His father had taken advantage of that law. His mother had been young and impressionable. An older, handsome man, strong, a village leader, she’d been flattered that he’d courted her. When he pushed his suit before her time, she’d made the mistake of marking him. There was no one capable of challenging him for her hand, and wherever her true mate was, if he was even alive, he hadn’t been in the village to save her.

He could hear the water turn off abruptly in the shower. The scent of lavender drifted to him through the open door. He sat waiting for her on the bed. She was exhausted—so was he—but there was one more task he had to finish tonight. He smiled as he looked out the large picture window. Moonlight barely managed to make it through the high canopy, but there were breaks where the trees had been cleared to make room for the cabin, and beams burst into the room, spilling silver across the tiled floor.

He leaned back and stared at the high ceiling, a light wood with darker knots scattered all through it. The cabin’s walls were wood and covered in rake marks. He could see deep furrows decorating each of the four sides and the ends of his fingers tingled with the need to leave his own mark. He should have left his mark on Isabeau.

He’d been saving that ritual for marriage, but he should have done it. Any male would have thought twice before trying to force a claim. Ottila had judged correctly that she was innocent and wouldn’t have knowledge enough, or control enough, to elude his trap. He swore under his breath. It was his fault. Any other male would have made certain she was marked. It was just that . . .

He sighed. He’d betrayed her by seducing her while he was working a job. She hadn’t even known his real name. He wanted choices for her. He wanted to be certain he was her choice—Isabeau—the woman—not her leopard. He wanted all of her to be his.

“Damn it.” He raked his fingers through his hair, angry with himself.

“What’s wrong?”

She leaned one slim hip against the doorjamb, a towel wrapped like a sarong around her body while she towel-dried her hair. The shower had done her good. Her skin wasn’t quite so pale, although the bruises on her arms stood out.

His breath suddenly caught in his throat. “Did he put his mark on you?”

She frowned. “Like how?”

“Did he bite you? Claw you?” He leapt up, one fluid movement, swift and purposeful, but obviously intimidating. She retreated into the hall, her eyes wide.

“No. He didn’t get the chance. Felipe came and scared him off.” Her frown deepened. “He wasn’t exactly scared. He actually was very confident. I don’t think Suma was the dominant between them. I think it was the other way around.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the dark blemishes marring her upper arm before taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For having the courage to kill the man who murdered my mother. I know that wasn’t easy for you. And for braving a leopard in the throes of madness.” He turned up her arm to examine the four marks there. They matched the scars on his face, although they weren’t deep, more like scratches than lacerations. Still . . . He kissed each red streak, his mouth gentle.

Isabeau leaned into him until he was surrounded by her scent, until he surrendered to it and took her into his arms, holding her close to his chest. Her towel slipped a little, but that was all right with him. The feel of her breasts rubbing along his skin helped revive his body. Every nerve, every cell came alive.

“Marisa was my friend, Conner. But honestly, all I was thinking about was you.” She tilted her head to look up at him. “Well, you,” she hedged, “and maybe shooting boss-man Rio. Sort of accidentally on purpose. I think if he yelled at me one more time, I might have gone psycho on him.”

He took a step, forcing her backward toward the bed. “And then he had the audacity to threaten you with a syringe.”

“In front of everyone. He was lucky he didn’t try it,” she added.

His next step put the backs of her legs against the bed. He took the damp towel from her hand, gave her hair a slight rub as though he was drying it and then simply tossed it away.

“If I don’t dry my hair, it curls everywhere. Little ringlets.” She made a face. “And it’s so long and thick, it takes forever to actually dry.”

Isabeau made a movement as though to retrieve the towel, but he bunched her sarong in his fist and tugged until it slipped off her breasts, spilling them into his sight, before he took the entire towel from her. “I don’t really think it matters, do you?” he asked, and bent his head to her breasts.

Her nipples peaked and she gasped as his hot mouth closed over one tip and drew it deep. His hand drifted down to the junction between her legs. “I like your curls. All fiery. The way you are inside.” His fingers teased at the dampening entrance.

He sank down slowly until he was sitting on the bed, and tugged until she followed him. At the last moment he spun her around and bent her over his knees, yanking so that she fell over his lap, facedown, her buttocks exposed. He placed one hand on her upper back to hold her position while he surveyed her thrashing bottom.

“Very nice.” His hand rubbed and massaged her firm cheeks until she was squirming breathlessly, her breasts jiggling with every movement, an added enticement he hadn’t considered. His cock was being massaged with each thrash of her body, and her long, damp hair brushed like living silk against his thighs. “I could get used to this.”