Guild Hunter 04 - Archangel's Blade

alone, where he’d stood vigil for an entire turn of the seasons.
    “My beautiful Dmitri.” Big brown eyes filled with worry. “Don’t let her change you. Don’t let her make you cruel.”
    Ingrede’s words had been unable to halt the change, not after she was gone. Nothing would reverse it. So he would make use of it.
    A burst of movement from the hunter who had thought to make him a foo.
    He had no trouble pinning her to the wall. But Honor didn’t stop fighting, twisting and wrenching her body with a strength that would break something soon if she didn’t stop.
    When he pinioned her arms above her head with a grip on her wrists, and pressed her lower body against the wall with his own, she bit him on the neck. Hard enough to draw blood. Jerking away, he tightened the hand he had around her wrists. “Foreplay already, Honor?”
    No response, only that furious twisting and pulling and fighting even though she had no hope of escaping him. She made not a sound, her breath tightly controlled.
    That was when he looked into those eyes of mysterious green.
    There was no one there.
    No personality, no hint of the woman who had laughed and pleasured him with such sexual confidence that morning, nothing but the animal instinct to survive. And he knew she would kill herself trying to get free.
    “Dmitri, I’m scared.”
    “I’ll never hurt you. Trust me.”
    Trembling under the whisper of memory, a memory that didn’t belong to Honor and yet spoke for her, he released her hands, lifted his body off hers. She came at him like a tempest unleashed, slamming her elbow into his face, her fisted hand into his larynx, her booted foot against his knee.
    Crashing down onto the bed on his back, he blocked some of her most brutal strikes, but did nothing to halt her. Her rage rained down on him, bloodying his nose, his mouth, putting bruises on his body that healed almost as soon as they were made.
    “Bastard.” It was the first thing she’d said since he’d trapped her in the corner. “You goddamn bastard.” A savage blow to his jaw that had his teeth snapping together.
    Blocking her next blow, he looked into her eyes . . . and saw Honor looking back at him again. The brilliant green was washed in a sheen of wet, and her next blow when it came lacked the power of the others. She thumped both fists on his chest over and over and over again. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” It was a furious litany that turned into sobs so harsh they spoke of unimaginable anguish, her body crumpling over his own. “I hate you.” A whisper.
    Right then, he hated himself.
    Lying motionless until she stopped moving, those painfully raw sobs turning into heartbreakingly silent tears against his chest, he dared put a hand on her hair, stroking her now tangled curls. He didn’t know what to say to her, how to explain the rage she’d incited within him.
    But there was one thing he could say, something he hadn’t said to a woman in near to a thousand years. “I’m sorry, Honor. Forgive me.”
     
     
    Sitting perched up on the sink in the large bathroom off her bedroom, Honor watched in silence as Dmitri ran the disinfectant over her scraped and bruised knuckles. She bit back a hiss at the sting, her eyes lingering on the cut on his lip, the bruises on his face. Part of her, horrified by her own violence, wanted to cup that sinful masculine face in her hands, kiss each and every bruise in gentle apology. But the rest of her was curled up into a tiny ball deep within, watchful, wary.
    The light glinted off the black of his hair as he ministered to her and she remembered the heavy silk of it against her palms. She remembered, too, the forcof his grip as he’d pinned her arms above her head.
    “I bruised you.” He slid his hands under her wrists, his skin darker against the paler hue of her own—now marked by bands of dull red.
    Fairness made her break her silence. “I did worse.” She’d hit him hard enough that the bruises were going to take at least an hour to heal, in spite of his vampirism. More, the cut on his lip wasn’t a shallow gash. His shirt, ripped at the shoulder seam, betrayed faint red marks that were almost healed, but on the whole—“I came out of it better than you.”
    Dark, dark eyes met her own. “The physical hurt isn’t the core of it, is it?”
    Her stomach grew tight, acid burning her throat. “All of it,” she said in a voice turned rough from the force of her earlier sobs, “everything