The perimeter was clear as far as he could tell. There had been no incursion into their world since their return seven days ago, but he was taking no chances. The increased sentry level had been maintained and at least once a day, sometimes twice, he prowled the outer boundaries of the home tunnels, checking for any sign of intruders. Leaving Catherine alone during that time had been very difficult to do, but he was never far, and he had never closed their connection to her since he'd first found her in Paracelsus' trap, needing to know where she was and how she was feeling at any given time. It was past eleven now, and there was very little activity anywhere, most of his friends and family sleeping or at least tucked warmly into their chambers for the night. He sighed wearily, thinking of Kanin. He had left him just five minutes ago, encountering him just as he'd been relieved from sentry duty. 
They'd walked together for a short while, until reaching the side tunnel which led to his and Olivia's chamber. By now he would be cozily ensconced with his wife and son, probably enjoying a hot cup of tea while discussing the day's events with her.
Rounding a corner, deep in thought, he looked up suddenly to find James and Jamie locked in a tight embrace. They were kissing passionately. Her arms were about his neck, and one of his hands held her close, his arm slung around her waist to grip her hip, while the other disappeared between them, into the folds of her jacket. He flushed a deep red, stopping abruptly at the very instant they realized they weren't alone. They flew apart, gasping for breath.
"Vincent!" Jamie cried, appalled.
"I'm sorry," he began, his stammering words overlapping her own.
He stood frozen for a moment as silence descended, then muttered another terse apology and fled past them. In minutes he had left the little-used side tunnel and was on his way into the heart of the hub, breathing a silent prayer of thanks. When Jamie had first found her way to the tunnels at fourteen, he thought of her as one of the children, the cocky facade hiding a frightened little girl. Time had changed that. She grew confident and strong with the loving support of her tunnel family, and now she was one of their primary protectors. Rather than a child, he saw her now as a younger sister. Never before, though, had it been so forcibly pressed upon him that she was no longer a child, but instead a young woman. He'd missed seeing that change occur, just as he had with Laura, his own burgeoning relationship with Catherine blinding him somewhat to those changes which occur incrementally when in a family environment. So, James and Jamie. When he thought about it, it made perfect sense. They weren't far apart in age, and by both temperament and inclination they were a perfect match. He was glad they had found each other, glad they appeared on their way toward a form of happiness that seemed so elusive to Catherine and himself.
He sighed again, his footsteps slowing once more. Catherine was here, below, but her presence represented such an extreme contradiction of emotions for him that he could barely stand to think on it. Suddenly, through their bond, he felt an abrupt change in her mood. Where before she had been calm and almost resigned, now she was filled with sorrow and grief. He stood still, frozen in place, the feelings sweeping through him almost devastating in their intensity, then took off at a run, his heart racing in his chest. In ten minutes he reached the interior hub, and minutes after that he arrived at the guest chamber, halting abruptly, just outside the entrance. He focused intently on their bond, feeling her within, the emotions he sensed before still present, but now muted somewhat.
"Catherine?" he called out softly.
There was no reply and he stood frozen with indecision. Should he go in? He couldn't bear to stand by while she was in pain, and yet some part of him feared that he was the cause of that pain. This was the type of response he had expected from her after their escape from captivity, and its absence only led him to suspect that she had pushed it down deep, trying to protect him. That it should emerge now didn't surprise him at all. If his assessment were true, then he was the last person she would wish to see, and rightly so. His stillness ended abruptly as he began to pace anxiously outside her chamber, wondering what he should do. He had just decided to go get Mary when Catherine stepped through the chamber exit, dressed in the clothes she'dbeen abducted in. Her eyes were red with recently shed tears. He stared at her for a moment, speechless and dismayed.
"You can take me above, Vincent. I'm not pregnant," she said, her tone wooden and flat.
He let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, expelling a huge surge of relief along with it, but suddenly the exhilaration of the moment vanished abruptly. She wasn't pregnant. That was a good thing, he told himself, trying to regain the initial excitement he'd felt, an excellent thing. The nightmare had been nothing more than that, a bad dream whose time was long past. There would be no tortuous wonderings about what such a union might bring forth on either of their parts, and Catherine wouldn't have the added burden of dealing with a pregnancy whose conception had to be so very abhorrent to her. Yes, this was excellent news, he repeated to himself, trying to reinforce what he knew had to be true. And yet strangely enough he could not maintain the happiness such news should bring, a restlessness of spirit now hovering over him. It couldn't be from him, and yet it was as unlikely to be from her. Where then? He looked more closely at her face, scanning the tear-stained, pale cheeks, the wan expression and sad eyes. Searching the bond he still felt some residual dregs of those distressing emotions he'd sensed from her on his return to the tunnels. The restlessness, though, was not among those emotions, and finally he couldn't ignore the obvious fact that they originated in himself, though he couldn't imagine why he would feel such a thing now, of all times. His thoughts were short-circuited, however, as she moved past him toward the main tunnel.
He stared after her, for a second unmoving, then turned to join her, walking half a step behind her, to her left, silent. What could he say? That he was sorry? Sorry for what had happened nine days ago? They'd already been through that. Touching on it once more would only bring her more pain, of that he was certain. Sorry that she wasn't pregnant? How in the world could he say such a thing, when the prospect of such an event would have been distressing in the extreme to her under any conditions, much less the ones they had found themselves in. No, he could say neither of those things, and yet he knew his silence pained her in a way he couldn't define. This news was what they'd been waiting for. His nightmare of the catacombs could be put behind them both, though he was sure she could never forget her own nightmare in that cage. Perhaps that's why he felt as he did. Maybe some perverse part of himself thought that had she been pregnant, they ultimately would have had to deal with that time, to come to some resolution, no matter how painful, and finally, perhaps, move forward. Now such a thing was no longer necessary, nor was it ever likely to be, he suddenly realized. The implications of that thought sent his heart plummeting. She was going above now. Nothing was the same between them, and it never would be again. What was done could never be undone. How could they ever move beyond such a thing? Impossible, unthinkable. Sorrow and grief filled him, heavy and dark. It was over.
Those thoughts consumed him until the weight of them was almost unbearable. There was a haze covering his eyes, and suddenly he bumped up against her. He looked about in confusion and found that they had reached the threshold to her apartment, the fifteen minute walk passed in complete silence, as though in the blink of an eye. She turned to him, as if she might speak. He waited, praying she would, but she didn't. Her lips quivered and he instinctively stepped forward, as if to comfort her, but then froze once more, afraid to touch her. The look on her face was almost his undoing. There was such sorrow there, such a pleading look, as if begging him for something. What? There was nothing he could do and nothing he could say. With one last look, she turned to leave him, then suddenly stopped and came back. She stared up at him and he was speechless, held by the sorrow in her eyes, swallowing hard to hold back sudden tears.
"Vincent, I have to tell you something, though I know you aren't ready to hear it."
He shook his head and stepped back, bumping up against the rock wall behind him. She moved forward to fill the space between them, her arms slipping around his waist so that he would have to pull away from her if he insisted upon leaving. He didn't, suddenly unable to move. She leaned in and buried her face against his neck, hiding within the golden fall of his hair. He gasped when he felt her lips move, their silken touch directly upon his ear; "A part of your nightmare is my deepest dream. Even if it wasn't meant to be right now, I'll never stop dreaming of it, never."
He stood stock still, shocked, a part of him unable to reconcile the meaning of her words, though the deep, dark part of himself understood instantly, a visceral surge of primal satisfaction and pride welling up in him like a tide.
He stayed where he was as she climbed the ladder. Stayed motionless while she repositioned the boxes on the other side of the secret door and made her way to the elevator in the sub-basement. Stayed silent and still as she ascended eighteen stories up. Even after it was clear that she was in her apartment, safe and sound, he stood unmoving, staring into the haze of light where she'd disappeared. Finally, ten minutes later, he turned and began his solitary journey back to the home tunnels. He fought a rising sense of desperation within. His vision blurred and he winced when he bumped into a rocky outcropping which he'd instinctively maneuvered around since he was a child. He stopped, looking back the way he'd come, then forward once more. Ahead was where he belonged. He stared in that direction, imagining the scene which had always brought him such comfort in the past; his cozy chamber, warm with the amber glow of candles, well-worn and well-loved books waiting to be read, his journal, the soft leather of its cover like warm butter, the ivory pages a delicate invitation to disclose thoughts too private for ears or eyes other than his own. That picture was as it had always been, and yet there was no comfort in it now. That chamber was empty, lifeless, cold. He sank back against the cold stone, staring outward, unseeing, then slid down to the ground. Drawing his knees up tight to his chest, he pressed his forehead tight to their hard surfaces and crossed his arms protectively over top of his head, as though to close himself in, or perhaps to close his thoughts out. The silence was deafening, nothing left to cover the sorrow that surged through their bond. It built within him until there was no containing it, and finally he threw his head back and roared out in pain and grief, tears streaming down his face. He stayed there all night, caught between her world and his own, unable to move forward, unable to go back, a prisoner now more than he ever had been in Paracelsus' cage, when Catherine had been with him.
* * *
Vincent paced the tunnel below her apartment, his actions restless and choppy as he stopped to stare up the ladder with each pass near the light. It had been three days since she'd gone above, three days where he hadn't been able to see her, to talk to her, to have her close. Three days in which he had been totally useless to their world below. He was worried and he was frightened, for the bond was now muted and dim, a dull echo of what it had been before. But it was still there, thank god, and only that knowledge kept him from going to her, some part of him still fearing the nightmare of the catacombs and its deadly content. No, the bond was not missing, he told himself, trying to calm the rising tide of fear and panic, but something was definitely wrong. It was so quiet, so still, as though she had retreated from the world around her, as though she silently observed it all, letting it pass by without contention. This wasn't normal, wasn't right. Finally, with a muffled curse he turned and headed for the nearest sentry post at a run.
Peter maneuvered through the narrow aisles of the D.A.'s office, bumping into people too busy for more than a perfunctory 'excuse me,' 'pardon me,' or 'sorry,' as they passed. Finally he spotted Cathy's desk across the way and headed for it with a determined sigh of relief. That relief began to dissipate as he approached close enough to see that its surface was spotless, completely empty of files, notes or anything else which might indicate that there was work in progress there. He paused, suddenly worried, and tried to think of what to do next.
"Peter!" a voice cried out, catching his attention.
He turned and found Joe Maxwell moving toward him, and with a determined shake pasted a false smile on his lips.
"Do you have a message from Cathy? Is everything all right?" the other demanded, worried concern evident in his furrowed brow.
"Yes, everything's fine," he lied smoothly. "I was nearby for a meeting, and thought I'd check in to see if you had any messages for her."
Joe shook his head no, then suddenly nodded. "Yes. Tell her we're swamped here and we could sure use her help. Tell her we... Tell her I miss her," he finally said, the words soft and heartfelt.
Peter nodded, reaching out to clasp the younger man on the shoulder, assuring him that he would deliver the message, then turning to leave. Joe cared for her, that much was plain. He had the potential to make an excellent helper, he thought suddenly. But that would have to wait. Right now he had to try and find her. She obviously had never been back to work since she'd returned three days ago, and if she wasn't at home, then he was going to have to tell Vincent that his worries had been well-founded after all. They might even need to request the help of the man he had just lied to, but he'd cross that bridge when they came to it.
Peter had barely tapped out the entrance code when the door slid open and the bars were pushed wide. Vincent stepped through immediately, seemingly unconcerned about standing so close to the park exit in broad daylight.
"Tell me," he said, no further explanation necessary, his voice tense.
"Cathy hasn't been to her office," the other said quickly, flinching at the look of panic that began to fill the younger man's eyes.
"Joe thinks she's still here, below, at least he thinks she's still wherever it was she implied she'd be," he amended awkwardly.
"Did you check her apartment?"
"Yes, I called but no one answered. I went there too. The bellman buzzed her and even though there was no response, he let me in - thank god he recognized me as a friend of hers. I knocked over and over, Vincent, and called to her. If she's there, she's not answering. Maybe she went to Nancy's for a few days?"
Vincent shook his head abruptly. "I would be able to tell if she were as far from the city as Westport. No, she's in the city, close by." He stared outward toward the park, momentarily lost in thought as he tried to determine what to do next. Finally his gaze cleared and he took in the sight of his waiting friend once more. "Please try not to worry, Peter, I'm sure she's just taking a few days off to reorganize her life above before she goes back to work," he said, not wanting to worry him unnecessarily. I'll go to her apartment as soon as it's dark - I can get inside from the balcony, I'm sure she'll be home by then," he said, trying to convince himself as much the man standing beside him.
"When you find her, you'll let me know, won't you?" the other said, worried despite Vincent's efforts to gloss over the result of his search this day.
"Yes, of course I will," Vincent replied. "Don't worry, Peter, please. I'm sure everything's fine," he told him.
Once again Vincent paced the dusty path below the ladder at the threshold to her apartment. This time, though, he had a purpose, and anxiously waited for the earliest moment to put it into effect. It was full summer, and that meant darkness fell late. Already it was past eight-thirty, but it would be another half hour yet until it was safely dark. He waited five minutes, then five minutes more, growing increasingly restless. After another five he muttered a muffled oath and swung up the ladder, an immense shadow dispersing the light that leaked down from the sub-basement above, around the gaps of the door. He listened closely, and finally determined there was no one there. Only then did he push the door open, moving the heavy boxes that rested behind it with little effort. Stepping through the opening, he swung it closed and repositioned the boxes once more, all without a sound, before heading for the elevator. He pressed the call button, then hid behind a corner. When the elevator arrived a moment later it was empty. He moved into it quickly, pressed the button for the eighteenth floor, then reached up and pushed the emergency panel aside on the ceiling above him. Before the elevator reached the lobby level he was standing in the dark space above it, the panel securely back in place, no evidence of his presence there for anyone to see.
No one got on the elevator, so his ride up was undisturbed. In moments the metal ceiling approached, and a second before the top of the elevator butted up against it he stepped off the roof of the car and onto a thin ledge to the side, feeling the motion of it continue on, sliding past him as it slowed, then finally stopped at the high end of its journey. Beside him was an emergency access hatch, and he swung it open and stepped through, breathing a sigh of surprised delight as he found the night sky still luminous with shades of pink and dusky purple. Sunset wasn't over yet, and this was a sight he rarely saw. He stared about the wide expanse for a moment, but couldn't really enjoy it, moving quickly toward the edge of the building to the side that looked out over the eastern expanse of the park. The view from this west-side apartment was spectacular, but he had no time to enjoy it this night, peering down over the side to ensure that no one saw him before swinging his legs over and making the short climb to Catherine's balcony.
He jumped down the last ten feet, directly onto the concrete there, and immediately went to the French doors of her living room, peering in. The room was dark and undisturbed, and yet something within him, be it the bond or his own intuition, told him that she was there. He moved to the other set of doors and scanned her bedroom. The bed was freshly made and the bathroom door stood open, no lights lit within. Here, as in the living room before, there was no sign that anyone was home.
Finally he opened the leather pouch which rested against his chest. He removed the contents there and paused for a moment, gently stroking the ivory petals of her rose reverently before replacing it in its safe place once more. A key remained in his palm, and he used it now to unlock the door, opening it silently and moving into the darkened apartment. He searched the bedroom thoroughly, without a sound, and found it just as it looked, empty. A cursory glance into the bathroom showed it to be empty as well. Moving from there he entered the main area of her apartment, then stopped, stunned. He hadn't been able to see her, positioned as the small couch was, with its back to the balcony doors, but now he found her lying there, her knees drawn up, eyes closed, apparently sleeping. He gasped and went to her, kneeling on the floor beside her and softly calling her name as his hand rose to rest lightly on her shoulder.
"Catherine?"
Her eyes opened slowly, her expression guarded and unreadable, but that changed in a minute, as worried concern filled their wary depths. She sat up abruptly and swung her feet down to the floor, her hands clasped together tensely in her lap.
"Is something wrong below? Is everyone all right?" she asked, obvious worry in her voice.
At last. Her worried concern came through, a hiccup in their bond. Her response was more muted than normal, but still stronger than what he'd felt from her during the last three days, relieving him considerably.
"Everything is fine below, it's you I'm worried about, Catherine," he said, his voice husky and low.
The guarded expression returned, and the emotions she'd felt a moment before disappeared, the bond again growing silent.
"I'm fine," she said dully, not meeting his eyes.
He waited silently for a moment, unsure of what to say, knowing that he'd lost all rights he might once have had, but desperately concerned about her, and unable to leave her in such a state.
"Peter went to your office today. He spoke with Joe."
Her eyes widened again. "Joe?"
Vincent nodded.
"He didn't tell him I was above, did he?" she asked, suddenly agitated.
He shook his head quickly to reassure her. "No, he realized you hadn't been there and told him he just wanted to stop by and see if there were any messages for you. Joe doesn't know."
She sighed, her agitation calming in an instant. "Good."
"You're not ready to go back yet?" he asked hesitantly.
She didn't answer at first, finally looking down then away before replying. "No, not yet."
"Can you tell me why?" he asked gently.
She glanced at him for a moment before looking away once more, and he drew in a gasping breath with shock. There had been nothing tentative or vacant in this look. She was angry, angry with him! Of course she was, he told himself, cringing as the memory washed through him again. Of course she was angry with him. After what he'd done, how could she feel anything but anger and pain and betrayal. He jerked to his feet and stepped abruptly back, stopping only when he bumped up against the edge of her coffee table. He stepped around it quickly, moving to the other side until he stood before the couch across from hers, trying to give her the comfort of distance, something he himself needed as well. He sank down upon it and they sat across from each other, six feet separating them. His head dropped down until it was buried in his hands and his hair fell forward, a thick curtain that hid him further.
"I know you're angry, Catherine. You have every right to be. I know you can never forgive me," he said, his words muffled. "I don't deserve it and I don't expect it."
"Stop it!"
His head rose abruptly and he stared at her, a shocked look on his face at the fierce vehemence of her words.
"I'm angry because you won't listen to me, not because of what happened! I've tried to tell you that over and over again, but you won't hear it! I deserve to be heard, Vincent. What I have to say, what I think and feel matters!"
He drew in a gasping breath, his heart racing. "How can you think that I don't know that? I feel what you feel, Catherine. I'm aware of it constantly, every minute of every day...."
She snorted, "Yes, I know you're aware of it, but you have an amazing capacity for misinterpreting what you don't want to know. You won't listen to me, Vincent!" she repeated, emphasizing that word and all it meant.
He stared open-mouthed at her, aghast, the tips of his sharp incisors glittering in the darkness. Finally his mouth clicked shut. "Tell me," he said hoarsely, sitting perfectly still.
She shook her head, looking down, deep in thought, then her eyes rose to meet his once more. "There are so many things I need to say, I don't know where to begin."
He was silent, waiting for her to go on, determined to stay and listen to all she had to say, no matter how much the words might distress him.
Finally she drew in a deep breath, and began. "More than anything else, Vincent, you need to know one thing, because it has never changed - never! - and it never will, whether you believe me or not." He started, as if he would speak, but she went on, forestalling his words. "I love you."
He whimpered, wrapping his arms around himself as though to protect himself from the force of those words, from the fall he was sure awaited.
"I love you, Vincent," she repeated firmly, leaning forward to stare intently into his eyes.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head in denial, his gaze dropping down, away from hers. He slid off the couch and onto the floor, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms protectively about them, as though to close himself off from her physically as well as emotionally. "You can't. Not anymore, not after that..."
"Yes, I do!" she insisted.
He groaned and buried his face in his hands once more, unable to look at her. "Please, Catherine, don't!" he cried, his voice rough and hoarse with emotional distress.
"Don't what, Vincent?" she asked, confusion and fear plain in her own.
But he didn't answer, hiding himself from her with a growing anxiety she could clearly feel through their bond. His eyes refused to meet hers.
"Tell me," she insisted, her voice rising slightly.
"Don't look at me," he finally answered, the words muffled. "I can't bear it."
Tears sprang to her eyes at his confession. "Oh, Vincent," she whispered, her heart breaking at the pain she felt from him over their bond. Slowly then, she slid down to the floor until her position matched his. They sat across from each other, each one leaning against their separate couches, their knees drawn up tight, held there by the edges of the coffee table that stood between them like a bulwark.
"What happened was my fault, Vincent, not yours."
His head rose at that, and he shook it fiercely, his eyes wide, rejecting her claim.
"Yes," she insisted, interrupting him before he could speak. "It was. You said you'd listen to me, Vincent," she reminded him gently, and he closed his mouth, looking intensely vulnerable, every line of his body, every expressive feature of his face telling her of his agitation and fear. She sighed, thinking about how this could be explained, and finally went on. "When I said we could try to fool Tamara, I knew it was going to be difficult, maybe even impossible. Women above…" She stopped, her face suddenly beet red.
Her own discomfort helped soften his distress somewhat, as his natural inclination to support her in times of need surged abruptly into place. Curiosity played a part as well, as it always did with him, though he was unlikely to consciously recognize or admit to that factor in the midst of the more chaotic emotions filling them both. He waited silently, but now his eyes met hers, giving her the strength she needed to continue.
"It's not uncommon for women above to pretend when they're… you know," she trailed off, obviously uncomfortable. He looked confused, and she sighed. "Not to pretend physically, the way we were, but emotionally, at the end, to fake an emotional response if they can't… you know," she ended again, meeting his gaze intently, willing him to understand. Comprehension suddenly dawned, and though it was too dark for her to see the flush in his own face, she felt it in a wave of heat over their bond.
"I understand," he whispered, looking down and away for a moment to gather his composure before meeting her eyes again.
"Because of that, I knew she would scrutinize our emotional responses closely. I thought we needed to be especially convincing in that regard to keep her from focusing too much on our… physical behavior." She felt heat flame in her cheeks once more, and she knew he couldn't have missed it through their bond, and most likely could even see it with his acute vision, even in the darkened room they now sat in. He nodded, indicating he understood, but otherwise remained silent.
"So I tried to make our physical motions and our emotional responses as real as possible," she continued on, the blush still warming her face considerably. "I pictured it in my mind." Her flush intensified at revealing such an intimate thing. "And before I knew it, with that image inside, and you holding me, I couldn't tell the difference anymore. It was as though the images in my head were converted to physical sensations. I felt it all so strongly, and I know you had to too, that the bond had to be communicating my emotional response to you."
He stared at her intently, his eyes wide, and nodded once, curtly.
"That had to be difficult for you, confusing. I could feel your emotions. They were so primal, so raw. You were so close to that other side you normally keep hidden. You had to be, to protect me…"
He groaned loudly and buried his head in his arms once more, interrupting her mid-sentence.
"What, Vincent, tell me," she insisted.
"I didn't protect you. I'm the one who hurt you. Me!"
"No! Don't say that. It's not true. You didn't hurt me, you didn't!" she said fiercely.
He shook his head wildly, his hair flying about his knees, making it clear he didn't believe her. She stared at him in dismay, wondering how she could convince him.
"Why do you think that, Vincent? Why do you think you hurt me?" she finally asked gently.
He whimpered, the sound muffled against his knees, and hugged himself tighter
"Please, Vincent, talk to me," she begged him.
"Because I felt it," he said abruptly, as though the words were torn from him. "I felt it through our bond, and I felt it physically, too. I felt your resistance, but I didn't stop, I couldn't stop!" His voice rose as the sentence reached its conclusion, and with those final words he flung his head up so that she could see his tear-stained face, taut with tension, as though he faced a firing squad and deserved what was to come.
Their eyes locked and held, and suddenly silence engulfed them, as if that emotional outburst had stunned them both. Her mind scrolled furiously over the events of that hour. They were indelibly recorded in her memory, and every detail played itself out for her quickly now. She knew the instant he spoke of, the sudden moment when her dream images had become real, when his body had penetrated hers, taking her completely by surprise. She had been so aroused by the emotional and physical content surrounding them up to that moment, despite Tamara's presence, but she hadn't been prepared for that, not completely. That was the resistance he spoke of. There had been no emotional resistance, she was certain of that. She'd wanted him for far too long for there to be anything but eager acceptance within her should he finally make the choice she had so long ago. But there had been surprise, and a momentary physical resistance, her body not expecting the abrupt presence of his, especially in such a complete and all-encompassing wave. And he was right, there had been a brief twinge of pain, she couldn't deny that. He was big, and she wasn't completely ready. The pain had ended quickly though, her body recognizing his instinctively. It responded to match his needs in an instant, accommodating and welcoming him with a joyous acceptance. The end result, just seconds after that swift penetration, had to have made that clear. Still, it was apparent that it was the resistance and pain that he remembered now, all the rest pushed aside by the uncompromising knowledge that he'd hurt her.
"What you felt from me then was nothing, Vincent, the tiniest bit of discomfort," she said. He shook his head, moaning. "Yes!" she insisted. "You know what happened the very next moment. How can you think I was hurt when I felt that?" she asked. But it was as if he heard nothing after that first sentence, rocking back and forth with agitation. She sighed, knowing how difficult it would be for him to move past the thought that he'd hurt her. Perhaps he needed to look at the whole situation from another perspective.
"Vincent, if we had continued to pretend, and not fooled Tamara, what would you have done?"
He looked up at her abruptly, his brow furrowed by her unexpected question.
"Would you have let Paracelsus replace you with Erlich?" she asked bluntly.
"No!" he cried, appalled by the thought of such a thing.
"No? Then you would have made love to me in order to prevent such a thing?"
Heat flared over their bond once more, and she knew his face was flushed with that warmth.
"It wouldn't have happened like it did, not like that…" he began, the words trailing off in confusion.
"No? Why do you think it would have been different?" she asked, a cryptic tone in her voice.
"I would have been more cautious, taken more time," he answered, stammering with discomfort over such a topic.
"We were held captive, forced to do something no couple should have to do except by willing consent, in privacy and security. We had none of that. We were filled with adrenaline, on a heightened state of alert, our emotions in overdrive. The danger surrounding us affected everything we did. Do you really think, under those circumstances, that it could have been slow and sweet, romantic and tender?"
He stared at her in dismay, and she could tell he wanted to try and convince her that it was true, but she shook her head, forestalling his words.
"No, Vincent, I just don't believe such a thing was possible, not for me, not for you, not for anyone."
He was silent for a few minutes, as though considering her words, but finally he shook his head, his gaze dropping away from hers once more. "But that's not what happened, Catherine. Tamara didn't know we were deceiving her. Your plan was working. There was nothing to indicate anything to the contrary, and yet…" He whimpered again, the sound a low, rolling growl, full of pain. "It doesn't change what happened," he whispered, his voice aching. "It doesn't change what I did." He buried his face against his knees once more, his whole body shaking.
"So there's nothing I can do, nothing I can say," she said, her voice suddenly tight with anger.
He looked up in shocked dismay as she continued.
"This is too hard. It doesn't matter what I think or feel, only what you do. It doesn't matter what I want or need, you're going to make the decision for us both again, like you always do, aren't you?" she asked, her voice hard-edged and brittle.
"I'm only trying to do what's best for…"
"Don't say it," she warned angrily. "Don't even think of telling me what's best for me, not again." She stood up abruptly and walked stiffly across the room and through the louvered doors into her bedroom. She threw them closed hard behind her, but they didn't latch, bouncing open again. She ignored both them and him, stripping off her sweatshirt and throwing it aside as she reached the bed. Her back was to him, the bare curve of her spine delicate and slender where it met the bulky waistband of the matching pants. She stripped those down her legs and kicked them away, both pieces left lying on the floor. He gasped at the sight of her in the darkness, her flesh gleaming in the pale moonlight like ivory satin. An instant later she had crawled under the blankets, naked, and turned her back to him, as though she'd forgotten his presence altogether.