling in front of her. He had carried her from the bed earlier, waking her up gently for dinner and depositing her on the couch after. The meds still kept her feeling pleasantly numb, like she was floating. Or maybe it wasn't the meds at all and just Rathe.
"How are you feeling?"
His tone was serious and she frowned in response. "The doctors told you I'm okay already. I just need a few more days of bed rest and then I can go back to school. I just need to make sure that my ribs stay bandaged---" She stopped when she saw him shake his head. "What?"
"You're not going to back to class like that."
Mary blinked several times at him, sure that she wasn't hearing him right. "What do you mean?"
She looked so young and innocent when she looked at him like that, Rathe thought broodingly. It made the age gap between them even more obvious, and he wondered if this was what had drawn his father to his mother in the first place.