Lair of the Lion

into Nicolai. He seemed enormously powerful. She could feel his body close to hers, vibrating with tension, with effort. Isabella began to feel a strange affection for the lion, almost as if she couldn't separate Nicolai from the beast. Her expression softened, and her mouth curved.
    She knew the exact moment when the taint of twisted power was defeated and retreated, leaving the unfortunate lion to face Nicolai alone. She felt the withdrawal of the black hatred, felt the darkness shimmering away from her mind, and then the room was empty of malice. Normal. It was still fraught with tension, the smell of fear, but nothing fed the intense emotions with rage and loathing. She began to breathe again, and her body shook with reaction.
    The lion hung its head, turned, and padded silently down the corridor toward the stairs leading to the lower regions of the castello. Isabella burst into tears. She turned away from the don, from the servants, with every intention of rushing to the privacy of her bedchamber, but her legs refused to carry her anywhere.
    Nicolai's strong arms crushed her to him, enfolding her close, protectively. He buried his face in her abundance of hair. "What were you thinking? You shouldn't have gone near that lion. Something was wrong with it—couldn't you see that?"
    He was virtually holding her up. If he let go, Isabella would have slumped to the floor in a heap. She buried her face in his shirt, trying to hold back the sobs wracking her from head to toe. Now that the immediate danger was past, she was falling apart. No matter how strongly she admonished herself to stop crying and not humiliate herself in front of the servants, Isabella continued to weep and tremble. She clung to him, an anchor of safety in a world of danger.
    "What has gone on here?" Nicolai's voice was imperious, commanding.
    The sudden hushed silence penetrated Isabella's near hysteria, and she peeked around Don DeMarco to observe the others in the room. The servants were silent, uneasy, staring at the floor, the ceiling, out into the hall. Looking anywhere but at their don. Sarina was looking at Isabella, studiously averting her gaze from Nicolai.
    It was enough to stop the flood of unwanted tears. Isabella wanted to shake the entire lot of them. Nicolai DeMarco had just saved their lives, yet they wouldn't even look at him.
    She turned to face them, her fingers entwining firmly with his, her posture protective, her glare furious and accusing as she stared at Sarina.
    Sarina sighed softly and made a visible effort to steel herself before she looked fully at Don DeMarco's face. She gasped and crossed herself. "Nicolai!" It was a measure of her shock that she was so familiar as to call him by name.
    Betto instantly looked up, crossed himself, and a smile tugged at his mouth. "Don DeMarco, it's an extraordinary day. Look at you, my boy." He beamed, his grip on his wife strong. "Look at him, Sarina. A handsome boy grown into a handsome man." He sounded like a proud father.
    Isabella was confused. Sarina and Betto were staring at Don DeMarco as if they had never seen him before. Tears glittered in Sarina's eyes. "Look at him," she encouraged the other servants. "Look at Don DeMarco."
    Isabella turned her head to look up at him. He looked the same to her, a sculpted model of masculine beauty even with the four raking scars that seemed only to define his courage.
    He epitomized strength and power. Had none of his people noticed how truly handsome he was? Could none of them see his integrity? His honor? It was so plain to see, no mystery, a man willing to carry burdens and protect others. Surely they were not all so petty that the scars were impossible to look upon. Isabella thought they gave the don a rakish appearance.
    The low murmur of astonishment had Isabella whirling back to face the servants. Some crossed themselves. Some wept. All were staring at Nicolai as if he were a stranger, but they were beaming at him, eyes shining, smiles happy. It made no sense, and it made Don DeMarco uncomfortable. Sad, even. Isabella caught the shadows in the depths of his eyes.
    Perhaps in his childhood they all thought him remarkably handsome, and now, because of his scars, they avoided looking at him. Of course he was saddened and embarrassed to be the center of such attention. Isabella wanted only to comfort him. She circled his neck with her slender arms, brought his head down toward hers, and stood on her toes so that her mouth could reach his