They entered the room. Adrian pushed the heavy door shut, the iron bolt dropping into the keeper with a definitive, echoing thump.

The room was illuminated only by the deep, crimson bed of oak coals glowing in the hearth, casting long, velvet shadows across the floorboards.

Adrian turned to face her.

He stood with his back to the door, his massive frame silhouetted against the dark timber, his breathing deep, slow, and heavy. He reached up, untied the silver medallion from his neck, and laid it on the shelf. Then he took one slow step toward her.

“You have been driving me out of my mind all evening, Evelyn,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that sent shivers straight to the core of her belly.

Evelyn stood in the center of the braided rug, her heart thumping wildly against her corset. “I sat beside you in complete silence, Mr. Blackwood. I barely moved a finger.”

“That,” Adrian said, taking another deliberate step, closing the distance until the heat of his body washed over her, “was precisely the problem. You sat there looking at me as though you were peeling the clothes from my back with your eyes.”

Evelyn swallowed hard. She did not retreat. She tilted her chin upward, her hazel eyes glittering in the amber gloom. “Perhaps I was.”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed, a flash of predatory heat flaring behind the silver. “Evelyn. Do not play games with me tonight. I have spent twelve hours fighting men with rifles, and my temper is short. Don’t step onto this path unless you understand where it leads.”

For months, she had been the bartered bride. She had been the daughter sent to purchase peace. She had been the timid girl who feared her own shadow in the dark.

Evelyn took a step forward, closing the final inch between them, and pressed her flat palm directly over his heart.

His chest was like solid oak beneath his linen shirt, and the beat beneath her fingers was rapid, hard, and anything but calm.

“I know exactly where it leads, Adrian,” she whispered.

Adrian went absolutely still.

He looked down at her hand against his breast, then lifted his eyes to hers. For the first time, Evelyn saw the agony of his restraint—the terrifying, magnificent effort it took for a man of his size and power to keep from crushing her into the floorboards.

“Say it plainly,” he rasped, his hands rising to frame her face, his thumbs trembling against the soft skin of her jawline. “No riddles. No polite frontier hesitation. Tell me what you want.”

Evelyn leaned into his touch, her eyes never leaving his.

“All this time,” she whispered, her voice steady and clear, “you have treated me like glass. You told me not to mistake curiosity for certainty. You slept on that sofa like a monk while I lay in that bed wishing you would break your iron vows.”

Her fingers curled into the linen of his shirt, pulling him down toward her.

“I am not curious, Adrian. I am your wife. And I am entirely certain.”

A ragged, shuddering breath escaped his throat.

Then his mouth came down upon hers with a savage, starving passion that took the breath from her lungs.

It was the kiss of a king claiming his throne, but it was also the kiss of a man drowning in grace. Adrian swept her into his arms, lifting her off her feet as his mouth devoured hers, his tongue parting her lips with a dark, commanding mastery that made Evelyn moan into his mouth, her arms winding tight around his neck.

He carried her across the room to the great bed, laying her gently upon the soft woolens and buffalo robes.

He followed her down, his massive body settling between her thighs, his weight supported on his elbows as his hands went to the buttons of her dress. His movements were swift, deft, and trembling with urgency. One by one, the horn buttons gave way. The lavender wool parted; the white cotton chemise was drawn over her head; the laces of her corset were loosed with a single, practiced pull of his fingers.

When she lay bare before him in the amber firelight, Adrian stopped.

He rose to his knees, his eyes sweeping down the pale, delicate curves of her body with an expression of such pure, reverent awe that tears pricked the corners of Evelyn’s eyes.

“You are magnificent,” he whispered, his voice thick with wonder. “More beautiful than the morning sun on the water.”

He stripped his own clothes away with frantic haste, casting his boots and trousers aside, until he knelt before her in the primal, magnificent glory of his own bronze strength.

He descended over her again, his skin hot as an open hearth, his hands beginning to map the contours of her body with a slow, devastating thoroughness. His calloused palms stroked down her ribs, traced the curve of her hips, caressed the soft, trembling flesh of her inner thighs, coaxing sighs and broken gasps from her throat that she had never dreamed she was capable of producing.

Every place he touched seemed to catch fire. Evelyn arched beneath him, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back, her hips moving with an instinct older than the mountains, seeking the friction of his skin.

When his hand moved between her thighs, finding the slick, burning heat that waited for him, Adrian’s breath hissed through his teeth. His body rigidified with a sudden, violent tremor of pleasure.

He hovered over her, his eyes dark, wild, and dilated with hunger, his gray irises burning like coals.

He positioned himself against her threshold, the blunt, heavy heat of his manhood pressing against her tender entrance, parting her folds, waiting at the barrier that no man had ever crossed.

He paused.

Every muscle in his neck and shoulders corded into iron ropes as he fought for the final shred of his legendary control. His face was inches from hers, his chest heaving, beads of sweat dripping from his temple onto her shoulder.

“Look at me, Evelyn,” he whispered, his voice cracked, raw, and shaking with an agonizing restraint.

Evelyn opened her eyes. She looked up into the fierce, tortured countenance of the warrior who had conquered a territory, only to surrender himself entirely to her mercy.

“Can I stop holding back?” he breathed, his voice breaking into a plea. “Tell me, Evelyn. Can I stop holding back?”

Evelyn did not hesitate. The last shadow of her mother’s shame, the last memory of the timid girl in Redwood Valley, evaporated like mist before the sun.

She reached down, her hands tangling into his midnight hair, pulling his face down to hers until her lips brushed his ear.

“I want more, Adrian,” she whispered, her voice rich with a wild, triumphant joy. “Give me everything. Do not hold back a single breath.”

With a low, guttural roar that vibrated through the timbers of the cabin, Adrian Blackwood shattered his iron cage.

He surged forward.

There was a sharp, blinding pinch of pain as he breached the barrier of her innocence, an ache that made Evelyn gasp against his shoulder. Instantly, Adrian froze, his forehead resting against the mattress, his breath shuddering through his teeth as he fought not to move, giving her body time to accept his fullness.