Page 30 of The Big Bad Duke (The Shadows #9)

With one hand, he continued to caress her breasts, rolling her nipple between his fingers, while the other settled on her hip, holding her steady as he drove into her from behind.

His thumb found her swollen nub again, circling it with just the right pressure, while his hips maintained a relentless rhythm, thrusting into her with all his desire and need.

She sobbed in pleasure, her fingers gripping the cloak beneath her as he plunged in and out of her. Her cries grew louder, more desperate—but it wasn’t enough.

He wanted her to scream in pleasure.

Yes, they were still being hunted, still in danger. But in this moment, nothing else existed.

Just the two of them and this overwhelming need.

He rocked against her, increasing the pace. His thumb continued its rhythm over her peak, making her sob and cry out his name. He could feel her body tightening around him, could sense her approaching climax.

When it hit, she pulsed from the inside, her inner muscles clenching around him in waves of pleasure, drawing his own orgasm from him with violent intensity. He buried his face in her neck to muffle his cry of release.

They lay like that afterward, in complete silence, their breathing gradually slowing. The sounds of the forest returned little by little, reality beginning to intrude on their perfect bubble. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and spoke reluctantly.

“We need to get up and get moving,” he said, his voice rough with sleep or perhaps satisfaction. “If people are looking for us, they must be closing in. We need to leave this place.”

She made a small sound of protest, pressing back against him, clearly reluctant to break their intimate connection.

As it was, they’d already spent too much time lost in pleasure. He had been too engrossed in her, hadn’t been as observant as he should have been.

Reluctantly, he withdrew from her warmth and sat up.

He looked around carefully, his trained senses scanning for any sign of danger.

Everything seemed quiet. The forest appeared peaceful—innocent, even.

He stood and walked a short distance away to relieve himself, then gathered his scattered clothes. The morning air was cool against his bare skin as he walked naked to the stream, needing to wash away the evidence of their lovemaking before they continued their journey.

The water was shockingly cold, making him gasp as he waded in. He scrubbed himself quickly but thoroughly, trying to focus on practical matters instead of the memory of Leila’s soft cries still echoing in his ears.

When he turned around, he found her standing on the bank, watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Was it awe? Pride? Something else?

She was still wearing his shirt, which modestly covered her from knees to shoulders, as if he hadn’t kissed and tasted every inch of her body just hours earlier.

The white linen clung to her curves, somehow more enticing than if she’d been completely naked.

She had beautiful legs—long and graceful, with perfectly shaped calves and delicate ankles. Her entire silhouette was seductive, and he could see the outline of her body peeking through the thin white fabric.

She was breathtaking. And for a moment, he forgot all about the danger, all about the need to keep moving.

She walked toward him, moving with that panther-like grace that had first caught his attention. Every step was fluid, predatory, feminine. Utterly her.

His Leila.

He looked at her, and she was watching him with unmistakable hunger in her eyes, as if their recent lovemaking had only whetted her appetite for more.

“Come here,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “I’ll help you wash.”

She smiled and stepped into the water, only to retreat with a sharp yelp.

Gideon couldn’t help but laugh.

He stepped closer and reached out a hand.

“It’s cold,” she complained.

“Yes, but I promise I’ll cleanse you quickly.”

Her gaze was mistrustful, but she placed her hand in his and stepped into the frigid water, her mouth open in shock.

Leila moved carefully into the stream and suddenly splashed him in the face.

Gideon froze, startled, as she laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Her musical laughter was contagious, and he joined in just before splashing water onto her shirt.

She gasped. “Gideon!” The rebuke sounded sweet to his ears.

He loved hearing her say his name—no matter the tone. He wanted to hear all the ways she could say it.

She kicked at the water, splashing him again, and soon they were both playing like adolescents, laughing and splashing each other in the icy stream.

When she tried to kick again, she slipped on the smooth stones of the streambed and nearly tumbled. He caught her against his chest, clutching her tightly. As he steadied her, they were pressed together, skin to skin, and the laughter died on their lips.

He kissed her then, unable to resist, pouring all his complicated emotions into it. She responded immediately, her arms winding around his neck, her body molding to his.

Their kiss was raw and hungry.

Desperate.

As if they hadn’t just made love mere minutes ago.

“I want to see you in the light,” he whispered against her lips, his hands reaching for the hem of her shirt.

He lifted it over her head, revealing her fully to the morning sun, bundling the shirt and throwing it onto the bank.

Then his hands traced the elegant curve of her spine, moved lower, weighing her buttocks in his palms, marveling at how perfectly she fit in his hands.

She giggled at his obvious appreciation, the sound light and musical. Then, with mischievous intent, she splashed him directly in the face and attempted to run off.

But he was quicker, catching her easily by the waist and pulling her against him. He spun them around, the water swirling around them, her laughter surrounding him.

When he set her down, still chuckling at her playfulness, he noticed something that made his blood freeze.

There, on the small of her back, just above her right buttock, was a mark he recognized all too well.

He froze, his hands still gripping her waist, holding her in place.

She must have felt the change in him instantly. She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, confusion and growing alarm in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to turn fully to face him.

He couldn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the small black fist etched into her skin. It was exactly like the ones the Brotherhood members bore on their bodies. He’d seen enough of them to know the mark by heart.

Except this one was black instead of the usual crimson.

The sight of it made him sick.

It wasn’t a mark they gave to just anyone.

It was reserved for full-fledged members—not mere lackeys or servants, and certainly not victims.

Perhaps they used a different color for their women, or maybe it signified rank within the Brotherhood’s hierarchy.

He knew there was an entire ceremony before one received it—rituals, oaths, a number of dirty tasks that had to be completed.

Perhaps—a dark thought entered his mind—a black fist was just a stepping stone.

Perhaps he was the final task that would turn her mark red.

“What is that?” he asked, his voice hoarse with shock and growing fury.

“What are you talking about?” She tried harder to swivel from his grasp to see what he was seeing, but his grip was iron-strong now. “Gideon, you’re frightening me.”

“The mark!” he barked. “You have a black fist on your skin. You’re one of them.”

“One of whom?” Her voice was steady, but he could hear the underlying tremor of fear.

“Don’t play games with me.” He released her abruptly and strode toward the shore, water streaming from his naked body. He began yanking on his clothes, jerking fabric over wet skin. “Don’t you dare play innocent now.”

She followed his lead, scrambling out of the water and reaching for her discarded clothing with shaking hands.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, pulling her wet shirt over her body. It clung to her, concealing nothing. “That mark is a brand they used on me. Like branding cattle. Marking property.”

“No, it’s not.” He whirled on her, his shirt only half-buttoned. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve lied enough already. I’ve gutted enough Brotherhood scum to know lackeys don’t get the mark. Only the elite do. Only those who’ve sworn the blood oath.”

“I’m not a member!” Her voice rose in desperation as she yanked on her breeches. “I told you the truth. The men who abducted me and kept me prisoner did this. Maybe so they could track me down if I escaped or for some other sick reason.”

But he was barely listening now. His mind raced, piecing together all the inconsistencies he’d ignored, all the warning signs he’d dismissed—because he’d wanted to believe her. Because he’d wanted her.

What a fool he’d been. A complete and utter idiot.

How had he believed her so easily when she’d spun that tale about being an innocent victim? She’d tried to kill him. At least three times that he could count. Four, if he included the fire.

Surely that had been her doing as well. And when she saw he’d survived—when she realized her plan had failed—she’d tied herself to the banister to maintain her cover, to continue playing the helpless victim.

She was an excellent actress. Good enough to fool him completely.

“You poisoned me,” he said through gritted teeth, and she went completely still. That reaction was confirmation enough.

“And that night, your supposed carriage accident… That wasn’t an accident, was it? It was a setup.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she murmured quietly, “Yes. But I couldn’t go through with it.”

He let out a bitter laugh, devoid of humor. As if her failure to finish the job made any difference. She was still an assassin, still a willing accomplice of the Brotherhood that had destroyed his life.

She might have lived under the Cardinal’s roof, but not as a prisoner.

What had she said last night? “I was basically a harlot.”