into a spacious room with gleaming dark wood floors draped with Tibetan rugs. Every piece of furniture was antique, boasting a unique animal carving: a swan, an elephant, even a winged lion. The fabric bordering the large rounded windows matched the rugs, the sides pulled back to reveal elaborate stained glass.
“Sit.” He gave her a gentle push, and yet she stumbled onto the couch, plopping onto the comfortable cushions. “Stay.”
Two commands she’d often given her dogs. Her fists clenched around her gown’s colossal skirt, wrinkling the material. She was the trainer, not the other way around.
When an aggressive canine was sent to her for taming, she would introduce herself slowly, often pretending she was alone as she puttered around in places he could watch her without feeling as though she encroached on his space. What she didn’t do was allow him to scare her away. He would only lash out more aggressively the next time she appeared.
Baden wasn’t a dog, but he was certainly feral. The same principle applied. So, she stood.
He said nothing as she increased the distance between them. She pretended to scrutinize lamps, vases and the portraits on the wall, each a different type of flower.
“You appear calm and at ease, and yet I can sense your terror.” He leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.
Surviving a feral, rule one: Never show fear.
Basically, fake it till you make it.
Two: Use a soft but assertive tone. Anything else could rouse hostility.
Three: Remember you get what you reinforce, not necessarily what you expect.
In this case, she ignored number four: Place the dog’s needs first.
And skipped to number five: Find out what will work best with each individual dog.
“How do you sense my terror?” she asked, her tone soft but confident. “I have no tells.”
His raspy chuckle held a note of self-deprecation. “Trust me. You have tells. My more beastly qualities enjoy them.”
“Do your more beastly qualities think I should thank you for kidnapping me?”
“Yes. I did you a favor, nevesta. Consider this a holiday from the terrible life awaiting you.”
“You know nothing about my life. Or me!”
He scoffed, his disgust back in full force. “You are married to Aleksander Ciernik. I can guess.”
Don’t know this man, don’t like him. His opinion doesn’t matter. But...
What would he do if she told him about the dogs? Would he understand her plight? Help her? Or would he condemn her?
Will never tell him! He was a killer, as bad as Alek—maybe worse—and he might hunt down her babies just to spite her.
“Your greed will bring you nothing but pain,” he said.
She blinked at him. “Greed?”
“You covet your husband’s money and power.”
Her fingers curled into her palms, her nails cutting. “What about his pretty face? And what of redeeming him? Could I not want to make an honest man of him?”
“A bad man is a bad man,” he said, his tone flat.
“No hope for you, then, eh?”
Direct hit. He scowled at her.
Clearly, she’d stumbled onto dangerous territory. She backtracked, forcing a saucy grin. “Perhaps I spoke too hastily. Perhaps I just don’t know you well enough. Yet.” If she could get her hands on the vial in his pocket, she could drug him. She could escape, return to Alek, save her babies, and run...for the rest of her life.
Her grin slipped. “Why don’t you order room service for us both, pekný?” Handsome. She winked at him. “I’m dying—hopefully not literally—to learn more about you.”
* * *
Baden was no longer amused by the girl’s outbursts. The angry ones...and the flirtatious ones. More and more, he disliked how she made him feel. She looked at him as if he was a disappointment—because he was. She considered him as bad as the human she’d married—with good reason.
By the time he finished with the siren, he would be far worse.
“I’m your captor,” he told her, “not your provider.” She was beautiful, somehow more beautiful by the minute, and she most assuredly had plans to charm him. How many men had she tricked over the years? How many had she bled dry before moving on to another one?
Power before sentiment.
“Do you plan to keep me weak with hunger?” She continued to meander around the room, the innate sway to her hips acting as a summoning finger. Come here. Touch. He found the strength to resist. Barely. “Fear I’ll overpower you otherwise?”
“Hardly. I’ve never met a feebler female.” How easy it would be to wrap his hands around the elegant column of her neck and end her.
Or better yet, he could chew her up and spit her out.
She whipped around to face him, anger crackling in her eyes. “I’m feeble because a he-man was able to cart me away from my wedding?”
“Yes. You are unable to protect yourself, or even to take care of yourself. You need others to do it for you.”
Threatened by those with power, disdainful of those without it. Was there any type of person he liked?
Katarina looked as if he’d slapped her. Then she blinked away the wound and pouted at him. “Can any woman protect herself from you, pekný?” She picked up a vase, weighed it in her palm. Deciding if it would make a decent missile? “I bet you slay hearts...figuratively as well as literally. Oh, and let’s not forget the panties you must melt.”
Just. Like. That. He shot hard as stone.
William strode through the front door, spotted Baden’s state, and rolled his eyes. He launched into a speech about necessary tweaks to security.
Focus. Engage. But Baden...couldn’t. The bulk of his attention remained on Katarina. When she filched something from a side table, he stalked to her side and, ignoring the pain of skin-to-skin contact, pried open her fingers.
She gasped as he stepped back, taking...a pen with him. A simple ink pen?
“Fine,” she said. “Keep it. I didn’t want to write down the poem I’d composed about you, anyway.”
A lie. She’d hoped to use the pen as a weapon. Silly woman. Did she not know her own limitations? She’d vomited at the sight of blood. She would never have the courage to attack him. “Tell me the poem.” A command, not a request. “I’m brimming with anticipation.”
She smiled sweetly at him, batting her lashes. “His beauty is terrible, just like
