Victor ended his call and stepped into the open-n kitchen. He filled a ceramic bowl with boiling water, then added a handful of nourishing ingredients, moving with unhurried precision.


    Twenty minutester, theforting aroma of the soup filled the apartment. It was ready.


    In the bedroom, Isadoray on the bed with her eyes closed. She''d been drifting


    in that half-awake, half-asleep state, but now any trace of drowsiness had vanished.


    The sound of the bedroom door opening broke the silence.


    Heavy footsteps padded across the room-slow, deliberate-drawing closer to the bed.


    Hershes fluttered as she clutched the nket tighter, not daring to move.


    She''d thought he would leave...


    But Victor approached, tall andposed, a bowl of steaming soup cradled in his elegant hands. His shadow stretched long across the bed, the soft robe he wore doing little to conceal the restrained, almost monastic masculinity he exuded.


    He held the bowl out to her, his tone casual and almostzy. "I know you''re not asleep. Drink this."


    Isadora peeked out from under the covers, her wide eyes luminous against the soft spill of hair around her face. The nket hid most of her features, making her look even more vulnerable-almost childlike.


    She nced at the bowl in his hand.


    Victor slipped one hand into his pocket, the corners of his mouth lifting with a hint of amusement. "What, do you want me to feed you?"


    At that, Isadora finally sat up, reached for the bowl, and drank it in one long swallow. She set the empty bowl on the nightstand.


    A quiet "Thank you," left her lips.


    Victor didn''t look away, his eyes crinkling with a faint, teasing smile.


    "Funny, that sounded more like you''re trying to send me away than show gratitude."


    He wasn''t wrong.


    She didn''t know what had gotten into him tonight, why he was suddenly ying the attentive caretaker.


    But she hadn''t forgotten that night-how coldly he''d turned her away.


    That kind of rejection had stung, left her cheeks burning every time she remembered it.


    But if Victor felt any guilt, he didn''t show it.


    He lowered himself to the edge of the bed, his dark eyes fixed on her pale face.


    After a moment, he reached out and rested his palm gently on her abdomen, his voice surprisingly soft. "Does it still hurt?"


    His hand wasrge and warm. The simple touch sent a strange shiver up Isadora''s spine, and for a moment, she was almost tempted to lose herself in that sensation.


    She forced herself to frown, willing her mind elsewhere.


    But just as she moved her hand, Victor caught it in his own, wrapping his long fingers around hers.


    He held her there, not letting go.


    The sharpness in his gaze melted away, reced by a rare tenderness. "Come on, princess. Don''t be difficult, okay?"


    Isadora stared at their hands-his tanned, strong against her fair, delicate fingers. The contrast was stark, yet oddlyforting.


    She looked up and met his eyes.


    For a second, it felt as if she was falling into uncharted depths.


    Then Victor''s low, maic voice broke the silence. "I''ve heard women get moody


    during their periods. For today, you can do whatever you want to me."


    No sooner had he finished speaking than Isadora sank her teeth into his firm, bronzed forearm.


    He hissed at the sting.


    A pink crescent of teeth marks quickly bloomed on his skin, like a puppy''s yful bite.


    Victor arched an eyebrow but didn''t withdraw his arm. He let out a short, sardonicugh. “Isadora, are you trying to kill me?"


    She eyed the mark on his arm, her anger already fading. "People like you are too stubborn to die so easily."


    Victor reached over and pinched her cheek. “You''re getting pretty good at cursing me, aren''t you?"


    His fingers lingered on her skin-cool, soft, impossibly smooth. For a fleeting second, he found himself unwilling to let go.