I stepped into the library and moved from one lamp to the next, turning them all on. I was pleased to see a plush brocade sofa where I could grab a catnap.

As soon as I got rid of Rowena.

“Not now, old woman,” I tossed over my shoulder coldly. “I need sleep.”

“Funny. You didn’t seem to need so much a few days ago.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. I wasn’t ready for this confrontation. I might never be ready for it.

“In fact, sleep was the last thing on your mind,” he said tightly. He was angry. I could hear it in his voice. What was he angry about? I was the one who’d been through the emotional wringer.

My hands curled into fists, my breathing grew shallow. I trusted him no more today than I had two months ago.

“Fucking was all you wanted.”

It was what I wanted right now, too, I was horrified to realize. His voice worked on me like an aphrodisiac. I was wet and ready. I had been since he began speaking. For two months, I’d been trapped in a Fae-induced sexual frenzy, having constant, incredible sex with him, while listening to his voice, smelling his scent. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I’d been conditioned by repeated stimuli to have a guaranteed response. My body anticipated, greedily expected pleasure in his presence. I inhaled, caught myself straining for the scent of him, forced it back out, and closed my eyes, as if maybe I could hide behind my own lids from an ironic truth: V’lane and Barrons had swapped roles.

I was no longer sexually vulnerable to the death-by-sex Fae Prince.

Jericho Barrons was my poison now.

I wanted to punch something. Lots of somethings. Starting with him.

“Cat got your tongue? And what a lovely tongue it is. I know. It licked every inch of me. Repeatedly. For months,” he purred, but there was steel in the velvet.

I locked my jaw and turned, bracing myself for the sight of him.

It was worse than I expected.

I was nearly flattened by erotic images. My hands on his face. Me on his face. Me backing up to him. Me straddling him, my I’m-a-Wanton-Pink fingernails long and sexy as I wrapped both hands around his big, long, hard … yeah.

Well.

Enough images.

I cleared my throat and forced myself to focus on his eyes.

It wasn’t much better. Barrons and I have wordless conversations. And right now he was reminding me, in graphically lush detail, of everything we’d done in that big Sun King bed of his.

He’d especially enjoyed the handcuffs. I had as many memories of his tongue as he had of mine. He’d never offered turnabout as fair play, even though I’d asked plenty. I’d never understood why. We’d both known nothing so flimsy could hold whatever he was. Now that I was clearheaded again, I understood. Even if it was only illusory, he was not a man to tolerate dominance. It was all about control with him. He never relinquished it. And that was a huge part of what chafed so badly, burned like salt in an open wound. I’d been completely out of control the entire time we’d spent in that room. He’d seen my most raw, bare, vulnerable self, yet he’d never shown me anything of himself that I hadn’t had to rip from his head against his will.

He’d never lost control. Not once.

You told me I was your world.

“It wasn’t me. I was an animal.” My heart pounded. My cheeks burned.

You never wanted it to end.

“Why are you being such a jackass, slamming me in the face with my own humiliation?”

Humiliation? That’s what you call this? He forced a more detailed reminder on me.

I swallowed. Yes, I certainly remembered that. “I was out of my mind. I’d never have done it otherwise.”

Really, his dark eyes mocked, and in them I was demanding more, telling him I wanted it to always be this way.

I remembered what he’d replied: that one day I would wonder if it was possible to hate him more.

“I had no awareness. No choice.” I searched for words to drive my point home. “It was every bit as much rape as what the Unseelie Princes did to me.”

His glittering gaze went flat black, opaque as mud, the images died. Beneath his left eye, a tiny muscle contracted, smoothed, contracted again. That minute betrayal was Barrons’ equivalent of a normal person having a hissy fit. “Rape isn’t something—”

“You walk away from,” I cut him off. “I know. I get it now. Okay?”

“You crawl. You were crawling when I found you.”

“Your point?”

“You walked away from me. Stronger for it.”

“Point?” I gritted. I was tired, impatient, and I wanted the bottom line.

“Making sure we’re on the same page,” he clipped. His eyes were dangerous.

“You did what you had to do, right?”

He inclined his head. It was neither nod nor negation, and it pissed me off. I was sick of nonanswers from him.

I pressed. “You made me capable of walking again the only way you could. It had nothing to do with me. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

He stared at me, and I had the feeling our conversation had taken a wrong turn somewhere, that it could have gone a completely different way, but I couldn’t think of how it might have or where it had strayed.

He brought his head down, completing the nod. “Right.”

“Then we’re on the same page. Same paragraph, same sentence,” I snapped.

“Same bloody word,” he agreed flatly.

I felt like crying and hated myself for it. Why couldn’t he have said something nice? Something that wasn’t about sex. Something about me. Why had he come in here all stalking and shoving in my face that we’d been in each other’s skin? Would it have killed him to show a little kindness, some compassion? Where was the man who’d painted my nails? The one who had papered the room with pictures of Alina and me? The one who had danced with me?