"My uncle, Gerard, was like a father to me, but two years ago, he died. He was my mother's brother and a decade older than her. Father thought him a fool," Dillon revealed, and his expression turned icy.

His words directed Catherine's thoughts away from herself.

"But he was good enough to raise you?" she asked incredulously.

He stiffened.

Have I gone too far or been too familiar with him?

Dillon's frame incrementally relaxed, and so did hers.

"Yes."

When she couldn't read his expression at times like this, he reminded her too much of Eduardo.

"I'm sorry my father imposed me upon you," she apologized. "My presence in these human lands will not go unnoticed and may even threaten your safety, master."

"I despise the injustice of what happened to you," he bit out through clenched teeth.

"It would have been better if Eduardo had killed me or banned me to the hunting grounds," she admitted, avoiding his eyes.

"You would rather live like an animal than belong to a human?" he teased unexpectedly, removing some of the tension from the air even though that understanding of his unsettled her, and she disliked his slightly derisive tone.

"I was not raised to be property, master," she retorted stiffly.

The tide of anger washing over her was not directed at him.

"Would you not have belonged to your future husband when your father found a better purpose for his investment?"

The solid ring of truth stung, and such a fate had loomed ominously close before her fall from grace.

She flinched, and he noticed.

"Would I not be the lady of the house and a ruler to my people, my lord, not a slave?" she asked to restore her pride as her grip tightened on the reins.

How does he bait me so easily?

"Were you not raised to bend your will to a man?" he asked, his expression serene but his eyes dancing with challenge.

Her brow furrowed as she considered the question.

"To wash his feet," he needled, "see to his household and his needs? Even bear his children and his opinions?"

I stepped into that one, she admitted with more than a touch of bitterness. Despite her training at her father's side, her tutors had thoroughly prepared her for her role as lady of a castle.

"Eduardo granted me a certain amount of freedom, but with the understanding of my traditional fate as a woman," she defended herself stiffly.

There would have been no question of petty human emotions such as love if I had married a man of Father's choosing and bowed to his will. The difference was glaring and... not.

"Even though you possess no social standing, Catherine, your body is your own." The steel edge to his voice told her to count her blessings. "Be assured; I am not some lecherous man so abrasive that the only way out would be to take your own life."

Despite her rising ire, she had to admit the situation could have been infinitely worse.

For one, the duke might have swayed Father, and I would have been his property forever.

"Hellenic forced himself on me the night my father had me imprisoned." The words blurted from her mouth as if she could not contain them any longer, even though she had never allowed herself to admit what had happened to her.

Dillon will not judge me, she realized as her tears blurred her vision and her lip wobbled, despite the ramrod straightness of her back.

Catherine didn't expect him to bring his horse to an abrupt stop, forcing her to swerve around him.

Their eyes met, and that unspoken understanding reminded her of the word "injustice."

"Earlier that day, he asked my father to give me to him as a chattel, but Eduardo refused. Despite that, Hellenic came, and I couldn't fight him off because I was chained."

Her head lowered, her cheeks stained pink with heat.

"Even when I cried for help, no one came," her voice almost broke as she relived those moments. "He told me he had sent the guards away, and they obeyed because they knew he was the next ruler of our kingdom. Even then, I still thought there must be a way to stop him."

Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Dillon maneuvered his steed next to hers and unexpectedly hugged her.

Although it seemed contrary to his nature, she wasn't used to being held, either. The warmth of his touch seeped into her soul, even though he smelled so much like food. Oddly, the vampire kept itself hidden. Until then, she hadn't realized how much she needed to be held, and a sob nearly escaped her.

"There's no shame in crying," he soothed.

The man's compassion almost made her cave to her tears.

"Eduardo would disagree," she confided. "The Drake hates blubbering and instilled in me that it was a shameful thing, not to mention ugly."

His brows almost touched.

"Males feel helpless when a woman cries, and we don't hate crying; we dislike being helpless."

"Not Eduardo," she denied, "and I hate being the victim."

"Bottled-up emotions are not good for you," he told her, speaking near her ear. "Sorrow turns to anger and becomes hatred that will consume you."

"Humboldt?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Did that speech help when he gave it?"

"No, but he was right," he admitted. "When you hate someone, it consumes everything in your life, but the one you detest remains unaffected. That person merrily lives on while you disappear bit by bit."

Dillon's bitterness quieted something inside her as if he had opened a door in her mind to an understanding she hadn't expected.

Unfortunately, it has already happened, she thought. Hellenic took everything but my life; what would be the point of losing even that to revenge?

Catherine relaxed in his embrace, trembling so subtly that another might never have noticed, but he did.

Seeing her vulnerable boiled his blood and made him feel cornered. However, he understood what she tried to impress on him—if Hellenic caught up to them, she would rather die than let him get his hands on her again.

Why am I so attached to her? He wondered, but then his resolve strengthened. Hellenic must perish.

Vampires like him were the reason for all this strife between their species, and they were like yeast in dough.

Why does holding her feel so right, and why am I not yet ready to let go?

Sometimes, Catherine reminded him of Humboldt's daughter. A smirk briefly touched his lips, fading as quickly.

Milly was the reason I survived the trauma of being ripped from my home and family, he thought, his mind straying to the past.

A year younger than him, she had reminded him of a puppy. She was all love, smiles, and boundless exuberance. Despite his sullen attitude and porcupine temper, she had taken to him from the moment he arrived.

He got lost in the past as his horse ambled over the uneven, leaf-strewn ground.

Milly and he used to sneak off to the stream and swim under the waterfall as they became teenagers. And despite being a boy and a girl, they were best friends.

Humboldt had warned her never to leave the castle unescorted, but Milly developed a stubborn streak. One afternoon, when Dillon's lessons ran long, she went off on her own and disappeared for hours. When they discovered her in a field near the castle, only tatters remained of her flowing linen dress. She was blood covered and dirt-encrusted, looking like a stranger.

As long as he lived, he would never forget her vacant gaze—as if someone had stolen her soul while she still lived.

She never revealed who hurt her or how it happened, but Dillon had his suspicions. When she discovered herself pregnant, Humboldt quietly took her to the midwife, and the old woman took care of it.

Milly sickened and isolated herself, not even allowing him near, yet slowly recovered. Physically, at least. Although she put on a brave face, the shadows in her eyes remained. The vulnerability that made her fragile as blown glass those first few days after the attack turned into an impenetrable armament, and he watched her retreat behind those high walls. The experience birthed a strong, independent woman, but a hardness had crept into those formerly gentle doe eyes.

The girl he knew had become a memory.

Even though Catherine and Milly were nothing alike in temperament, their pain and indomitable spirits were the same.

They were survivors.

His thoughts returned to the present as he leaned into the gentle sway of the horse's stride.

There was so much depth and many flashes of humanity hidden inside this vampire. With his home being so far North, he had never lived in such proximity to one.

It is amazing how their human hearts reveal themselves, he thought with the suggestion of a frown. Why does it disturb me to know that this vampire—at times so inhuman and remote—suffers from all the same insecurities and fears as us?

It had not occurred to him during all these years that they experienced distress like anyone else. Despite her reticence, he sensed her past hurts and how, underneath it all, and despite her years, she was a broken girl cast brutally into the world.

He noticed how Catherine's breathing steadied as the trembling lessened and stopped.

Why does it fascinate me to learn that her heart beats much slower than mine? That steady rhythm debunked another myth, and her skin was barely cooler than his.

There is nothing dead about her, he thought. She seemed human and not with her sheathed strength present even in repose. Although they are undeniably different, they are not the undead. That is a lie. So, what does it mean?

"A man isn't a man if he takes from a woman what she doesn't offer," Dillon said. "According to gossip, my father forced himself upon my mother, and that's why her father insisted on the marriage. No one else would have her if they found out, and I was born eight months later."

Never had he revealed this to anyone, and it left him feeling more vulnerable than he ever had.

Dillon let go of her, and Catherine didn't even know when her arms had snaked around him instead of hanging down her sides in rigid surprise.

Their eyes met again as if drawn by some invisible force, and she released him, glad she rarely blushed.

Why do I instantly miss his heat? She wondered.

Dillon took her firmly by the shoulders, keeping their eyes locked, and it was as if something inside them spoke without words.

How have I never experienced anything like it and didn't understand what it is? she mused as questions tumbled over one another in her mind. Why did fate choose him? Why not some other human I could despise or feel indifferent toward?

The last one was telling and revealing, ripping away years of conditioning, a lifetime of preconceptions, and the armor guarding her fragile heart.

This is not right, and it should not be possible, she thought as panic gripped her throat and her fight or flight instinct warred with a paralyzing fear. Am I to lose even these last vestiges of myself? Am I truly to become like one of them?