Lair of the Lion

enough. But eyes held the beginnings of a turbulent storm. "Can't allow it, Nicolai, or won't allow it?"
    "If you like, I will send Captain Bartolmei along with those escorting our healer. He will personally see to it that your brother is fit for travel and escort him back as quickly as possible." He found himself trying to appease her.
    "Then I will be perfectly safe traveling with the captain," she challenged.
    He snarled. Actually snarled. But even that wasn't enough to express the intensity of his emotions. Another sound rumbled from deep within his throat, swelling in volume. A roar filled the room, an explosion of rage that shook the entire wing of the palazzo, set the falcon's wings flapping wildly in alarm and the lions in proximity answering roar for roar, as if the don were one of them. From deep within the shadows his amber eyes glowed with eerie flames. His hair was wild from the constant raking of his fingers. It spilled around his face, long and shaggy, reaching down his back. Fearing he would appear more the beast than ever, Nicolai slipped deeper into the alcove.
    His gut clenched at the very idea of her traveling for days and nights in the company of Rolando Bartolmei. Boyhood friend or not, Nicolai didn't want Isabella seeking solace in the arms of another man. Even innocently. If her brother didn't survive, and she was grief-stricken, it would be perfectly natural for Bartolmei to console her.
    Isabella swung around, all restless energy, her stormy eyes flashing fire at him. She stalked him into the shadows as he retreated farther. "Don't you snarl at me, Nicolai DeMarco, and don't you dare roar. I have every right to be upset with you and your dictatorship. You have no reason to be angry with me at all. I intend to go to mio fratello and ensure that his health improves. I have my own horse and don't need your captain or your permission."
    "Don't threaten me, Isabella." His voice was low, controlled. He was careful to keep his hands to himself, though her scent filled his lungs and did wicked things to his body. "The healer will bring your brother to you alive and as quickly as possible. Let that be enough."
    Jealousy, an unwelcome and unattractive emotion, was gripping him. If Rolando brought her beloved brother back well and happy, would she be grateful to Bartolmei, look upon him with affection? Nicolai was ashamed of his thoughts, ashamed of his inability to control his emotions. He had always been so disciplined.
    Her breath caught in her throat in pure outrage. She closed the distance between them in three angry strides, heedless of how reckless she was being. Anger was energy crackling in the room, fierce and passionate. "I can't believe you're ordering me to stay." The idea was so appalling, she clenched her fist and struck him hard right in the stomach. It made her even angrier that he didn't even pretend to wince, while her knuckles stung. She jerked her hand back, glaring at him.
    A small smile softened the hard line of his mouth as he gently shackled her wrist and brought her throbbing hand to his heart. Because he couldn't help himself, he raised her hand to his mouth, his tongue swirling over her sore knuckles with soothing heat.
    She was indeed all courage and fire—any other woman would have fainted away at the terrors of her position. Not Isabella, with her stormy eyes and passionate mouth. "You don't have the good sense to fear me, do you?" he observed. He feared enough for both of them.
    He had seen the evidence of the curse with his own eyes. He had felt the welling of savage excitement, known the hot taste blossoming in his mouth.
    "I'm afraid, Nicolai," she admitted. "Just not of you. For you. For me. I'm not a dolt. I'm aware this could end badly. But we're in it already. I'm here in this valley, I've already met you, the pattern of our lives is already unfolding around us. Would it stop if I hid beneath a bed as a child might? What would that help, Nicolai? I want to live my life, what little I may have, not hide shivering beneath a coverlet." Her palm caressed the scars on his face, her heart softening, melting, at his expression.
    "Isabella," he whispered softly, achingly, his throat clogged with such emotion he couldn't breathe properly. "There is no other like you." Sacrificing her for his people, for his valley, was a horrifying exchange. He knew how his father must have felt. The emptiness.
    The self-loathing. The despair. Nicolai had prayed, and he had lit many