Ella knelt between his thighs, holding onto his arm, and she could feel him tense, as if he wanted to rip his hand away. In fact, it wasn’t just his arm that had tensed, it was his whole body, as if he wanted to push his chair back and stalk from the room. But he wouldn’t, she’d made sure of that by leaning against his legs. Leaving would mean shoving her out of the way, and she’d counted on the fact that he’d be reluctant to do that.

Turned out she was right.

He looked away from her, leaning back in the chair, his muscles relaxing. Though she didn’t make the mistake of thinking he himself was relaxed in any way. She could sense the tension still vibrating away inside him.

Had it really been the best idea to push him like this? Then again, she knew that if she didn’t push, he’d simply steamroll right over her the way he’d been doing for the past couple of weeks already.

She couldn’t let him do that, not anymore. It was clear he had no idea what a relationship actually was, seemingly puzzled by the fact that she wanted to know more about him. And even though she wasn’t sure herself why it was important that he understand this, she’d decided that was her line in the sand all the same.

When he wanted something from her, he’d have to give her something in return.

Of course he’d tried to distract her, then he’d tried to get out of it with that blow-job bargain, thinking she’d refuse. Well, she hadn’t refused. Sure, she’d been embarrassed at the thought of sucking him off in the middle of a public restaurant, not to mention nervous, but she had a point to prove and she’d be damned if he thought he could scare her away before she could.

She hadn’t thought she’d enjoy it so much herself, or that the taste of him would be so good. Thick and hot and salty. Then there had been the sense of power as she’d closed her lips around him. He’d thought he was the one in charge, but he wasn’t—she’d realized that the moment she’d taken him into her mouth. She’d seen the pleasure on his face, seen the hunger. Seen how helpless he was against it. And no matter that she was at his feet with his hand painfully tight in her hair, and that doing this to him had been a bargain he’d forced on her, she knew she wasn’t the one who was vulnerable. He was.

She felt it now too, looking up into the tense lines of his beautiful face. There was an ache between her thighs and she could taste him in her mouth, and part of her wanted to crawl up into his lap, spread her legs and lift her dress, and slide right down onto that long, thick cock of his. But she’d insisted on this and so she had to keep going. Keep pressing.

“That,” he said, after what seemed like forever, “is from a hunting knife.”

She glanced down at the thick white line crossing his wrist and frowned. “What? Was it an accident?” The scar was straight across, and even though it was ragged, it sure didn’t look like an accident. There were others too, along his forearm, and she’d also seen a couple up around his biceps, hidden by the white cotton of his shirt. Straight and regular and purposeful.

“No,” Rafe said slowly. “It wasn’t an accident.”

“You mean you cut yourself on purpose?”

He turned his head, looking down at the scars on his arm. “Yes, I cut myself on purpose.”

An electric bolt of shock went through her. She stared at him, not understanding. “Why would you do that?”

His gaze lifted to hers, and for some reason the expression in his eyes felt painful. “Because I wasn’t a well-behaved young man.”

She swallowed, her mouth gone dry. “I don’t . . . know what you mean.”

He sighed and shifted again, leaning forward until his face was very close to her, that light, mesmerizing gaze inches away. “I went to my grandfather’s to be fixed, Little Red. Because I couldn’t control myself. And to put things very simply, that’s exactly what he did.”

But no, that still didn’t make any sense to her. “How? I mean, how did he fix you?”

“He gave me consequences for bad behavior.”

Foreboding twisting in her gut. Consequences. . . . “Do I want to know what those consequences were?”

“I’m sure if you think hard enough, you can work them out. But I’ll give you a clue all the same. The first time I had a tantrum, he locked me in the root cellar. He told me he wouldn’t let me out until I’d gotten control of myself.” He paused and the foreboding inside her squeezed even harder. “It took two days.”

“Two days,” she echoed, the implications not really sinking in.

“After the first couple of hours, when I’d screamed myself hoarse, I tried to smash down the door.” Slowly he closed one hand into a fist and she could see a whole lot of little white scars marring his knuckles. “That’s where those scars came from. Needless to say the door didn’t open.”

“But. . . . but. . . .” she began uncertainly.

“He gave me a cup of water after the first twelve hours, but he wouldn’t let me out. Not even to go to the bathroom. I pleaded, I begged. I told him I wasn’t angry anymore, but he always knew. He knew I was a fucking liar.” The look on Rafe’s face had turned strangely wistful. As if these were good memories. “He didn’t feed me anything, so I was starving and filthy when he let me out, and you’d have thought I would have learned my lesson. But I hadn’t. The next time, he beat me with his belt before he locked me in the cellar, and I was bleeding, crying like a fucking baby. I don’t know how long I was in there that time. Longer than two days, that’s for sure.”

He’d been locked in a root cellar. Repeatedly. For days. After being beaten. Horror turned over inside her, big and slow like a lazy animal.

He looked down at his fist, curling his fingers and stretching them out. “I was a slow learner, but after those experiences I tried. Of course I fucked up. He gave me a couple of burns the next time, with the poker from the fire, and that really hurt, but then I’d tried to take a swing at him so I pretty much deserved it. I think he locked me up for . . . five days? I can’t remember. But it was then that I figured out how pain could be a good focus. How it could keep me in control of myself. And when the pain from the burns faded, I found this hunting knife and I . . . gave myself a little cut.” His fingers brushed over the ragged scar. “Right here. Bled like a bitch, but it worked. Saved me another day down in that fucking cellar.”

Ella couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone was squeezing all the air out of her lungs and filling them with concrete. He had scars like this one all over his body. So many scars . . .

She had gone cold. Her fingers, her toes. Everywhere. And she didn’t know what was worse, the fact that he was almost smiling, as if proud of himself, or that terrible wistful look he’d had before. As if these memories were pleasant ones.

They are pleasant. You can see it in his face.

“Rafe . . .” she began.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said before she could finish. “You’re thinking my grandfather abused me. And I guess you’d be right. It’s not normal for a man to beat and cut and burn his grandson before locking him up for days on end in the cellar, right?” His voice sounded so matter-of-fact, as if none of this was a big deal. “But you’re wrong. He was doing this for my own good. He was doing this because I was unmanageable. Because my family didn’t fucking care enough to fix me. But he did.”

“Rafe,” she said again, because she didn’t know what else to say. She had no words to describe the combination of dread and horror and shock inside her.

He looked at her, frowning slightly, as if her reaction was puzzling to him. “It’s okay, Ella. It hurt at the time and yes, it was a hard lesson to learn. But I learned it. My grandfather fixed me.”

“He hurt you.” She could barely bring herself to say it.

“Yes, he did. But it’s fine. I don’t regret it. Especially when I got to come back to New York and show my father that he was wrong. That I wasn’t broken after all.” The smile that curved his mouth now was dark and somehow frightening. “Dad thought he could simply get rid of me. That once I was out of sight, I was out of mind. Poor bastard. He had no idea.”

She shivered. The look in Rafe’s eyes was pure silver. No blue. A glittering look that reminded her of knife blades and sharp edges. And beneath that . . . a deep, flickering rage.

A couple of weeks ago she would have run from the room, scared out of her mind. But she wasn’t that Ella anymore. She wasn’t the anxious little girl. She was Little Red, so instead she closed her hands around his scarred fist and looked up into his face. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice gone husky.

The glittering expression in his eyes faded. “What are you sorry for?”

“For the way your grandfather hurt you.” She tightened her fingers around his fist. “He shouldn’t have done it, Rafe. That’s not . . . the way you help a child.”

Rafe shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. And whether he should have done that to a child or not is irrelevant. He did what he thought was right. I was broken and he fixed me and if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I wouldn’t be the man I am today.”

Ella couldn’t drag her gaze from his, horror and shock making her feel sick. It was clear he believed every word he said and no wonder, because the alternative was . . .

Nothing but pain and suffering for no reason at all.

Tears filled her eyes. And he noticed. His frown deepened and gently he took his fist from her grip, closing those scarred hands around her cold fingers instead. “No,” he said softly. “Don’t cry. Not for me. There’s nothing to be sad about. I’m fine now. I’m fixed. It’s all better, understand?”

But she didn’t think it was. He could barely talk about himself, let alone his scars, which told her that no matter what he said, the experience had been horrific. And anyway, who was “all better” after something like that had happened to them? He was guarded and secretive and manipulative, no question, yet his confession made her question whether that was something he was, as she’d initially thought, or whether that was the man he’d become after his grandfather’s “treatment.”

It’s not.

The thought was instinctive and even though she didn’t know where it had come from, she knew it was true all the same. Because despite all his considerable flaws, there was a sweetness to him too, a caring, protective side. He’d handled the horrible situation with Aurora without a murmur of protest. He massaged her feet and her legs every night after a performance. He’d watched a whole lot of Star Wars movies with her. He’d taken her out to do a few of the things she liked to do. He’d given her so much pleasure . . .

Rafe raised Ella’s hands and kissed her knuckles lightly. Then he smiled at her as if nothing was wrong. “So, those are where I got my scars from. Do you think we can have dinner now?”

Automatically Ella nodded and rose to her feet, going back to her own chair. But she was operating on autopilot, her head too full of what he’d just told her, the implications settling down into her like a slow-moving frost.

Once she’d sat down, the waiter, who’d obviously been waiting for some signal, appeared with their starters. Rafe was talking about something, but Ella barely heard him. Somewhere along the line she’d lost her appetite, and when the soup appeared before her, she felt almost sick.

She couldn’t get it out of her head. Rafe, a fourteen-year-old boy, locked in a root cellar for two days because of a temper tantrum. Then he’d been beaten. And burned. . . .

Ella reached for her soupspoon and picked it up, forcing herself to eat, even though she wanted quite desperately to leave. But she could hardly do that, not after she’d demanded he tell her all about the scars that covered him.

Oh God, why had she done that?

Guilt shifted in her gut. She should never have asked. The story behind scars like that was never going to be a pleasant one and yet she’d insisted, made him tell her.

“Ella,” Rafe said, his voice dragging her out of her own head. “You’re zoning out on me. Am I going to have to insist on another blow job?”

How could he sit there as if none of that had happened to him? As if he hadn’t been beaten and tortured and abused. As if it was all fine, and he was better, and nothing was wrong?

Her spoon dropped to the table with a clatter.

“I’m sorry, Rafe,” she said shakily. “I can’t do this after all.”

* * *

He let her leave, saying nothing as she shoved her chair back and left the restaurant without a backward glance. He was proud of himself for that.

He didn’t follow her either, remaining at the table and finishing his starter, because he’d be damned if he let good food go to waste.

After he’d finished, he sat back in his chair and sipped his champagne, watching the lights of the city outside.

“Well, that was another successful dinner,” he said to the empty room.

He let a few minutes pass before texting one of his personal assistants to check the Hart residence. She wouldn’t go back to his apartment—he knew that much already—she’d go somewhere else. And there was only one other place she’d go. He wasn’t worried. She’d be there.

Space, he’d give her space. Wasn’t that what women needed when they were upset? Not that he knew. He’d never had a woman get upset with him. He preferred it when they liked him.

Something heavy was sitting behind his breastbone, but he didn’t want to examine it, so he waited at the dinner table as his meal was brought out. He got the waiter to box up Ella’s steak and fries—she’d probably be hungry later—and keep it heated. Swapping his champagne for red wine, he slowly ate, watching the lights, relishing the venison he’d ordered.

Afterward, he sat there, cradling his wine in one hand, the heavy sensation in his chest getting heavier and heavier.

He didn’t know what had happened. She’d wanted the story of his scars and so he’d given them to her. And then she’d gotten upset and he still didn’t know why. He’d told her it was okay. That he was okay. That sure, it had been a hard lesson his grandfather had told him, but he’d learned it and he was a better man for it. A stronger man. There was no reason for her to get upset, none at all.

So why had she left?

His phone buzzed on the table and he picked it up, glancing down at the text on the screen. Good. She was exactly where he’d thought she’d be. That was something at least.

He began to put his phone down on the table and as he did so, his attention caught on his exposed wrist. On the scar he’d cut there with that old hunting knife. The one she’d looked at, the one she’d touched.

He’d never been ashamed of those scars, not once. No, he’d always been proud of them, the way his grandfather had been. Evidence of how he’d learned to manage himself, fix himself. But now, as he stared at the white line on his wrist, he felt the heavy sensation in his chest shift.

The scar was ragged, the skin twisted at one end. There was another next to it, just as ragged. But the one after that was a bit cleaner, a bit neater. He’d learned how to cut himself without so much damage, without so much blood, and he’d always found the progression of the scars soothing.

But Ella . . . She’d gone white when he’d told her, horror written all over her lovely features. And there had been tears in her eyes.

A sick feeling turned over inside him and for some reason he found himself pushing his sleeve over the scars. Hiding them.

Rafe cleared his throat, shoving the sick feeling away and draining the rest of his wine. Not that he was ashamed of those scars, never that. It was just a pity he’d upset Ella with them. But he’d find her, he’d make it okay.

He hadn’t forgotten that she’d told him that she was scared. That she didn’t know what was happening between them. He’d thought he’d been clear with her about what that was, but apparently he hadn’t been clear enough.

His intention had always been that she would stay with him. That she wouldn’t want to ever leave. Not that he’d let her anyway, but that was beside the point. She’d stay with him because she chose to, because she needed to be with him, because she couldn’t contemplate the alternative. That was it. End of story.

He probably needed to make sure she understood.

Putting his wine back down on the table, he pushed his chair back and stood. She’d had enough space. It was time to go find her.

The bill was already handled, but he left a stack of cash on the table as a tip that would probably make the waiter’s night for the rest of the year. Then he made his way down to where Clive had parked the limo.

The Hart residence wasn’t far from the restaurant, though the traffic was a killer, and it took him a good fifteen minutes to get there. Murmuring some instructions to Clive, Rafe got out and made his way up the steps. The door was locked, but he had his father’s key so it wasn’t a problem to unlock it and step inside.

The entranceway was high ceilinged, with a thick carpet on the floor and a staircase to the left, leading both up and down.

For a second he stood in silence. There were memories here, of the occasional visit as a boy when he’d come with his father, of Ella stumbling down those stairs, a smile a mile wide on her little face, screaming “Wafe” at the top of her lungs.

But he didn’t want to think of those memories, not now. Instead, he listened. His hearing was sharp, and sure enough, the sounds of music drifted up from the staircase.

Of course. Not that he’d any doubt about where she’d be.

He took the stairs down, following the sounds of Vivaldi, moving along a short, dark corridor to a door. The dance studio Ella’s father had created for her mother.

The door was closed but he didn’t hesitate, turning the knob and pulling it open, light flooding out.

It wasn’t a very big room, but the mirror lining one wall made it seem bigger than it was. The floor was hardwood and a serviceable ballet barre ran beside the mirror. Music filled the room from a couple of speakers set on the walls. Vivaldi, as he’d thought. The Four Seasons. Winter. How appropriate.

Ella stood by the mirror down one end of the room with her back to him. She wore a pink leotard and a pair of pink satin ballet shoes, her hair caught up in high ponytail. She was up on her toes, in first position, her arms raised above her head, elbows bent gracefully in an arc. Under the lights, her skin gleamed with sweat, outlining the lithe muscularity of her legs and her arms. It was clear she’d been dancing and dancing hard.

His breath caught.

Jesus. She was so beautiful. She’d had pain and she had her own scars too, and even so, she stood tall. So strong. How did she get to be that strong? For the briefest second he would have given anything to know her secret. Anything at all.

Her gaze met his in the mirror without surprise, almost as if she’d been expecting him. But she didn’t say anything, nor did she move. Her eyes were red, her mouth soft and vulnerable-looking.

Rafe moved over to a chair that stood against one wall, picking up the remote that sat on it and pressing the pause button. The music fell silent.

Ella’s arms dropped slowly to her sides. “How did you know I was here?”

“There weren’t many places you could be. I knew you wouldn’t go back to my apartment.”

She looked away from him, her attention on her own reflection in the mirror.

He walked slowly over to her, coming to stand behind her. She was so small that even when she was up on her toes, he could see over her head.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice had gotten husky. “I ruined your dinner.”

He very much wanted to touch her, but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and she looked like she still needed some space. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, he looked over her head, meeting her gaze in the glass in front of them. “Don’t worry. We can always have another.”

“I shouldn’t have walked out. I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have asked you about . . .” She trailed off, slowly sinking down as she came off her toes.

“Like I told you, it’s fine. I’m fine.” And he was. Why couldn’t she see that?

She looked away and a silence fell.

He should probably stand back and give her some room, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to do it. The scent of her—rain-soaked roses and clean sweat—made him want to bury his face in her neck and taste her, but he’d told himself now wasn’t the time and so he’d wait.

“I lost my parents really quickly,” she said at last and quietly. “One minute my mother was trying to stop me from running into traffic, the next she was on the ground, unconscious. She was too busy making sure I was okay and just . . . slipped on the pavement, a freak accident. She never woke up. And then my dad was so worried about me and how I was coping after she died, so busy staying strong for me, that he ignored symptoms he should have paid attention to.” She swallowed. “He died quickly too, within a month of Mom’s death. Afterward I got so . . . afraid. Just terrified all the time. That something would happen to Aurora or that something would happen to me. That I’d lose her or that she’d lose me. And the thought hurt so much that I found it difficult to do anything. To go anywhere.” Those lovely gray eyes met his in the mirror again. “I don’t know how you did it, Rafe. I don’t know how you went through all of that pain and came out the other side.” A tear gleamed in the corner of one eye, glittering in the light. “The pain of losing my folks was terrible, and then the fear afterward. I barely survived it. But what you went through . . .”

She didn’t know. How could she not know? Then again, she hadn’t been the one sitting in a darkened theater watching herself dance for four years, had she?

He’d been very clear with himself that he wasn’t to touch her, but the need was too strong and he couldn’t fight it anymore. Taking his hands out of his pockets, he let his fingers rest gently on her hips, feeling the warmth of her soak into his skin, at the same time as he held her gaze in the mirror. “You’re a dancer, Ella. You know what pain is.”

“Yes, but physical pain is—”

“Different? No. It’s not. Pain is pain. It’s your mind that changes it, makes it either unbearable or worth suffering. Pain itself is just pain. But you’re the one who gets to choose what type of pain it is.” He tugged her back slightly, so her warmth was up against his, the scent of her all around him. “My pain made me stronger, that’s how I survived. I was the one who decided that I would use it, that it would not use me. I was the master and I was the one who controlled it.” He lifted her, pulling her up so she rose en pointe again. “And you do the same. Every time you step out onto that stage. It hurts to dance, I know it does. But you control it, you’re the master of it. You don’t let it stop you, just like you don’t let your fear get the better of you.”

She blinked, that tear sliding down her cheek reminding him that the heavy thing in his chest was still there and it was still just as heavy as it had been in the restaurant. “But it does get the better of me,” she said. “I’m not as strong as you. I had to leave tonight because I just couldn’t bear hearing about what happened to you. I couldn’t even listen, yet you lived through it.”

“But you are as strong as me. Don’t you understand?” He slid one arm around her waist, holding her more firmly, keeping his gaze locked with hers so she could see the certainty in his eyes. “The reason I’ve been watching you all these years, Ella Hart, is because of your strength. I saw it every time you went out on that stage. Every single time you danced. I wanted to know how you did it. How you got to be so strong, how you got to be so passionate and yet so in control of it. Because every time I watched you, I felt like it was possible for me to do the same.”

She stared at him, the look in her eyes a strange combination of emotions he couldn’t untangle. He didn’t know if what he was trying to tell her made any difference at all, but suddenly he wanted it to.

“Why would you think you’re not strong?” he demanded, watching another tear fall. “Who told you that?”

“No one. I’m an only child, so Mom and Dad were very protective of me. And I remember finding their restrictions annoying. So the day Mom died, I was doing my usual thing of not listening to her and rushing on ahead, because I didn’t want to hear her telling me to be careful, and I . . .” She stopped, swallowing again. “It was my fault. She was too busy watching me to take care herself, and so she slipped. And then Dad ignored his cancer symptoms so he wouldn’t worry me.” Her chest heaved. “That was my fault too. If I’d been stronger, maybe they wouldn’t have worried so much about me. Maybe they wouldn’t have tried so hard to protect me.”

He stared at her, the heavy boulder in his chest shifting around, hurting, and he couldn’t stand it. With his free hand, he gripped her chin, turning her head to the side and tilting it back, so she was looking directly into his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said fiercely. “You were thirteen, for fuck’s sake. And they were your parents. It doesn’t matter how strong you were. They were supposed to worry about you. They were supposed to protect you.” Something rang oddly in his head as he said the words, but he ignored it, because this—her—was too important. “Perhaps your mother calling out and then slipping actually saved you from being hit by a car. And perhaps your father ignoring his cancer symptoms gave you a couple of weeks of grieving your mother without having to worry about him. Did you ever think of that?”

She shook her head, more tears slipping down her cheeks.

“Their job was to protect you, Ella. And they did. Why do you think they kept you away from me, for God’s sake? You can’t blame yourself for their deaths, because I’m pretty fucking certain that’s the last thing they would have wanted.”

She took a breath at that, staring at him, her eyes red and her cheeks shiny. “Maybe they did protect me. But they also left me, Rafe. And I’m scared. I’m scared of being alone.”

“You’re not alone.” He stared deep into her eyes. “You have me.”

Another long moment passed where she simply looked at him.

Then she moved, turning around in his arms so she was facing him, coming up onto her toes, lifting her hands. And she was pulling his mouth down on hers, kissing him hungrily, desperately.

Pushing her away would have been the gentlemanly thing to do, because she was very upset and the evening had been full of shocks. Not to mention the fact that he’d made her give him a blow job underneath the table at the restaurant. But her leotard was damp from exertion, he could feel it beneath his fingers, and she wasn’t wearing anything but her panties underneath it. And her nipples were pressing against his shirt and they were hard. And he would have done anything to stop her tears, anything to make her feel better.

Anything to make her see that she was strong, that she wasn’t alone.

He lifted his hands to the fabric of her leotard and jerked, pulling the stretchy fabric off her shoulders and down her arms, getting them free before tugging it down her torso.

She gasped, shivering, her mouth open and hungry on his, her hands going to the buttons on his shirt and fumbling with them. Then she gave a cry of frustration and simply jerked the fabric open. The buttons tore, bouncing onto the floor, and then her hands were on his skin, touching him, stroking him.

A shudder went through him. He only had her leotard half off and already he could hardly breathe for the intensity of the desire that gripped him, suffocating him. Then she tore her mouth from his and began to kiss her way down his neck, her teeth against his skin, her hands moving over his bare chest and down, stroking the scars on his side from his grandfather’s belt, and then the ones on his stomach, the shiny ones from the burns.

It was too much. She was too much.

He tore her leotard off, just ripped that fucking thing out of his way, her panties too, leaving her naked but for her ballet shoes, then he put firm hands on her hips and turned her forcefully around.

“No,” she panted, trying to turn back to him. “I want to touch you.”

“Look,” he said, ignoring her. “Look at yourself in the mirror. Do you see how strong you are? Do you see it?”

She didn’t want to look, he could tell. But after a moment she turned her head, because she was fucking brave and he’d always known that.

“Look at you,” he murmured, lifting one hand to cup her breast, moving the other slowly down to the nest of soft golden curls between her thighs. “Look at how beautiful. Stay en pointe, Little Red, just like that. And don’t move. Show me how strong you really are.”