“No one has ever wanted me,” she whispered. “They’ve wanted what I can do, what my abilities can do, but never me. Do you know what that feels like?”
Caleb’s expression softened and his eyes darkened, not with pity, because that truly would have driven her over the edge. But with understanding.
“We aren’t as different as you think,” he said quietly. “I’m a Devereaux. And people—women—want what that name brings. Money, power, prestige. But they don’t want me. Caleb. They want Caleb Devereaux.”
Sharp understanding hit her and shame burned her cheeks. She was so self-absorbed, so ensconced in her own pity party that she failed to see beyond her own issues. Caleb had considered her selfish, before, when he hadn’t known how her abilities worked. He wasn’t wrong. She was selfish. And it wasn’t a pleasant revelation.
She’d gone through her whole life expecting the worst, settling for the worst. Never fighting for more. Never expecting more. How could she hope to gain more if she didn’t demand it?
She’d spent so much time railing at the injustice of it all and poor little unloved Ramie. She’d allowed herself to be stripped of her soul. No one had done that to her. She’d done it to herself. Because she wasn’t strong. Because it never occurred to her to want more than what she’d been dealt. Or to go after happiness instead of waiting for it to be magically bestowed on her. Instead she’d wallowed in her own misery for a decade.
Right here, right now, right in front of her stood someone who professed to care about her. Not her abilities. He wasn’t asking her for anything. She’d be a fool to walk away even though it meant endangering him—his entire family. Maybe together, they could fight.
“I want you,” she said softly. “Me, Caleb. I want you. No matter what your last name is.”
FOURTEEN
CALEB stared back at Ramie, at the fear and vulnerability in her eyes, and marveled at what it must have taken for her to open herself up to him. There was doubt and her expression was troubled, not exactly the kind of reaction a man wanted to see on the face of the woman he planned to get intimate with, but Ramie wasn’t most women. Most women hadn’t seen the world through Ramie’s eyes.
He reached for the hands that had dropped his just moments before, and he knew why she’d severed the link between them. But he was calmer now, and he wanted her to see—to know—that she had nothing to fear from him.
She shivered when he tugged her back into his arms and her body went soft and pliant against his frame. There was still a hint of dampness in her hair. Hair that smelled like honeysuckle.
He wanted to take her to bed. Right now. He wanted to spend the entire day making love to her. Showing her without inept words the ever-strengthening bond between them.
Instead he smoothed his hand over the top of her curly hair and stroked reassuringly, getting her used to being touched by someone. A man. A man who had no intention of hurting her. It occurred to him that her sole experience with sex might be the degrading crimes that had been committed against so many women Ramie had helped.
And if that was the case, then he had to handle her with extreme caution. No rushing her into physical and emotional intimacy before she was ready. Yes, he wanted her to be able to depend on him. Willing to depend on him and trust him. But he didn’t want to be her crutch. For him to merely be a coping mechanism when he wanted so much more.
He dropped a kiss on top of her head as he continued to caress her back and nape, tangling his fingers periodically in the unruly strands of hair. And he simply enjoyed the feeling of her in his arms. Of her standing in his home and him knowing that she was safe. Not out there alone and vulnerable. Afraid that each breath would be her last. It was no way to live. And certainly no way to die.
Thank God she’d called him. Else he’d still be searching for her. Or worse, she could be in her stalker’s hands suffering indescribable torture.
He closed his eyes against that image and inhaled through his nose so he wouldn’t flood her with rage all over again.
There was too much anger and animosity in this house as it was. Caleb had never given thought to whether Tori would object so strenuously to Ramie’s presence. It wasn’t until Ramie’s explanation that he understood.
He hated feeling so goddamn helpless. If he gave in to his sister then Ramie suffered. She could die. She would die. If he dug in his heels, as he’d already done, he’d cause a rift between him and Tori that might never be mended.
“I want you to fight for your right to be here,” he murmured.
She stiffened and pulled away, glancing up at him with those troubled gray eyes that seemed too enormous for her face. Eyes that had several lifetimes of violence and pain behind them.