Lair of the Lion

your madre the truth. I prefer to know as much as I can."
    He set the cup carefully on the table, afraid he might crush it. One of the servants peeked into the room in awe but hastily backed out when the don flicked a brief, fierce glare at the interruption. "My ancestors have lived with this gift—or curse, whichever you prefer—just as I have. But there is one small difference." He sighed softly, raking his fingers through his hair so that it came out of its tie and fell around his face and shoulders like a wild, shaggy mane. "I could 'hear and understand' the lions when I was a babe. I would crawl to them, even go to sleep snuggled up beside them. As far as I know, that was unheard of. My ancestors' ability to control the lions and understand them always came much later in life."
    Isabella touched the tip of her tongue to her suddenly dry lips. "How much later?" She dug her fingernails into her palms.
    "Well after they became full-grown men." He looked at her then, his amber eyes alive with pain. "I loved the lions and my ability to communicate with them. It was a part of me, natural to me. I didn't think it was a bad thing. Not until the people began to see mio padre as the beast. They refused to look at him directly." He reached across the table as if he needed her hand to hold on to while the memories crowded in.

    Unable to resist his silent plea, Isabella slipped her hand into his, noting the difference in size, how much larger and stronger he was. His fingers closed over hers, his thumb absently stroking caresses over her knuckles. "I was a mere boy when it happened to me. Don't you see what that means? It is strong in me. It is much stronger than it was in my ancestors. If I concentrate, I can hold the illusion of a man for a short time, but the wildness rises, and when I work at controlling my appearance, I can't talk with the lions."
    Isabella let her breath out slowly. "Nicolai, the illusion isn't the man, it is the beast. You are a man, not a lion. You can't talk to the lions because you're so focused on your appearance, not because you become something you're not."
    "You believe that, when mio padre hunted mia madre as if she were a deer in the forest?"
    He pulled his hand away, his expression darkening with emotion. Flames leapt into his glittering eyes. As he jerked his hand from hers, she felt a stinging scratch along her skin.
    Isabella tried to tuck her hand beneath the table out of sight, but his mouth tightened ominously, and he shackled her wrist, dragging her hand up for his inspection. For one moment the flames leapt and burned, an orange-red conflagration. He brought the back of her hand to his mouth. She felt the warmth of his breath, the touch of his perfectly sculpted lips, then the soothing velvet rasp of his tongue.
    Abruptly he let her go, rising out of the chair so quickly it nearly fell over. He stepped away from her, his features a stone mask, but his eyes were alive with pain. He looked utterly and completely alone.
    "Nicolai," she protested, sorrow welling up from deep within her. She ached for him, ached for his private nightmare, the pain of knowing he might be responsible for the death of someone he loved. That he very well might be responsible for her death someday.
    "If you didn't move me, Isabella," he hissed in accusation, "if you hadn't stolen your way into my heart and soul, if you hadn't wrapped yourself so tightly inside me, there would be no danger. There's safety in not caring. If I don't feel, I stay in control. You've taken that from me."
    "Do you want to live your life without caring, without loving, Nicolai?" She lifted her chin at him, storm clouds gathering in her eyes. "If that is the life you want, choose another to be your bride. You forced the decision on me, and I agreed. I accepted the risk, all of it.
    How dare you stand there and tell me you want a lifetime of emptiness?" She stood up, too, facing him squarely, uncaring that her hands were shaking. Let him see her fear. At least it was an honest emotion. "I'm not willing to live in emptiness, weighed down by sorrow and fear."
    She turned away from him, terrified her temper would get the better of her. Terrified her runaway tongue would destroy what had been building between them. She had to think of Lucca, somewhere out in the wilderness, sick and in need of a healer and a warm place to pass the winter.

    "I did not dismiss you, Signorina Vernaducci," Don DeMarco informed her, his voice a low whiplash