Demon Forged

temper on his tongue. He snapped out his reply. “We had nothing worth fighting for.”
    “Apparently not.”
    Pain scored her voice. Pain—and disillusion. Alejandro shook his head, trying to deny it. Had she thought he meant her, and that what they’d had wasn’t worth fighting for? And had she thought the same when they’d met again in France?
    What in God’s name had she expected of him? Because of his stupid error, to save his life, she’d been raped and tortured by a demon. She hadn’t let him die with honor intact—and he hadn’t been able to break or melt through the iron walls to save her. Only Michael, who’d appeared at Alejandro’s side and taken a single look at him before teleporting into the iron room, had been able to help Irena. Alejandro had accomplished nothing, and so by the time she’d come out of that room with the demon’s head in her fist, he’d had nothing left worth offering her.
    But he’d tried to reclaim his honor. Had tried to make himself a man of worth, with a life he could take pride in. That couldn’t be done by chasing a woman who didn’t want to be chased.
    And he couldn’t have chased Irena, regardless. She wouldn’t have allowed it—she’d have stood her ground and fought him, instead. Was he supposed to have battled her? Forced himself on her? Doing so would have erased any shred of pride he’d had left and destroyed any honor he’d reclaimed.
    Yet Alejandro knew that, despite their fights, despite her insults, Irena had never thought he lacked honor.
    He could not bear that she thought so now. “That was not the same.”
    “But similar.” She edged backward across the patio—watching him as she would an enemy. “So it was practice, yes?”
    He couldn’t refute it. After Irena, he’d never tried holding on to even one lover. He gave them his house, his bed, his time as duty allowed . . . but little else. And the passionate women he’d gravitated toward always wanted more . So, yes—he had perfected letting them leave without a fight.
    And Irena . . . she had perfected walking away.
    He turned his back to her, so he wouldn’t have to watch her leave. He tried to take in the sound of the ocean. Tried to find calm in the soft chirping of the birds and the sighing breeze. But that calm was only on the surface.
    His will cracked, and he went after her.
    Too late. He searched the skies and didn’t see her. He listened, but couldn’t hear where she’d gone. With the ache building, he walked slowly back to his study and stared down at his abandoned reports. Ice settled into him. He hadn’t felt cold since an executioner’s fire had licked at his feet.
    He sat at his desk, vanished his reports, and began to plan. If Irena thought he gave up over everything, then he would teach her differently.
    He’d take her down slowly. A fall so gentle, it’d be over before she realized it had begun—before she found ground to stand on. She’d see that they’d had much worth fighting for.
    But he would not allow her to fight him .

CHAPTER 10
    Irena hunted. She’d hoped to clear her mind, to think of anything but Olek and their argument in Cádiz. But it had come back to her, over and over, until she’d examined every word, every inflection.
    For so long, her emotions toward Olek had been lumped together, like coal tossed into a furnace. They burned and were too bright and hot to look at for long. But now that she could not avoid him, that she saw him more often, she’d begun to pick out pieces of her emotions, examine the sides. She did not always like what she saw—in him, in herself.
    Irena hadn’t known, until she’d spoken the words, that she had long thought he hadn’t fought for her. She’d always been conscious of all the other factors—what Olek thought had happened in that room with the demon, and her own shame. She could not forget those. But the very simple truth was: He’d let her go and it had hurt. And hurt, she’d been angry.
    She still was both. How could she still be both? Wounds were supposed to heal. This never had. It only festered.
    But it didn’t fester so badly now. Only a few hours had passed since she’d realized how much his failure to fight for her had hurt, but in that time, Irena had been forced to make another realization: She had not fought for him, either.
    She hadn’t felt as if she could fight for him; shame had tied her hands and silenced her tongue. When they’d met again and he had not given her a sign