He couldn't bear to look at her, to see her and remember what they'd shared. She was the only woman he had ever truly loved. The only person he had allowed past his intricately crafted fortifications. The pain of loosing her husband had murdered his mother. He had never wanted to injure anyone that way. So he kept his distance. Yet around his lover, he hadn't possessed the strength to maintain the impenetrable walls that had held since he watched his father - a formidable rival to Osiris himself - melt away into no more than a defenseless specter. He had vowed never to allow anyone so close to him.

Then again, perhaps she was exactly what he needed so desperately.

A blade stabbed him through the heart each time he had to force himself to see her - and remember she what she had endured. The tortured brokenness haunting her gaze tore him limb from limb. Guilt crushed him beneath tons of granite.

Elation and agony dashed the breath from his lungs when she revealed her torment. Dazed, he only managed her name, desperate to understand why she could not bring herself to trust him. Before she vanished.

With all the strength he processed, he severed any emotional connection with her. His only choice. And with it, he died. The sensation of complete apathy toward the woman he loved more than his very life terrified him. And toward her child. So he turned his back and fled. Because he could not bare the thought of abandoning them.


"I'm sure he'll be glad to hear that." Boris nodded curtly by way of thanks.

"He's a genius lad. Though last time he couldn't stop laughing at mi accent." The Scotsman shook her head in amusement. Snapping his folder shut, he swept his eyes across the now-deserted conference room. It was only mid-afternoon and already it had been too long a day. Too long a week.

"Go home, Keith. Get some rest. You've been here too long." His vice-CEO stalled at the hallway, remembering something. Her Scottish lilt darkened in jest.

"Oh, by the way… Romashi Investments called. They're finally ready to talk. I told them they could go through me for the next few weeks. Possibly a wee bit earlier, on the off chance you felt so inclined. They don't want this getting out to the public. I've never heard that man so close to hysteria." She arched an eyebrow as she turned to leave. "Apparently something to do with a wayward accountant in Sweden who's about to make the FBI's Most Wanted…"

"Miss Keith?"

"Aye, sir?"

"Tell Grayson I'll put him out of him misery by Friday when I get back to New York. In return, he is not to bother me this weekend for any reason. I do not care if Stalin himself comes searching for him. Understood?"

"Of course." A knowing, mischievous smirk curved her mouth before she slipped through the door. "And I will not ask what is so important."

Boris dragged a hand down his face. One of the world's largest financial corporations flung prostrate at his feet, begging for grace. He'd be buried in work till at least 2200. Possibly midnight.

Stony eyes cut to the figure in the figure emerging from his father's study. Arms crossed over his chest, the teenager straightened unconsciously. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, voice mirroring his gaze. An amused chuckle escaped his intruder.

"You really don't like me, do you Boris? Why?"

"'Like' has nothing to do with it. I simply don't trust you, Grayson. You're a wretched little viper," he bit out the last sentence in Japanese, proud when he only shot him a confused look.

"You're only fifteen, lad. Don't go begging for fights you can't win. Besides, your father seems to like me quite well." A flash of white disappeared into the pocket of his black suit jacket. He recognized his father's signature on the back and his stomach churned. "We've just become very close partners." Grayson smirked viciously. "An extremely generous man. Quite generous indeed…"

Boris couldn't help the hair bristling on the back of his neck at the thought of that bastard taking advantage of his dying father.

Only the first of many.


Before him was such a different man than he had witnessed in the months since they'd met. Leaning against the balcony railing, eyes trailed his benefactor as he paced the room, like… Hank couldn't say. His usually controlled, tranquil exterior had all but vanished in the wake of another state, utterly foreign. Something about him seemed almost... frantic.

And yet, simultaneously the exact opposite.

"Do you want me to come home early? I can finish what I need to in the Hamptons. Keith can manage the rest here for a few days."

"I have a heavy case load this week. I'm meeting with a trial candidate in Manhattan on Saturday. I haven't really been home much, Boris."

"Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I promise."

"That's what you told me the last time." She couldn't miss the sadness in his voice, subtle as it was.

Vulnerable. At last it registered. Hank had only begun to see minute snatches of it in the last few weeks. He thought he'd been seeing things.

Boris worked another button loose on his royal blue dress shirt - Marisa's favorite. His suit jacket and tie lay flung over a chair in the living room from when he'd stormed in, too distraught to think clearly.

"Let Malachi stay with you," he nearly yelled.

"No," she ground out firmly. "Boris, I already told you-"

"Will you just listen to me? Please?"

"You never used to be like this."

"Because your life wasn't at stake."

"So you're allowed to play Russian roulette but I'm not? I'm fully aware of what I'm risking." The sudden leveled calm of her tone frightened him.

"Marisa, that is an entirely different matter."

"If I disobey him, I die." Just as it had always been. "Kim and Nduta need me. I have to go." Silence.

Her words clinked dully in his mind, disbelief she meant them masking desperation and panic. Could she truly disregard her very life as if it no longer held any value?

Snapping the phone shut, he narrowly resisted the impulse to heave it across the room and watch it fragment against the wall.

From the outside, the whole scene appeared completely pedestrian. Simply two arguing lovers.

And yet there existed nothing pedestrian about this.

Not with them.


Late afternoon light illuminated Washington's capital building dominating the skyline blocks away. The heat had tapered off as the sun migrated toward the horizon. Normally tourist-infested landmarks settled into grand tranquility. His head of security lingered a few yards behind. A small smile played at his mouth. Marisa had taken to calling Malachi his praetorian perfect. As if he were a grand emperor of Rome instead of a ruthless businessman and member of an archaic aristocracy, who had made lethal enemies.

"Something is on your mind, Hank." The other man's head snapped up at the sudden intrusion of sound. "What is it that's bothering you?"

"How's Marisa doing?"

"If you want to know, why don't you simply ask her yourself?" He shrugged. "You speak with her more than I do right now. Perhaps I should be the one asking you that question."

"Why didn't Marisa come with you this week? If you need me, surly you'd need her."

"Are you going to scold me again? I am not a child, Hank." Boris sighed wearily. "That cannot be your only reason. You said you wished to speak with me. What is this really about?"

Gazes locked; brown flashed with an undercurrent of accusation, though his words remained level.

"She had fresh bruises and scraps all over her body, and she moved like her ribs had been re-injured-"

"You believe I would hurt her?"

"No. But I have to ask. I want to make sure she's all right and-"

"You're concerned for the baby." Surprise stole over his features, closely followed by a measure of relief, as if he'd been holding his breath.

"I take it Marisa told you?" Steel edged with deep pain marked his low answering words.

"That she was tortured and repeatedly gang raped while she was in prison? That I am in fact not the father of the child she's carrying? Yes. She did."

He clenched his fists to quell furious tremors that for the first time in his life bore no threat of descending death.

Blurs of lush green and towering granite floated past as Hank fell into step again.

"You were arguing with someone on the phone earlier. You looked frustrated, angry."

"Hank, this doesn't concern you. None of this holds any medical relevancy whatsoever."

"If you're angry at her about the baby for some reason-"

"Hank, I'm not angry with Marisa. She'll hardly talk to me-"

"Then what else is it?"

"Marisa has engineered countless miracles for me, but I can't seem to do anything to help her now. She's suffering and I'm powerless to prevent it." Boris kept his gaze anchored in front of him, lest he lose his composure. "As you know, I have never had the luxury of time. If she does decide to raise the child, I have only a handful of years at most-"

"But her research shows great potential. Marisa could very well find a cure. Possibly within months."

"Yes, I know," he nodded. His voice hardened. "But what if she doesn't? She would believe my death to be her fault. I refuse to abandon her that way." Hank opened his mouth, but snapped it shut just as hastily. Boris' eyes flashed. "She understands. But a child couldn't."

"Then at least be with her while you can."


Petite footsteps echoed off the stone floor, racing toward the end of the deserted hall. Black-clad giants towered ahead; he called out and the middle figure turned. He slammed into hard legs, clung to them. Bright gray irises tilted up to meet strong viridian.

Bending down, he playfully ruffled his son's hair before scooping him up into his arms. Boris dissolved into giggles as his father continued to tickle him mercilessly.

"Daddy! Stop! It tickles!" he shrieked through uncontrollable laughter. "Stop, Daddy! It tickles! It tickles! Daddy!" Complying, the duke gently set him back on his feet and knelt to his level.

"I'll see you tonight, ok Boris? Be good and obey your mother." He pressed his lips to his cheek and quickly hugged him once more before ducking into his car.

"Bye, Daddy," he waved after him. "See ya."

A sharp nock broke him from his reverie.

"James. I thought you'd gone home."

"Grayson gave me these for you after our meeting this afternoon. My apologies for not getting them to you sooner."

He extended a single sheet of paper. Snatching it, Boris' eyes flew over the document, all too accustomed to legal jargon. Eyes narrowed in suspicion; anger chilled his veins.

"He's suing me?"


She couldn't bare the expression in his piercing gray irises that exposed the very depths of her soul to his eyes. The disgust, the hatred, the defensive condemnation - and, impossible - sorrow? Stripping her bare before him. As she had found herself so many times before. The reflections she found in them chilled her to the bone.

But the worst were the covert, stolen glances when he seemed unaware of the sixth sense she had developed for him, his gaze, his presence. For that was when the agony, the enmity - for having allowed himself to love, and for her deceit - are etched nakedly into his features.

Her life had ebbed from conflict, her existence forged from steal. In a place where someone would gladly spill the blood of family and friends to insure their own breath remained, trust was impossible - lethal. From childhood, she learned she could only rely on herself. She couldn't afford the ties that provoked rash decisions. A foreigner, he had stood outside harm's reach. Yet she had been the one to wound him.

It felt as if she were dying. Perhaps she already was.

Black letters melded against the stark page; she couldn't allow herself to dwell on Boris right now. Marisa forced her attention back to the file in front of her. None of it made any sense. Exasperated, she sifted through the myriad of test results and a medical history scattered on her desk thick enough to pass for a novel. Fourteen doctors had simply thrown their hands up in surrender and kicked Sam on to the next, clueless.

It didn't make sense. Except…

Ice shot up her spine.

Snatching up the phone, she jabbed in her number. Moments like this, she despised her job.

"What?" Eyes wide, Sam stared in disbelief at the woman sitting across from her. This couldn't be happening.

"Late-onset Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva. It's extremely rare, which explains why no one caught it before." But that shouldn't be an excuse. "It means your tissue muscles, and ligaments are slowly turning to bone. Your joints will eventually fuse together." Sam ran a hand down her face.

"I did hear right. And to think I wanted an answer." Sighing heavily, she raised her eyes again. "What are my options?"

"There aren't any treatments, but the fact that it's late-onset combined with your age means it's extremely slow-progressing. You have almost none of the usual symptoms. From the three cases I know of, it could take three, four decades or more before it gets serious. There very well could be treatments by then, maybe even cures."

"That means I can just go back to life?"

"More or less." Marisa offered a empathetic smile. She knew all too well what it felt like having her life torn apart. "Without the football games, though, I'm afraid. Injuries can exacerbate the condition and cause the bone to fuse faster."

"So, just no hitting the ground at seventy miles an hour and I'm good."

"We'll monitor your health very closely, see how your disease progresses and how fast, and adjust accordingly."

Numbly, Sam nodded. She was dying of some freak-of-nature disease and yet the woman opposite her actually saw her as a person, not just another case file. Lips curved at the irony. Apparently, it only took fifteen doctors to find someone competent enough to actually knew what they were doing.


Blank eyes brushed over the eternal blue cast out before her. Apathy ebbed into a crescendoing ache deep within her bones…

Handing her a water bottle, he discreetly surveyed her condition. Sleep had dragged her under for the first few hours of their flight. Subtle marks of torture proclaimed themselves against her olive skin, though he knew she'd tried to conceal them. Marisa smiled weakly in thanks as he sank into the seat next to her.

"They weren't going to let me die of thirst, Boris. They couldn't afford it." Still, she downed a few grateful sips before rising. He looked up at her inquiringly. "I need to see if I can clean up a little."

The gash on her left side burnt almost unbearably. She had to stem the bleeding before crimson seeped through her shirt and Boris saw. Clicking the bathroom door in place, she fished out the first aid kit from under the sink. Deep brown eyes stared back at her in her reflection. A myriad of emotions thrashed violently in her heart. Tentatively, she placed a hand over her stomach.

She had known all along, hadn't she? She was pregnant.

Tangible evidence of the greatest agony she had survived.


Dying sunlight drifted through the windows. Hardened muscles forged of his loathing of death encompassed her, guarding her. Perfect bronze skin melded with flowing black satin hair tumbling across the pillows. Sleepily, his gaze met hers.

Adoring gray eyes.

"Te amo. Me encantas. Para siempre." How could he say that, after all he knew? That he loved her, adored her?

The praises he had whispered against her skin while they were consumed in fire, he repeated now in her native tongue. Reverently, decisively, sure of his aim. He'd done everything in his power to declare how much he loved and treasured her. In the aftermath, they lay still entangled in each other, his arm slung gently across her waist. As if nothing had changed between them. His mouth lazily grazed her collarbone, shoulder, neck, her mouth. Fingertips grazed her skin, outlining her curves, sketching a sea of raised scars.

"Boris? What are you doing?" she queried wearily. Pressing a tender kiss to the curve of her neck, he shrugged lightly.

"Admiring your body."

"Like this…?"

She cast her gaze helplessly over her bare figure. Nodding minutely in assurance, he let his mouth fall to hers again, the gesture deep and lingering. Around him, she had become incredibly self-conscious of the scars littering her skin. Did she think they would make him see her as weak? Nothing could be farther from reality.

"They're proof of how strong you are. Most people couldn't have survived what you went through." Flesh against flesh, exposed and vulnerable, his strong arms felt like an iron prison instead of a refuge. "That's what you're concerned about?"

Without answering, she slipped from beneath the covers. Sun-saturated air danced across her skin, rushing shivers up her spine. His eyes never left her. Marisa froze at the foot of the bed, unable to move at the sheer intensity of his gaze as it caught hers.

She stood before him, divested of any barriers. For what seemed an eternity, he could only stare, needing to take in the sight, captivated: immeasurably beautiful and marvelous, entirely without equal in his eyes, his heart, his life. It had been so long since she had allowed him to truly see her. Those dark, fathomless eyes…

Overwhelmed, unable to bare the emotions in his graphite irises, her gaze darted to the floor. Fear and doubt and shame hollowed out her insides as his sweeping gaze lingered again for a moment on the gentle curve of her stomach. Evidence that she was used, broken. Heat crept up to stain her cheeks even as painful cold gripped her heart. At last, he had seen her. And abhorred what he found.

She crossed to the other side of the room to shrug on her own shirt, even though his lay discarded within arm's reach of where she'd lain only moments before.

"Marisa, did I hurt you?" Boris queried anxiously.

"No," she responded coolly after a moment. She lifted her gaze to meet his over her shoulder. Her features were carved into that terrible, beautiful mask he'd come to loathe and fear.

They were married in all but name; she loved him more than she had ever believed possible.

And she couldn't quell the horrid feeling that somehow she had just defiled him.


Marisa never thought she'd be so thankful to see Friday. Forceful voices overrunning one another floated from Boris' study as she passed. What could he be doing, planning World War III? Leaning against the great wooden door, she silently observed the mob of suited men and women around the oak table in the center of the room.

Sunset poured in from the wall of windows on the other side, bled fiery hues into everything before her. He had to know she was here. He had developed a sixth sense for her presence; she for him.

His head snapped up at the sound of her voice. He eyed her from behind a pair of graphite glasses briefly before tossing them to the tabletop along with a file the size of a novel. Tilting her head to the side, she couldn't help a fleeting smile before she sobered. Darkness saturated his gaze as he caught sight of her.

"That's enough for tonight," he snapped in German. "We'll return to this tomorrow." At his command, the space emptied in moments. Heals clicked on the hardwood floor as she crossed to him.

"Boris, what is this about?"

"James Grayson has decided to take legal action against my company. Ludicrous claims regarding embezzlement, fraud, conspiracy with enemy nations, anything he could dream up, I imagine. He managed to make it appear legitimate enough to warrant a federal investigation and I have to find a strong way to counter him." Meeting her deep brown eyes, he took hold of her hands. "Marisa, I need you to be careful. Grayson stole a great deal from my family's business. Our child, as my heir, is a threat to him. So are you. He wants to take over this company and will not hesitate to employ murder to achieve it."

Grayson had pried his fortune from his father's hands, generously uncurled in the midst of his own blissful hell.

And now he planned to do the same to him.