Page 49 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4

‘Well,’ I say reasonably, ‘If he wanted to kill her, he would have done already. In fact, if all he wanted was to hurt you, then he didn’t need to take her anywhere at all. He could have killed her immediately.’

That muscle in his impressive jaw leaps and leaps. ‘That could be true.’

‘Did she say she was in danger?’

‘No.’

‘So, why don’t you believe her?’

Ulysses doesn’t like that, but he doesn’t look away. ‘What do you care?’

He’s angry, I know this, an animal caught in a trap and lashing out at anyone trying to help him. And I am trying to help him. I’m trying to offer some cool logic and truth in the face of his boiling rage.

‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly. ‘But she’s important to you and I don’t like seeing you upset.’

He gives me one last fierce stare, then turns to face the windows again, his back once again to me. ‘I kidnapped you from your office building and forced you to come with me. You have exactly zero reasons for not liking to see me upset.’

‘Maybe,’ I tell him. ‘But I don’t like it all the same.’

He says nothing for long moments and I stare up the length of his powerful back and muscular shoulders.

I don’t know why I suddenly feel so strongly about this, about him, especially considering that he’s right.

I have no reason to like him, to feel anything for him at all, and yet…

in the space of twenty-four hours he’s managed to touch parts of me that no one has ever even noticed before.

It makes me afraid to think these things about him, to feel anything for him, especially when people are so unreliable, so changeable, so fallible. And part of me wonders if I’m wrong about him—that he does have the ability to hurt me and, even worse, I’ve handed him the means to do so.

Go back upstairs. Leave him and save yourself a world of pain.

I should do that. Except I don’t. I stand there looking at the graceful curve of his back and, without even thinking, I rest light fingertips on the groove of his spine and trace the line of it, his skin warm and velvety beneath my touch.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly. ‘I want to help you but I don’t know how.’

He says nothing for a long moment, his muscles rigid beneath my fingertips.

Then slowly he turns around, so instead of his back there is the perfect expanse of his bare chest and abdomen, rigid and hard with muscle.

He looks down at me, his golden eyes full of an expression I can’t read.

‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘Why should you care about this in any way?’

He wants an answer, I can see that, and I know telling him that I have no idea why I feel this way won’t work, so I try to think of a reason to give him, and maybe one to give myself.

‘You…obviously care about her very deeply,’ I say hesitatingly.

‘And that… I find that very attractive.’ Then I blush because the words didn’t come out the way I wanted them too and it sounds stupid.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again quickly, ‘I’m not very good at talking about feelings.

I’m not very good at anything to do with feelings. ’

He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, just stares down at me, radiating strength, power and heat. And once again I’m that moth flying towards him, unable to stay away. ‘Have you never cared for someone, Katla?’ he asks,

The question comes out of the blue and for some reason it feels as if he’s pulled a rug out from under me. ‘C-care for someone?’ I repeat stupidly.

‘Your husband?’ Ulysses asks. ‘Did you care for him? Do you have any siblings? What about your parents?’

I don’t know where he’s going with this and I feel strange and uncomfortable talking about it.

I don’t want to tell him about my childhood, or more about my life with John.

I don’t want to tell him about the difficulties I have in relationships, because I’m afraid of feeling anything too intensely, too deeply.

Because I’m afraid of being hurt again, of not feeling good enough. Of not being normal enough.

‘Why do you want to know that?’ I ask him, taking an uncomfortable step back to put some distance between us.

He notes my retreat and something flickers in his eyes. ‘So you know what my sister means to me,’ he says flatly. ‘So you understand why I’m so furious about this.’

There’s a lump in my throat and no amount of swallowing will make it go away. ‘Well, yes,’ I say, and don’t elaborate, because I don’t want to keep talking about this particular topic.

But Ulysses is an observant man, and of course he takes note of my discomfort. ‘Who?’ he asks. ‘Who was it you cared about?’

I can feel my cheeks getting hot, but I’ve promised him honesty, so that’s what I’ll give him. ‘My mother,’ I say. ‘I cared about her.’

His gaze sharpens even more. ‘Not your husband?’

‘No,’ I murmur and glance away, not wanting to meet that glowing golden stare that sees too much. ‘Not as much as he wanted me to.’

Then all of a sudden his fingers grip my chin and he turns me back to face him, forcing me to meet his eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ His voice is soft, in complete contrast to the firmness of his grip. ‘You’re upset.’

I try to pull away. ‘I’m not. This isn’t about me, this is about—’

‘Tell me,’ he orders.

He’s going to make me tell him, I know that. He’s not someone who will let something alone, and I know that too, so there’s no point me changing the subject or trying to distract him. And maybe, if I tell him the truth about myself, he’ll finally change the subject.

Or he’ll walk away.

That thought leaves me feeling cold, as if my stomach has dropped away, and I don’t know why, so I ignore the feeling.

‘I did love my mother,’ I say flatly. ‘But she never loved me.’

He frowns. ‘How do you know that?’

I let out a breath. ‘Because she never said it to me. She was something of a free spirit and found living in Iceland claustrophobic. So, when I was very young, she left the country and took me with her. My father wasn’t in the picture so we spent a long time travelling around Europe, staying in communes or working on farms in exchange for free accommodation. It was a nomadic lifestyle and I…’

I swallow, remembering the difficulties I had.

‘I hated it. I don’t like change, so constantly moving was awful, and since I…

find it hard making friends anyway, making friends while on the move was impossible.

Also, Mum wanted an easy child who didn’t make fusses or throw tantrums; who could just pick up and leave whenever she called, who would follow her without any kind of fuss, but… I wasn’t that child.’

The lump in my throat grows bigger. ‘Sometimes she’d leave me with friends and go off for months at a time because it was easier for her to be without me, and I used to be afraid that she’d leave me there and never come back.

She didn’t, of course, but that was my fear.

’ I don’t like talking about this, but I make myself go on.

‘I tried to be the daughter she wanted, to not make a fuss or throw a tantrum whenever we moved. But…she wasn’t interested in numbers and she hated my little collections and… I think she wanted someone normal…’

I trail off, conscious of how childlike and whiny I sound.

My cheeks burn and I don’t want to look into Ulysses’s gaze again.

I don’t want to see pity, bewilderment or contempt, because surely a man like him would feel that for someone like me?

Someone who has no control over their emotions and who never seems to fit in anywhere; who was unloved by her own mother and by the man who was supposed to be my husband.

This time Ulysses doesn’t insist on me looking at him, granting me the mercy of the blank wall instead. ‘And your husband?’ he murmurs. ‘What about him?’

‘I don’t know why he wanted me,’ I say, because I don’t.

‘But I married him because I thought he loved me and that my life with him would be stable, that I’d be safe with him.

Except… I wasn’t. He didn’t like my collection either.

My mother tried to take away my emotions and John tried to take away my intellect.

He always downplayed it, made me feel small.

Made me feel stupid about certain things. ’

I swallow yet again, because I hate saying all this and yet I can’t stop. ‘I’m different, Ulysses. Not by a lot, but a little. Just enough to not be much good to anyone.’ That sounds so pathetic that I can’t bear it, so I try to pull away, but he holds me fast.

And, before I can do anything, he bends and covers my mouth in an intense, hungry kiss. It’s hot, savage almost, as if he’s trying to prove something, and when he lifts his head my mouth feels branded somehow.

He stares down at me fiercely. ‘Yes,’ he says in rough tones.

‘You’re right, you are different. But that’s what makes you beautiful, don’t you understand?

That’s what makes you rare and unique. That’s what makes you special.

And, if your mother and husband didn’t know what they had and didn’t appreciate it, then they’re fools. ’