The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Her eyes were red from tears and her cheeks were shiny—and her nose was pink too. She was also naked.

The woman in the mirror should have looked vulnerable, especially with the man standing behind her so tall and powerful. He had one hand on her breast and the other covering her sex, and those strong, possessive hands, tanned and scarred against her pale flesh, should have made her look weak and fragile.

But she didn’t look weak or fragile.

Her body was gleaming with sweat, her muscles tense from the posture she was holding. And she had her chin lifted, as if daring the world to take her on. No, not the world. She was daring him.

Ella met Rafe’s gaze in the mirror, the hunger inside her beginning to change, to become something different. She’d kissed him out of grief, because telling him about her parents and her own guilt and fear had hurt, and she’d wanted his mouth on hers to make her forget. To make herself feel better.

But now . . .

Now she wanted to see. She wanted him to show her what he saw when she danced. She wanted to see her own strength. Because she was tired of the grief and the guilt. She was tired of the fear.

There was strength inside her. She knew this because she felt it when she danced. But she’d never actually seen it herself and now she wanted to.

His hand on her breast moved, his thumb rubbing over her nipple, back and forth, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through her, making her take a ragged, gasping breath.

She stared at the woman in the mirror, at the way she was standing up on her toes, her pose steady and solid as the man behind her touched her, stroked her. As his hand moved between her thighs, one long scarred finger sliding through her curls to her clit and circling slowly, adding another thread to the intense pleasure already building inside her.

She wanted to lean back against his heat, but she didn’t. She kept her gaze on what was happening right in front of her, on his hands on her, pinching her nipple now as the finger between her thighs dipped lower, to the entrance of her body, then sliding inside.

Her thighs trembled with the effort of keeping herself up en pointe, as pleasure wound around her, pulling tight. She kept looking at herself in the mirror, at her flushed face and her strangely darkened eyes. At the sheen of sweat that gathered at her throat and the way the muscles of her stomach contracted as his fingers moved slowly and steadily, stroking her, pinching her, playing with her.

Rafe turned his head into her neck and she shivered again as his breath chased over her bare skin and then his mouth. His lips brushed her shoulder, his teeth grazing her, nipping at her skin before soothing the slight hurt with his tongue.

She began to pant, the quick tempo of her breathing echoing. And she might have felt self-conscious about her own desire if she hadn’t seen the slight shake of his hands in the mirror. Satisfaction rolled through her, making her want to smile, because it wasn’t only her who was finding this hard to take. He was too.

His hands fell from her body and he stepped back quickly. She remained still, watching in the mirror as he took out his wallet and extracted a condom, undid his pants, and took himself out. Rolled down the latex.

Then he was behind her again, pushing her forward, making her have to take a few tiny little steps until they were standing right in front of the mirror.

“Hold onto the barre,” he ordered, his dark-honey voice as ragged as hers. “And stay en pointe. Don’t you fucking come out of it, understand?”

She merely leaned forward, placing her hands on the barre, and looked at him in the mirror, daring him to do his worst.

His eyes were very blue and she expected one of his fierce, feral smiles, but he didn’t give her one. Instead he stepped up behind her, and she felt his fingers against her sex, spreading her open. The sensation made her breath catch and then catch even harder as his cock began to push inside in a long, slick, slow glide.

God . . . The pleasure of it was almost too much, her hands tightening on the barre as her sex tightened around him.

“Not yet,” he hissed in her ear as his arm slid round her waist, hauling her back against him, angling her so he could push even deeper. “Don’t you fucking come yet.”

So she fought it, holding his gaze, letting him see just how fucking strong she really was.

He didn’t smile then either. He simply thrust and thrust hard, shoving her forward, making her have to clutch at that barre so she could keep her balance. A groan tore from her throat, because it was good, so good.

And then he was sliding back, before pushing in again, deep and hard. Making her thighs tremble, making her moan. Making her hold onto the wood for dear life because he wasn’t taking this slow or easy.

She didn’t look away as he began to fuck her faster, harder, and she was the one who gave his own feral, fierce smile back to him. Daring him. Challenging him. Because he was right, she was strong. It hurt to stay on her toes. It just hurt. Yet the pleasure he gave her was worth it. It made the pain something more, something deeper. Something good.

The look in his eyes lit as he saw her smile, and he began to move even faster, the sounds of their panting breaths filling the studio, the heat from their bodies fogging the mirror. And she took it and she took it and she took it. Holding back the annihilating pleasure of the climax with the sheer force of her will, ignoring the pain in her feet and the way her legs were trembling.

Until he slipped a hand between her thighs and stroked her clit, pressing down firmly. “Come, Little Red,” he murmured. “Watch yourself come. Now.”

And she did, staring at the woman in the mirror as the orgasm detonated inside her, as her mouth opened and she cried out. Watching the ecstasy unfurl over her own face, a part of her wondering, before she lost herself in the intensity of it, how amazing it was that pleasure could look almost exactly like pain.

She was hardly aware of anything after that, only of her name shouted hoarsely and echoing off the walls around them. And then, some time after, Rafe’s arms coming around her and lifting her up off her aching feet. He was taking her somewhere, though she didn’t much care where that was, feeling very content to simply lie in his arms, against his warm chest.

He wrapped her in a blanket at some point and she simply closed her eyes. She felt exhausted, but in a good way. It had been a hell of day, what with Aurora and then that dinner, and then the scars. . . .

Oh God. Rafe’s scars.

She kept her eyes closed, her face turned into his chest. They were in the limo, she could tell by the movement, and she was still naked, though her feet were no longer in her ballet shoes. The blanket felt good around her and she was very warm, but inside her chest, her heart ached.

He’d shown her something in the mirror that night. He’d shown her something about herself. And even though she was still trying to process it, she knew it had been something good.

But what had she given to him? She’d gotten caught up in her own grief, her own particular weaknesses, and in the midst of all of that, his own confession had somehow gotten lost. And now he was the one taking care of her . . .

He was always taking care of her. But who took care of him? Did he have anyone? Anyone at all?

She turned her head, opening her eyes and looking up. The light from the streets washed through the limo, illuminating the strong, sculpted lines of his face. A beautiful face. One capable of looking charming and unthreatening one moment, fierce and feral and frightening the next.

He was a chameleon, who showed people only what they wanted to see or what he wanted them to see, all the while keeping his real self hidden.

Who was the real Rafael de Santis? Did he himself even know?

She wished, suddenly and passionately, that she could remember what he’d been like as a kid. Why she was the only one who hadn’t been afraid of him? Had he really been broken? Or was it something else? Maybe he’d simply been a child crying out for the attention he’d never gotten.

The thought didn’t make the ache in her heart any easier, so she closed her eyes again and tried not to think about it. But she was very conscious all of a sudden of the careful way he handled her as he got her out of the car and headed inside. Holding her as if she was breakable as he carried her up the stairs to the white-tiled bathroom. And when they got in there, and he’d unwrapped her from the blanket, how he lowered her very carefully into a bath already full of hot water.

Then he quickly undressed and got in with her, running a thick, soft washcloth all over her before massaging the aching muscles of her legs. Taking care of her once again.

He didn’t talk as his hands moved over her, content with the silence—and she was too, because her chest ached and her head was too full. And she had a horrible feeling that there was one person in the world even lonelier than she was and it was the man at her back, tenderly washing the sweat from her skin.

She at least had Aurora, but Rafe, she suspected, had no one. Oh, he had a family, but it wasn’t the kind of family that looked after one another, not in the way her parents had looked after her. No. They’d sent Rafe away, hadn’t they? He’d said they hadn’t been able to manage him and so they’d sent him away to his grandfather’s place.

“They’re your parents . . . They were supposed to worry about you. They were supposed to protect you.”

His voice echoed in her head, and this time she heard the strained note in it. She understood what he’d been trying to tell her at the time, but now it took on a double meaning. Had he meant his own parents?

His body was big and warm behind hers, and she could feel the powerful muscles of his abs flex as he shifted to run the washcloth down her arm and back up again. She stared at his hand as it moved along her skin, at the white scars on his knuckles and at those on his forearm as well.

“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.”

Why did he have to show his father that? And why had his grandfather told him he was broken? Had he really been unmanageable? Had he even been broken in the first place?

Why do you care?

Well that was another question she didn’t know the answer to. But what she did know was that her heart ached for him and that he’d given her something tonight, and that she wanted to do something for him in return.

It wasn’t the right time now, but maybe later, when she’d figured some stuff out, it would be.

Reaching out, she took his hand and turned it over, bending to kiss the ragged scar on his wrist.

Then she let him go.

* * *

It was late when Rafe got home from work. He’d had a meeting with some officials from the military—discussing de Santis’s government contracts—and there had been some argument he’d had to smooth over with liberal applications of top quality scotch at one of Manhattan’s most exclusive downtown bars.

Normally he wouldn’t have had a problem with doing so, but part of him hadn’t wanted to be sitting there, talking to military blowhards. Part of him had wanted to be at home, with Ella. Where he didn’t have to charm anyone; where his brain wasn’t thinking three million steps in advance, trying to work out the advantage, the opportunity, and how he could manipulate it in his favor. Where he could sit and be at peace with her in his lap, watching 2001: A Space Odyssey and arguing about what the ending meant, or sitting at the dinner table the way they sometimes did, talking about the state of the world and how to solve it, or simply listening to her share gossip from the dance world.

Yes, the last couple of weeks with her had been good, though he’d wondered at the strange feeling that dogged him whenever he was in her presence. An unfamiliar feeling that he’d only managed to identify in the last couple of days. Happiness. Ella made him happy.

He felt it now as he finally pushed open the door of his apartment and stepped inside, the busy part of his mind relaxing at last, making him smile.

God, he couldn’t wait to see her.

He dumped his briefcase on the floor and his keys on the console table beside the door, then frowned.

Something smelled good, which meant . . . cooking. Who the hell was cooking? He’d cooked for her more than a few times recently and it obviously wasn’t him, which either meant it was his housekeeper or . . . Ella.

He went down the hall, pausing in the doorway to the kitchen.

She was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. Her hair was loose—just the way he liked it—and she was dressed casually in jeans and a blue tee that left one shoulder bare. She was humming to herself, and for a moment his throat tightened so much he couldn’t speak.

There was something about her standing there, humming as she cooked, her beautiful hair down her back and the vulnerable bare skin of her shoulder showing, that seemed to hit him squarely in the chest.

It was that heavy feeling that showed itself sometimes, making it difficult to not only speak, but to breathe as well. But it had never been this strong before, and he’d taken one hand in the other to pinch the skin between his thumb and forefinger before he knew what he was doing.

Like it always did, the pain cleared his head and the heavy sensation disappeared. Thank fuck.

He cleared his throat. “And who’s been cooking in my kitchen?”

Ella straightened at the sound of his voice and turned, a smile like the sun coming out illuminating her face. “All the better to feed you with.” She put down the spoon and came over to him, putting her hands on his chest and rising up on her toes to kiss him. “At last. I thought you were never coming home.”

He loved the faint annoyance in her voice, a note that told him she’d missed him, but it made that heavy sensation return again, and this time it felt like it wasn’t going to budge.

“I had a meeting.” He wanted to pull her close, deepen the kiss, but all his emotions were going haywire and he didn’t understand why, so he kept his hands to himself. “What’s going on?”

Her gray eyes sparkled. “I thought I’d cook you dinner.”

That was new. She’d never done that before. In fact, in the past month since she’d been living with him, he’d never seen her cook, not even once.

“You can cook?” he asked, stupidly, since it was obvious that she could, judging by the delicious smells coming out of that pot.

Her cheeks had gone pink, the bare skin of her shoulder tempting him to run his hands over it. “Not as well as you, but yes, I can cook a few dishes. Aurora taught me.”

His hands itched to touch her. Jesus, why was it so bad? It didn’t make any sense, not when he got to touch her more and more every day. Shit, he’d fucked them both into insensibility just that morning, which meant the urge shouldn’t be this strong.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he glanced toward the stove. “So do I get to know what it is you’re cooking for me?”

She put a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and for a second what looked like nervousness crossed her face. “It’s nothing fancy. Just lasagna.”

Lasagna. How . . . innocuous. When was the last time he’d had it? Years, probably. His father had hated it, so he’d never had it at home. But he remembered the taste of it, an old Italian recipe. Peasant food, someone had called it. Someone . . .

A strange, cold sensation swept over him.

Ella’s brow wrinkled. “Are you okay?”

He felt sick all of sudden, the smell turning from delicious to nauseating, and the cold was burrowing into him.

What the fuck was going on?

He closed his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms, and forced a smile. “Of course. Just tired. Big meeting with the military top brass, etcetera.”

But her frown didn’t lift. Her hand slipped around his waist, urging him toward the kitchen island and the stools beneath it. “Come and sit down. You look like you could use a glass of wine.”

The heavy thing in his chest, the nausea in his gut, and the cold feeling all tightened, deepened. He didn’t want to sit down with a glass of wine. He felt . . . strange. Sick. Antsy too, and oddly suffocated.

Christ, he had to get out of the kitchen. Now.

He tried to make it sound like nothing. “Sure. Let me get out of this suit.” He lifted a hand to pull at his tie and realized his fingers were shaking. And that she saw it.

Concern filled her eyes along with an anxiety he hadn’t seen in her for weeks. “Rafe?” she asked hesitantly. “What’s wrong?”

But he was already turning away, his heartbeat oddly loud in his head. “Nothing. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He went through the lounge to the stairs, breathing fast, like he’d just run a hundred miles. He was sweating.

In the bedroom he clawed off his tie, moving through to the ensuite bathroom, slamming the door closed, then running some water into the basin. As he undid the top couple of buttons on his shirt, he noticed his fucking hand was still shaking.

He couldn’t work out why he was feeling this way. Sure, watching Ella cook for him had been . . . strange. But it was the lasagna that had made him feel sick. Why? It was just fucking food.

You know why.

His brain refused to contemplate it, overwhelmed by a sudden, intense feeling of fear.

Panting, Rafe reached for the drawer of the vanity, jerking it open with far too much force, the whole thing coming out in his hand, spilling stuff everywhere. He tried to breathe, but it wasn’t working.

Then he saw it, the bone-handled knife, a DS Corp special. The one his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday, the same one he’d given to all his sons. Sharp, clean, the blade gleaming in the light.

He hadn’t used it for a long time. Years, even . . .

He crouched down to pick it up, then backed over to the edge of the tub and sat down. Shrugging out of his jacket, he undid the cuff of one sleeve and with small, precise movements, rolled it up to his elbow.

Slowly, carefully, that was key. Rush it and you risked cutting too deep.

What the fuck? You’re supposed to have managed this.

Well, he had. For years. But now there was Ella standing at the stove, and the smell of that lasagna, and that heavy thing in his chest that was crushing the life out of him, making him feel cold and sick and suffocated.

Like he was down in that root cellar again, with nothing but darkness pressing against his face.

He fought for a breath. One cut. That’s all. It would clear his head, make him feel better, more in control, more normal.

Trying to calm himself the fuck down, he laid the knife across his forearm, right next to an old scar, and pressed down, drawing the blade slowly across his skin.

Pain bloomed, as clear and bright and sharp as the blade itself, but it felt good, instantly clearing the sick feeling, making the suffocation recede and the heaviness in his chest get lighter. He closed his eyes, taking a few more deep breaths, letting the pain permeate through him, calming him.

“Rafe?” Ella’s voice came from the other side of the bathroom door.

He opened his eyes. Shit. She’d followed him?

“Rafe? Are you okay?”

“Of course.” He thought he sounded steady—at least, he hoped he sounded steady enough. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

There was a brief pause and for a moment he thought she’d gone.

Then all of a sudden the door opened, and there she was in the doorway, her concerned gray gaze meeting his before dropping down to where his arm rested on his thigh. Widening in shock.

It was too late to move. Too late to hide. Too late to slam the door in her face so she wouldn’t see.

It was too late to do anything but sit there, blood oozing from the cut on his arm, the knife still held loosely in his fingers.

“Oh my God!” She took a couple of quick steps toward him. “What have you—”

“Stop.” His voice shook, the order echoing around the room harshly, halting her in her tracks.

Rage was bubbling up inside him, a fierce protective rage. Because how dare she intrude on him? How dare she open the door and come in as if she had every right to invade his privacy like this?

It was one thing to tell her about his scars, quite another for her to see him adding to his collection.

You’re not supposed to be ashamed, remember? This is how you deal with it. This is how you stay in control.

No, he wasn’t ashamed. So why the fuck was he so angry?

He pushed himself off the edge of the bathtub, going slowly to stay in control of the fury that demanded he shove her out of the bathroom and slam the door in her face. Hide the evidence of his weakness.

“Did I say you could come in?” He tossed the knife casually onto the vanity. “No, I don’t think I did.”

Her gaze followed the knife, her face going bone white. “N-No. But I was worried. I didn’t know—”

“Get out,” he ordered, not letting her finish, hating the way his voice shook because reaction was setting in. He could feel the blood dripping down his wrist. It was going to get on the fabric of his pants if he wasn’t careful, and then it would harden. Christ he hated getting blood on his clothes.

Ella was breathing very fast, her eyes huge in her pale face. Her gaze darted to his wrist then back to his face again. “I-I can clean that for you. Let me . . .” She took a tentative step forward, her hand reaching out.

His rage burned brighter. He didn’t want her looking at that cut. Didn’t want her touching him. Didn’t want her taking care of him. What he wanted was for her to get the hell out.

You thought you were fixed, but you’re not. You’re just as broken as you ever were. And now she knows it too.

Shame filled him, oozing out of him like the blood from the cut on his wrist. And he found himself baring his teeth at her, every muscle in his body locking. “Didn’t you hear me? I said Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.”

All the color had leeched from her skin and he thought he saw fear flickering in her eyes. But her chin had gotten that determined, stubborn cast to it. She gave a jerky shake of her head. “No. No, I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to. I just . . . Let me take care of you, Rafe. Please.”

Her voice was hoarse and the look in her eyes was sharper than that knife. There was sympathy in her expression, and fear, and something else, something warm that made him want to shiver. And for some reason it was that warmth that cut deeper than any knife. Hit a vein. Made him bleed out.

He closed the distance between them, holding her gaze because he wasn’t going to let her make him weak. Wasn’t going to let that sharp look cut him to pieces, no, because he was stronger than that. Far too fucking strong.

“You think I’m kidding?” The words were bitten out through clenched teeth as he stopped right in front of her. “You think I won’t pick you up and throw you out of this fucking bathroom if I have to?”

“You won’t. You’d never do that to me. You’d never do that in a million years.”

He laughed, the sound brittle and edged as cut glass. “You’ve got no fucking idea what I would and wouldn’t do. You’ve got no fucking idea about me at all, Red.” Words were spilling out of him, harsh, bitter words that he couldn’t seem to stop and couldn’t seem to control. Because that look in her eyes and on her face was making him bleed and he couldn’t stem the flow. And if she didn’t get the fuck out of this room, he was going to bleed to death right in front of her. She was right about one thing, though. He couldn’t pick her up and throw her out. Which left him with only one other option.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I deliberately engineered my father’s downfall? That I lured him into embezzling company funds so I could blackmail him into stepping down and giving the company to me?” He stared right into her eyes, letting her see the wolf, wanting to get her to back off any way he could. “No? What about the time I used that same blackmail technique to get him to sign guardianship of you over to me. Yeah, you didn’t know that, did you?”

Her mouth opened in shock, all the breath rushing out of her.

“I wanted you, Ella,” he went on, his voice harsh. “And so I made sure I got to have you. I was going to seduce you, make you fall for me, make it so no one could take you away from me ever again. And I did. That’s exactly what I did.”

“Rafe . . .”

“What? You don’t like that? You don’t like the thought of being trapped in this room with a monster like me after all?” He took another step forward, savagely pleased when she stumbled back, her face deathly pale. “Still want to take care of me? Wash my wounds and bandage me up? Heal me of all my ills?”

She blinked, silver sparks of hurt and anger leaping in her gray gaze. “You don’t have to be an asshole. I should have knocked and I’m sorry, but you’re . . . God, you’re cutting yourself with a knife. I want to help you. Let me, for God’s sake.”

“Well, here’s the thing.” He could feel his mouth curving in a terrible semblance of smile. “I don’t need your fucking help, darling. I don’t want it. I never did.” He took another step forward. “But you know, if you really want to help, why don’t you take your clothes off and spread your legs? Show me that magic pussy of yours.”

She simply held her ground, staring up at him with that look in her eyes, the one that cut him to shreds. “You know why I cooked for you tonight? It was a celebration. I got into the summer intensive. Found out this morning. I wanted to sh-share it with you.”

Maybe that was the final blow. The cut through the jugular that killed. That made the shame rise up so thick in his throat that it choked him.

This was her moment of glory and he’d ruined it.

Because you’re broken and you always will be.

“I don’t give a fuck about your intensive,” he said savagely. “I just want you to leave me alone.”

Pain gleamed in her eyes. “You don’t mean that. I think you want me to stay. I think you’re desperate for someone to take care of you the way you take care of me.”

Every word was another cut, another wound. And he didn’t understand why they hurt, because he’d never asked to be cared for. He’d never wanted it. But it looked like he didn’t need to tell her. She knew already.

Her mouth got soft and vulnerable. “But . . . you’re not going to let me, are you? You’re not ever going to let me care for you. You’re not ever going to let me care about you.” Her gaze searched his face, looking for the answer she wanted. Searching and not finding. “Rafe, please . . .” Grief was heavy in her voice. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

But it did. Of course it did.

Despair opened up inside him, a black chasm that ran the entire length of his soul, an abyss with no end. Once, he’d thought he deserved her, that the pain he’d suffered would be worth it because in the end, he would have her.

Except it turned out that the pain he’d suffered was for nothing, because it was clear that in fact he didn’t deserve her and never would.

She was too good for him and she always had been. She was too bright, too beautiful. So strong, his Red Riding Hood. But then she was always strong. It was he who was weak. She had steel at the heart of her, while he had feet of clay, which were crumbling. He was crumbling.

“Yes, it does,” he said harshly, fury at himself and his own weakness making him cruel. “And don’t pretend you give a shit. You’re only here because you’re too scared to be alone.”

Pain flared in her eyes. “That’s not true. I wanted—”

But he’d had enough. He couldn’t stand her looking at him like that, seeing all his flaws and vulnerabilities. Seeing his shame.

So he bent and put his face right near hers. “Get out!” he shouted. “Get out, get out. Get out!”

She broke then. Giving a choked sob, she whirled around and ran from the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Leaving him standing there, panting, shivering, bleeding onto the floor, the jagged pieces of his broken self rubbing together, cutting and slicing. Hurting.

You did it. You scared her away. But it’s for the best. You know in your heart that it’s true.

Little Red. She’d only wanted to take care of him, but he was too much of an animal. Too much of a wolf to let anyone care for him.

Too much of a broken man.

He wanted to laugh, because that’s what he did. He laughed when it hurt.

But this time he didn’t.

This time, he threw back his head and howled instead.