Chapter 1 (Catherine)

Catherine awakened after another disturbing night's sleep. Not really unusual for her these days, but this time was different. A noise, or something, had broken through her drug-induced slumber. She bolted upright, shoving the sweat-dampened coverlet out of the way. Her head felt foggy, as it normally did after the heavy, dreamless sleep she typically got from the prescription sleeping pills, but something was there. She knew it. This time it felt so real, so unbelievably real. But of course, there was no one.

Swiveling around in the near darkness, she searched the room anyway, especially the darkest corners, looking for his eyes. She couldn't be certain, but she may have cried his name out loud. Thankfully, Heather wasn't home. Her normally up-beat little sis had finally had enough. She'd moved out last month after a rather heated argument in which she'd accused Catherine of being "too intense," whatever that meant. Once again, Catherine had pushed away everyone she loved.

Stiffly, Catherine dragged her unwilling and still heavily sedated body out of bed, made her way to the kitchen, and popped in a packet of instant coffee. She couldn't even bring herself to bother going to the store and getting the real beans anymore, something she once really enjoyed. Why bother? Hair still mussed from sleep, she jolted when the door buzzer rang. Eight-ten, according to the clock. Okay, not so early. A heavy band of rain-dark clouds covered the city, making her think it was earlier than it was.

She rubbed her face once and shrugged. What did it matter how she looked? Uncaring, she headed toward the door in her crumpled, oversized sleep shirt-one of his she'd covertly taken on her last visit to JT at the lair. She hadn't been back since, and couldn't seem to find it in herself to give it back. Other than the red flannel pajamas Vincent had given her last year on her birthday, she had nothing else left of the man who still haunted her dreams. And those had become too warm now that summer had finally arrived. Heading to the door, she drew the sleeve across her nose one last time, hoping some scent of him still remained on the thin fabric. Pathetic, she knew, but there it was.

Three months ago she never would have considered answering the door looking as she did, but times had changed. Thankfully, the face on the other side of the door was familiar, if not overly friendly.

"Really?" was all Tess said as she took Catherine in from head to toe.

"It's early yet."

"Not for me. Some of us actually still work for a living."

Catherine shrugged off the gentle rebuke and waved her in. "Today is Saturday. And I didn't sleep well."

"Again?"

"Yeah, I know. It shouldn't be happening with the dose of sleeping pills I'm taking, but I don't know, Tess. Last night . . . last night was different. He just felt . . . so close. Like he was in the room with me."

"Vincent?" Tess immediately pulled Cat down onto the sofa, which was not in its usual pristine, I'm-a-neat-freak Catherine sort of way. She pushed a throw blanket aside and looked at her friend. "Listen to me. I'm really worried about you."

"Tess, you don't need to be. I'm fine. You know, what I'm going through is just a natural grieving process-"

"Don't give me that. It's been three months. And you're still not sleeping, you look like hell," Tess glanced around the room noting the dirty dishes on the counter, another completely out-of-character thing, "you haven't come back full-time yet to the precinct, and frankly, you're scaring me."

Catherine's lips thinned to a tight white line. Tess meant well, and to be honest, she was the only close friend she still had right now and couldn't afford to lose, but she didn't understand. "I'll be back on Monday, I promise. I already told that new Lieutenant Reynolds-whoever that. It's so strange not to have Joe there."

"Reynolds is all right, if you like the stuffy, older-set type. And don't change the subject-we're not talking about Joe right now. I'm glad not to have to see him everyday anymore, believe me."

"It's got to be hard."

Tess shook her head, not ready to have that conversation. Again. She was there for Catherine. "But I've moved on. And you need to, too. And don't give me that look. It's been three months. I'm not trying to be mean here, but you've got to face the facts. Muirfield has had Vincent for a long time now, if he's even still alive. I'm really sorry, Cat, but you've got to know the odds of that are crazy bad. Vincent may never be coming back."

Catherine felt her chest tighten. "I know that, Tess, and I want to be strong and accept it if it's true, but we don't know anything for sure." She looked around the room, the same room the man she loved beyond all reason had held her hands and walked her through some stretching exercises after her injury, to the doorway to the porch where they'd had so many intimate talks, then to the path through the apartment where he'd stalked her across the room the very first time he'd attempted to kiss her. Her eyes burned and she shut them tightly. "I can't just give up. Vincent would never give up on me. And Tess, I just feel, down deep in my gut, that's he's still out there. Alive. I'd know it if he wasn't."

"Know? What, like you have some kind of psychic connection or something?" Tess looked doubtful. That was a stretch, even for Catherine.

Catherine shook her head. She couldn't explain it. "No. I don't know. Nothing like that, although there have been times, in the past, when I somehow knew he was there before I had any reason to. People-other people-have experienced these kinds of connections before, and you know it. Don't look at me like that."

"I know you and Vincent had a special connection. I'm not saying you didn't, but this super-sense hasn't led you to find him, has it? So maybe, just maybe, it's all in your head. Wishful thinking."

"Or my heart. I'm sorry, Tess, I can't ask you to understand-"

"Why not? Do you think your connection to Vincent is so different from mine to Joe?" She stood up, shaking her head, a little angry now and insulted. "Don't think you're the only one hurting. Just because I decided to start living my life again doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt."

Catherine immediately stood up and went to her friend, placing a careful hand on her sleeve. "I didn't mean to imply that. And I know you miss Joe. I'm so sorry, Tess, I really want to break free of this quagmire I'm in, but I just don't know how."

"That's why I'm here." The hint of tears filled Catherine's eyes and voice but none fell. They never did anymore, and Tess's face softened.

"He was the one, you know?" Catherine slumped back down onto the sofa in a soft heap. "He was the one for me. There isn't going to be another man who understands me the way he did, who needs me as much as I-"

"You don't know that. And you won't ever know for sure unless you let yourself live again and find out. There are other guys out there, Cat-nice guys, good guys. Guys who don't have death certificates-guys who could love you and you could build a life with, but you've got to let go and try. As hard as it is to say, you need to move on. Vincent is gone and he's never coming back."

The stark words hit Catherine like a brick and she stopped breathing.

Tess saw but ignored it. She couldn't afford to be sucked into her friend's depression. It was time to live again and act. And force Catherine to do the same. It was the only way. "Cat. Come with me tonight. We'll go out to a bar, some place small and not crowded. Some place very non-threatening. And we'll just test the waters. We'll get dolled up like we used to. You're going to take a shower and put on your best casual-night-out clothes, and you'll try to smile-"

"Tess, I can't-"

"You can, and you will." This time she was more forceful. "For me. Because I need it."

Put that way, Catherine could hardly refuse. Not after all that Tess had done for her. "Okay. I'll try. I'll TRY. For a few hours. That's all I'm going to agree to."

"Okay."

"Okay." Catherine looked around for a different subject. "Did-did the results come back on the animal killings in the Park yet?"

"Small animals mauled by a larger one-that's all it was, Cat. The ME thinks it might have been a wolf. He's still doing tests."

"But the DNA-"

"Was animal. Cat. It wasn't him."

The look Tess gave her dared her to argue even as everything inside her cried out that she was wrong. Vincent was close.

"Okay. Okay. I'll . . . I guess I'll see you tonight. If I'm going to be in any shape to be social, I'm going to need the entire day to prepare."

Tess took that as a polite way of telling her she'd overstayed her welcome. "Go out. Buy something new. I'll pick you up at eight."

Catherine closed the door on her friend and crumpled to the floor, and wondered how on earth she was going to manage. The pressure behind her eyes came again, this time unbelievably strong. Tearlessly sobbing, she whispered the only name that meant anything to her anymore. "Vincent . . . ."

Chapter 2 (Vincent)

Vincent couldn't move-his feet were literally rooted to the spot. And locked in cadence with every breath she took, his breathing was no longer his own. Catherine. The only thought sustaining him through the months of grueling, torturous experiments had been finding her again. And now that he was here, he felt frozen. Unable to act.

He'd watched from the fire escape the first two nights . . . relieved to see her safe; terrified of what came next. But before morning's first light, he'd left and wandered the cloying passages of the underground of New York City for the rest of the day. Alone. Afraid. Angry. And feeling worse than he had when he'd been locked in a prison of his own making at the warehouse with JT what seemed like so long ago now. Of course, JT had always been there for him and probably always would, but things had never been the same after Catherine had come into his life.

He thought about JT. He hadn't even gone to the old mansion to see him yet. What was the point? He'd be fine. JT had a job, a life, and he had Sarah, much as his old buddy was uncertain about where they were headed. JT was okay. And better off not knowing. But Catherine . . . .

Today, he needed to be closer. So many conflicting images crowded his brain. Being here was the only way to make sense of them. Was she friend? Lover? Or tormentor? "I think she finds it convenient to keep you trapped." He recognized the voice but couldn't quite put a face to it. What did that mean? He remembered Catherine grabbing his hand in a last-ditch effort to anchor him to the ground as the helicopter lifted him, but hadn't it also been Catherine who'd taken away his only chance at a cure and a normal life by stabbing him with what he now knew to be a vaccine on the day he was taken? Was that her way of loving him? Or did she hate him so much? Maybe, like Reynolds said, she'd wanted to be rid of him, once and for all. And it worked. There was zero chance of a normal life now.

He could feel the rage begin again, simmering just below the surface of his skin. But the thoughts and images in his head didn't match up. Catherine. Love. Catherine. Betrayal. Catherine - "I accept all of what you are." But that was a lie, wasn't it?

There had been something akin to relief at finding her alone at her apartment. Relief and pain. Desire. Torture. Jealousy. How many nights had he wondered if she'd moved on-found someone else-someone who could give her all the things he never could? A stab of pain deep in his chest said that would be a good thing, right? But then his thoughts twisted. No. She was his-his mate. No one else could have her.

Open your eyes. See me.

Vincent clawed at the wainscoting along the wall, needing purchase, something to hold him back. Then Catherine stirred, made a little moaning sound. His breath caught and held. Following the slim line of her body in the bed made his eyes glow yellow. Much as he tried to control it, he'd lost that ability, too. Muirfield had made certain of that. He wanted her, friend or foe. It made no difference now.

Sensing his time was short, and pulled by some powerful, elementary force, he made his way stealthily to the bed and leaned over her. The shadows and his dark clothing still hid his face, but the eastern horizon was filling slowly with early morning color. He didn't need the light to see, of course. Not anymore.

His nostrils filled his lungs with the mesmerizing scent of her. Memories, images crowded his mind. He knew the curve of that cheek, the line of her brow. He knew the petal soft texture of her lips. Her taste. Or thought he did. Were those memories real? Or had Muirfield manufactured them, as well?

He willed himself to turn away, to leave while he still could. Today was not the day. But as she exhaled softly and turned her face from him, thin gray light from the window dappled her luminescent skin where her dark, luxurious hair had fallen aside and exposed her neck. He bent down to within an inch. And then, unable to stop himself, ran his tongue from her nape to her cheekbone.

Before her startled eyes could flicker open, he was gone.

Chapter 3 (Vincent)

"At ease, Keller."

Vincent visibly relaxed, but kept his position.

"Where have you been?"

"Sir?"

"Don't give me that innocent look. I asked you a direct question. You haven't been sleeping in your bed the last three nights. Relax, soldier. This isn't an inquisition. I was worried about you, that's all, and mildly curious, I admit. We don't have a tracking device imbedded in you anywhere. I'm just concerned."

"I don't need sleep, sir."

"Is that right? And it's Doctor Bradley, remember? Look, you may be a super-soldier, but you're not a machine, Keller. Of course you need sleep."

"Not that much. I just feel . . . more comfortable at night."

"In the dark, you mean? I imagine that's a tough habit to break, but you're free now, son. Essentially. Your off-time is your own. As long as it doesn't impact your job."

"It won't, sir."

"I'd like to believe that." The white-coated internist smiled at him. "So you roam the streets of the city, huh? Where do you go?"

"The tunnels, old haunts."

"Checking out the places you used to live and the friends you once knew? They're all safe, you know. And they've moved on with their lives. As I'm sure you could see, Muirfield has no interest in your family or previous acquaintances anymore. That was before. And even then, we were only trying to track you down—a situation you made endlessly difficult, of course you know. But now that you're back, there's no need to worry, I assure you."

Vincent remained stoically silent.

"Well, if you're ready for the day, I actually have a surprise for you this morning—someone I'd like you to meet. Another soldier—just like you."

Vincent finally turned his head and looked the man directly in the eyes. "Excuse me, sir?" The only other person 'just like him' had been Gabe, whom they'd ruthlessly murdered. What could this possibly mean? For a split second he thought of Catherine's friend Evan, the medical examiner whom he'd once been jealous of but who, in the end, had sacrificed himself for their freedom. Could they have resurrected him in some fashion? But he forced the thought from his head. That would be the cruelest turn yet, especially for Catherine. Since he'd been captured, the Muirfield agents hadn't been intentionally cruel—his first surprise. Nevertheless, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what was behind Door Number 1.

"Yes. You thought you were the only one, didn't you? You're partially correct. No one is exactly like you. Cameryn isn't the same level as you, either, but that is only a matter of time. Come."

Vincent followed the doctor into an adjacent room, ducking his head through the doorway with a mixture of anxiety and fear. Another white-coated technician was the only other person in the room, but when she turned, his eyes met hers in stunned recognition. His body reacted before his mind did—and so did hers. Before he could stop it, a low guttural sound came out of his throat.

"You sense each other, don't you? Oh, don't be alarmed. There is no threat here. Calm yourselves, both of you, or do I need to call for an injection? That's better. Come closer, Cameryn. The good Doctor Keller wants to make your acquaintance. Vincent, this is Cameryn Teague, your new partner."

Partner? Shock waves continued to roll through his body. She was a suped-up soldier just like he was, only with long, sable hair and bright blue eyes that raked him with a question. She hadn't had any more preparation for this meeting than he'd had, that was obvious. What did the doctor mean by 'partner?'

"I know this is somewhat unexpected, for both of you, but I think you'll soon agree that two is better than one in many situations. We've been working with Teague for a little over a year now. She doesn't have your prior military training, Vincent, but she's a finely-tuned athlete and perfectly capable of being your backup, especially for some of the upcoming missions we have planned. You'll find Teague to be . . . useful . . . in many ways. She's very good at moving in and out of all sorts of circles, from high flyers to gutter trash, and getting valuable information, among other things."

The 'other things' implied a lot, Vincent thought, as he continued to appraise her, and she, him.

"She's stunning in uniform and out, as you can see. And terribly lethal."

That he could imagine. Not since spying Catherine in the warehouse that first day had he had such a reaction to a female, and he didn't welcome it. This was such a manipulation on Muirfield's part, for as much as the 'good doctor' put the innocent spin on it. He didn't doubt they knew exactly where he'd been the last few nights and had been busy trying to figure out just how to sidetrack him. Although obviously they'd had Cameryn in their clutches for some time. He wondered what her story was, but he had no intention of asking.

"You see, Keller, we take care of our own. In every way. I'll just leave you two alone to get better acquainted."

The door closed quietly behind the doctor. Vincent was hardly aware of it as the female she-beast in the room walked a slow circle around him.

"So you're him."

He wished those words didn't bring a stab a pain, but it was almost cathartic. Catherine. He growled.

"All that and a bag of chips," she added.

"The chips are extra," he snarled, disliking the perusal and her very insulting insinuation.

"I bet they are."

"I don't need a partner."

"And I certainly don't need you. But it looks like we don't have a choice, do we?"

Oh, I have a choice, he thought, but didn't speak it aloud.

She sensed what he didn't say. "But you don't agree, do you? Why, because you're special? Well, now you know. Look," Cameryn visibly relaxed her shoulders, a motion that did a lot to ease his own tension. "We have to work together, Keller, that's a given. Why don't we make the best of it? We probably have a lot in common. We could be friends. The last thing I need right now is another adversary."

"How long have you been—" Vincent let the question fall flat.

"Like this? Long enough to have accepted it. I'm surprised you don't embrace it yourself."

"What? Being made into a monster? What exactly is there to embrace?"

"Power? But I don't look at it that way—or use that term. I prefer to think of myself as a super-me. And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't start with the name-calling."

"Call it what you want." Vincent walked further into the room and pulled over a chair. Maybe he was more tired than he thought. He rubbed a weary hand across his face.

Cameryn found a chair as well and turned it backward to face him. She held out her hand. "Shall we start over, then? Hi, I'm Cameryn Teague, and I'm very glad to meet you."

Vincent blew out a breath, hesitated then offered his own hand. "Vincent Ryan Keller."

What was Muirfield thinking? Problem was, he had a good idea. Distract him away from Catherine with a female she-beast who would appeal to his basest animal nature. Offer him a partner of his own species to keep him grounded and in line while he did their dirty work. Smart, but it would never fly.

"A bird may love a fish, but where would they live?" The old saying came back to him in a rush. One foot in both worlds, that's where. If Catherine would accept the new him, that was.

He was going to have to get it over with sooner rather than later and find out. He wasn't eager for the confrontation. He couldn't lie to her; he never could. He'd have to tell her the truth - that he'd been in the city for some time already. Would she feel betrayed that he hadn't come to her sooner?

Catherine might forgive him. She seemed endlessly supplied that way, but it was more complicated than that. He was more complicated. He wasn't the same as when he'd left. Was it fair to her?

Now Muirfield had neatly cornered him with an alternative solution—half-beast with half-beast. No explanations, no condemnation, no pull of different worlds. But Cameryn, as beautiful as she was, could never compete with Catherine. She'd never look at him the way Catherine did. Theirs was a linking of heart, mind and soul, not simple chemistry, as good as that had been.

No. Tonight he would make himself known to her. And take his chances. Only if she refused to have him would he ever consider anyone else.

Chapter 4

Catherine pushed wearily through the door to her apartment. It had been a very long day. She'd forgotten how exhausting it could be to work a full shift. Either that, or she was terribly out of shape. The most difficult part had been putting on an eager face for all her co-workers and trying to look interested in their latest case—a suspicious death in the international district with possible ties to the mafia. Normally, such a crime would get her juices going, send her brain into overdrive analyzing evidence, surveillance photos and scraps of evidence, but not today.

Everyone had seemed genuinely glad to have her back, even those with the curious questions in their eyes. But she didn't owe them an explanation. Her cover story about her mother's sister's illness served to satisfy most, but there were still some who made her feel like they didn't quite believe it. Whatever.

She dropped her keys onto the entryway table and the loud clatter in the silent room snapped her out of her reverie. Boy, she was jumpy! But there was no one home to bother anymore. Heather had made it perfectly clear she was happy where she was, rooming with a friend she'd met at her work. The girl was Heather's age, so she was sure her little sister would enjoy having someone to hang around with rather than stuck here with a sister who'd been part mother to her for so long she'd forgotten how to just be a sis. And who likes an extra nanny at that age, anyway? No, it was for the best, although the loneliness was overwhelming at times.

Catherine sighed. Peeling off her light-weight jacket, she peeked into the mirror above the table and looked at her own face. When had thirty turned into forty, she wondered? The lines on her forehead, what few there were, had deepened in the last three months. Too much frowning. Too much coffee and late nights watching television alone begging for the morning—because nights were the worst. Without him. Vincent. When would things ever feel normal again? And how did one's life possibly go on without your mate?

She closed her eyes and dropped her face into one hand hating her weakness. She could see his eyes, hear the deep rumble of his voice in the deepest parts of her, feel the shivery brush of his chin whiskers along her jaw and then down her neck and into her hair. So vivid still. Ah, God, when would it ever get easier? She breathed deeply and even his scent seemed to fill her lungs, her body, invading her every nerve ending. The sensation was so real it was almost shocking in intensity. Why, it was almost like he was actually th—

She sucked in a breath and spun around so quickly she jarred the table into the wall. Vincent Ryan Keller silently filled the space just inside the balcony door through which he'd obviously broken in.

Catherine's eyes widened, and for a strangled moment her lungs and heart both failed to function at the same time. She gasped when she'd counted to five and was certain he was no figment of her imagination at all but the living, breathing embodiment of all her dreams and prayers.

Before he could speak, she catapulted across the room to him, oblivious to the fact that tears were streaming down her face for the first time in all the months he'd been gone.

Not knowing when she might return from her shift, Vincent had been pacing just outside the balcony door for two hours and peering into the lonely apartment. The first thing he noticed was how much it had changed. Or been re-arranged. There wasn't much to see in the unlit room, other than a few coffee cups on the counter and a spoon, obviously all in need of washing. He frowned. It wasn't like Catherine to be so untidy. The number of times he'd shown up to her place unexpectedly in the past, her apartment had always been neat as a pin. Something had definitely changed.

That had made him frown until he noticed the dining table. Catherine usually left it bare of anything save a vase of dried flowers, but today there were two place settings, a fresh bouquet of hothouse roses, and two wine glasses, waiting and ready for an elegant meal.

It could only mean one thing: Catherine was expecting a dinner guest. With her father still recovering at home and Evan dead, he knew of no one else it could be. And Heather was an unlikely guest for such a fancy table. The sisters had usually taken their meals at the less formal breakfast bar when they lived together.

He could feel the simmer of rage begin in his blood. Perhaps she'd moved on as his Muirfield doctor had suggested. No! He couldn't be too late. Catherine was his! And he wouldn't give her up without a fight. Maybe she thought him dead. That was an all too strong possibility. But too bad. He was back. And today, he'd show her just how alive he was.

Twisting the lock past the bolt, he'd felt a surge of satisfaction when it gave. The metal screeched then broke with a pop. He'd slid silently through the door and closed it behind him. Inside, the sights and scents that were so familiar to him from the past had assailed his nostrils. His eyes searched the room, dark now but lit by the twinkling glitter of lights from the buildings nearby. Then he'd leaned back into a shadowed corner and waited. He hadn't been there long when she wearily pressed open the door and began to peel off her leather jacket.

Senses alive and wildly snapping, he had hoped for a moment or two to observe her in silence before she realized he was there, but as usual, Catherine somehow sensed him before she saw him. As such, he was totally unprepared for the violence of her reaction, much less his, as she cried out, "Oh my God. Vincent!" She launched herself at him with such force, he found himself slammed backward into the wall, unexpected from someone barely over a hundred pounds wet.

Vincent felt his body react to the incredible sensations, achingly familiar, shockingly and torturously forbidden. His gut twisted in knots, yet he felt oddly comforted. Home. She felt like home. He thought he'd been prepared for this, but so desperate for the feel of her against him, he was absolutely powerless to stop the gush of adrenalin that shot through his veins at the contact. It pulsed through his body all the way to his fingertips where nails as sharp as razor wire instantly pierced through his nail beds. The sensation was never pleasant, but fear of what he could do to her tender skin had him panicked with the effort of trying to hold it back.

Her heart rate was astonishingly high and her breath too shallow. "Don't move," he ground out.

Catherine's eyes flew to his, their dewy lashes still heavy with unshed tears, but she froze obediently. Without needing to be told, she knew he was within a hair's breadth of losing control. The grip of his hands around her waist was painfully strong, but as good as it felt, she knew without being told that his nails had extended and were extremely close to ripping her flesh apart. One flinch in any direction and she was dead meat. The tiniest sting along her lower back told her he'd already accidentally nicked her, but she'd never let him know it. She focused on his face, so close to hers. With the lightest intake of breath she said, "Vincent, just breathe."

His eyes slowly lost their rage haze and that's when she noticed the changes in him. His hair was shorter, for one. He'd returned to the more military style cut he'd worn in the photograph she'd seen of him in the service. She spared a short sigh of regret about that. She had loved weaving her fingers into his long, dark locks. She'd used it to anchor herself to him in their most intense moments on more than one occasion. But that was nothing. Hair could grow again. It was his eyes that were so startlingly different now, and his mouth. This was not the beast she had lost to Muirfield. Even as she felt the faint slice of his nails into her skin as he was transforming, his face hadn't taken on that awkward beastly look he'd had before. No, these eyes held complete knowledge of who he was, like he and his animal nature had finally merged. And his mouth, though his own, looked more menacing.

Before she could contemplate the reason for all that, he flipped her around against the wall with a barely leashed violence so fast her head lightly bounced off it. His hands were no longer on her; his forearms had slammed against the wall next to her head and she could hear the tear of soft plaster as the painted wall board gave way to the grip of his deadly nails. Better, but still terrifying.

But this was Vincent. Vincent! Back in her apartment like a ghost come to life again.

"Who is he?" he ground out, his voice a deadly guttural whisper that demanded an answer.

If the confusion she felt showed on her face, he seemed not to notice. "Who is . . . who?"

"The guest you were expecting for dinner."

She cocked her head slightly to the side, then her brain flooded with relief. She realized what he had seen—the table set for two every night as it had been for three months. It had been a joke with herself, in a way. The only time she'd formally asked him over for dinner, just the two of them, he hadn't shown. So why expect it now? But even though she'd waited all night for him that evening so long ago, he hadn't intentionally abandoned her, and she knew down deep in her gut he wouldn't this time, either. And she had been right.

Braving his wrathful gaze, she slowly reached a hand up to his face and gave him the look of longing she hoped he understood. "I was waiting for you."

She gave him a moment to process her words and tremulous smile then breathed his name again.

"Oh God, Catherine."

Vincent leaned his forehead against hers and let the rage slowly recede. Her lips were so close, but as much as he was dying to feel them again with his own, to taste her sweetness, he didn't trust himself that much just yet. She graciously let him stand there and almost hold her, though he knew he'd possibly already hurt her and really should turn her around and check. He willed himself to calm down but it came by the slowest of degrees. His senses were still electrified by the feel of her body along his. Finally, he rubbed his nose along hers and allowed himself the barest brush of lips. It was all the encouragement she needed.

Catherine pushed her mouth to his, desperate for the feel of him again. The taste. The knowledge that he was home at last and in her arms. He answered her with some force of his own. As her nails bit into the hair above his ear, her other hand gripped his shirt like a lifeline. As their tongues tangled, she felt a roughness that hadn't been there before. It didn't matter. Delirious joy met aching anguish. She tried to tell him with her mouth and body what words never could. She'd come undone without him. Alone. Terrified. But she loved him with everything she was, and was unbelievably happy that he was back, changed or not.

When both of them were finally forced to separate just to suck in oxygen, she looked up again, breathing heavily. "What? How? You've changed." She frowned, knowing that hadn't come out right, but needing answers anyway.

The beast having finally receded, Vincent snaked his arms about her and pulled her to him. There were so many questions between them, questions she deserved answers to, but right now he couldn't focus. He had his woman in his arms again, and even though she had acknowledged the visible changes, she hadn't run. Again. He favored the heavens above with another prayer of thanks and closed his eyes to the feel of her. When he could finally breathe normally again, he lifted a hand to her face and saw the faintest trace of blood on his fingers.

"It's okay," she assured him, seeing his face and trying to cover her tender skin with her hand.

He immediately turned her around and pushed up the hem of her short blouse to view the damage his own hands had done to her. Her fingers spread achingly over the scratch.

"I surprised you, that's all," she assured him.

Shocked by his own actions, the familiar self-loathing rose to the surface. "No, it most certainly is not all right. I hurt you! Catherine, so much has changed—" More than she knew. More than he ever wanted her to know.

"I don't care." She cut him off. "I don't care, do you hear me, Vincent? We'll figure it out—whatever it is. You and me, together. Loop-de-loops, remember?"

When he started to speak again, she placed two fingers against his lips. "But not now. Kiss me. You've got three months to make up for, Mister. You'd better darn well get started."

Vincent nodded to the wisdom of that. Answers would come later. In time. But first things first.

Sometime in the morning, she slipped quietly from the bed, careful not to disturb him. But Vincent seemed to be sleeping the sleep of the dead. She looked back at him, covered only with a small portion of the summer-thin sheet. The lines of his face had relaxed and now he had the look of a gentle and peacefully slumbering Greek god. Adonis. The corded strands of muscle covering his body looked tighter, leaner than before. Sexier, but more dangerous. But as much as she'd like to pull back the curtains for a better look, she instead yanked the heavy drapes shut to close off the sliver of bright morning light just weaving its way into the room. No need for him to know the time. Not just yet. If she had her way, he'd never leave her bed. Ever again. She felt sore in places she hadn't known she could, and wonderfully good. Whole again. But they weren't done this morning, not by a long shot.

Catherine tip-toed into the bathroom and expertly cleaned up the tiny scratches along her torso. Dabbing a little cover-up on them, she examined her work. She should be shocked, she supposed, but couldn't find it in herself to feel anything but thrilled at the thought of him wanting her so badly he couldn't completely control himself. If she had her way, he'd never know he'd hurt her again. He hadn't meant to. There had been such devastation on his face when he realized he'd cut her last night. She'd felt some desperation herself. No, he must never find out. The man she loved was home. Where he belonged. And nothing else mattered.

She carefully crawled back under the sheets and wove her arms around the warm bands of his powerful body. There were deep slash marks in the bedding she hadn't noticed before. She cringed to guess what he'd think of that, but she didn't care. Not today.

She hugged him closer. And cried.

***The End***