Chapter Eleven

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By the time she and Vincent reached his chamber, Catherine was a quivering mass of confusion. Unable to reconcile what her body felt and what her mind knew, she was in a quandary of contradiction, and that made her both irritable and angry, an interesting combination on top of the undeniable arousal of her body. His first words to her upon their entering his chamber didn’t help matters any.

"I want you to stay below tonight, Catherine."

She looked at him askance and walked over to the bed to collect the folded garments Mary had left lying there.

"I can’t," she said flatly. "I have work waiting for me from Friday afternoon. I have to get to it before Monday, and I’ve been gone too long already."

For perhaps the twentieth time today, he caught her off guard again, grabbing her hand and pulling her away from the bed. She fell against him and their momentum carried him down to his tall chair, sitting right behind him. She followed, ending up in his lap. When she tried to jump up, mortified by their awkward and unintentional entanglement, he wrapped his arms around her tight and held her immobile against his sprawling length.

"We need to talk, Catherine, and you will stay."

"What?!"

She looked over her shoulder at him as if he’d lost his mind, and pushed against his arms, certain he would release her immediately. He didn’t. She squirmed against him, struggling to be free, but his hold on her only tightened. Suddenly she was very aware of his body beneath her. She could picture it so well now, and that image, combined with their physical proximity, was overwhelming.

"Be still, Catherine," he demanded, whispering hoarsely against her ear.

His voice was pitched husky and low. Though it was quite unlike the firm command of his last words, she found it to be as much if not more compelling in the final analysis. Besides, she knew that unless he chose to let her up, she wasn’t going anywhere. Reviewing her options quickly, she stopped squirming.

"We need to talk," he repeated, once she’d finally grown calm in his arms. "And I want you to stay. Will you?"

She stared into his eyes, her own wide, and nodded. It was impossible for her to deny him anything. She didn’t know why she had even tried in the first place.

He stared intently back, assessing her response, then finally nodded, satisfied with what he saw. "Good."

With that he stood up and set her on her feet. She was, contrary to her previous struggles, inexplicably disappointed at the sudden distance between them. She watched him move toward the wardrobe, pull the doors open and remove several items from a deep drawer. Grabbing his robe from a hook in the narrow closet portion, he swung the doors shut and headed toward the chamber exit.

"You can change here, Catherine. I’ll get us some tea."

And with those words he was gone, leaving her alone in the middle of the room, stunned and confused. Finally she looked down at the sleepwear in her hand, then set them on the table and quickly stripped off the tunnel clothes she’d borrowed this day. As usual, the air below was chilly, and Catherine quickly pulled on the two-piece ensemble that had been freshly washed earlier in the day. She was glad that she’d worn this particular sleep set on Friday, because it was considerably more substantial than any other of the numerous nightclothes she had in her lingerie drawers. Once she slipped into the warm tunnel robe and slippers Vincent kept for her in his wardrobe, she felt fairly comfortable, all in all.

When Vincent returned fifteen minutes later, he was wearing his own sleepclothes as well; a cream-colored thermal shirt, blue sweat pants, slippers and robe. It almost appeared as though he were as fully clothed now as during the day, however she knew better. Beneath the robe only one layer covered his naked body, and that layer wasn’t anywhere near so restricting or prohibiting as his day clothes typically were. His thermal shirt, for example, was an open-necked crew style, and for some inexplicable reason she couldn’t fathom, he’d forgotten to button it. Warm ginger hair and amber skin peeked out from that opening, fixing her gaze there immediately. When she realized where she was staring, she jerked her head away and belted her own robe more tightly around herself, before looking back up at him.

Slung over one arm were his day clothes and cloak, and in his hands he carried a tray bearing two mugs and a covered pot of tea. From the sweet scent she could tell that it was the same herbal blend they’d had in Father’s study just one hour since. Though no visible steam escaped through the woolen cozy surrounding it at the moment, the allure of its enticing aroma, and the heat that waited, was intensely appealing. She took a seat at the table as he set the tray down and poured out two steaming mugs while he hung his clothes on hooks in the wardrobe closet. Finally he took his own chair across from her and lifted the mug to inhale its sweet fragrance before taking a cautious sip.

Catherine took that opportunity to peek up at him again. Once more her eyes were drawn to that exposed patch of flesh at the tender hollow of his throat. She felt her cheeks flush and quickly lifted her own mug to let the hot steam swirl over them, hoping her red cheeks would be attributed to that, and nothing more. The subtle mix of scents was marvelous, though, and she let her eyes drift closed to drink it in more fully in that way, before actually taking a small sip. It traced a heated path down her throat and into her stomach, warming her instantly.

"Catherine, Peter told me about the nightmares you’ve been having."

Vincent’s voice broke the silence abruptly and her eyes flew opened in startled surprise. That surprise remained, but wariness quickly joined it as well. She set the ceramic mug down and tried to think of something to say that would cut this particular conversation short with a deft hand and light words, tried to think of anything that would dismiss the significance of those dreams and make any analysis of them unnecessary. This was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid by returning above this night, the conversation she most feared.

"The one with Tom Gunther," he went on.

"No, Vincent, please, it’s not what you think." She shook her head, her eyes and voice pleading with him.

"And the one with me," he finished quietly, a haunted look in his eyes.

"No!"

Her voice was much more vehement now, and she jumped from her chair, unable to control her wildly escalating emotions. She clutched the edge of the table until her knuckles grew white. Suddenly she spun away to pace the round pattern in the large area rug that covered essentially the whole floor of Vincent’s chamber. The pattern was wider than the tables and chairs centered within it, and she unconsciously circled them as she stared down at the rug, speaking rapidly and hoping desperately that he would believe her.

"You’ve got to understand, Vincent, I know you couldn’t hurt me. I’ve always known that. The dream didn’t represent my fears, it represented yours."

"I know that."

She stopped abruptly and found herself directly beside him, staring into his blue-eyed gaze with disbelief.

"You know that?" she repeated, unable to process his words further.

The grim set of his face didn’t confuse her – it was wholly expected, all in all – but the action that followed did. He reached out to grasp her hand and pulled her into his lap. She gave a yelp of surprise and then found herself reclining against his right arm, her legs over the other arm of the chair. Vincent’s left hand came up cup her jaw and hold her gaze steady to his.

"I know that," he repeated, staring at her intently.

She didn’t know what to do or what to say, but any conscious ability to act was taken abruptly from her as her chaotic emotions coalesced into a hard, tight ball in her stomach. She burst into tears, and they quickly escalated to hard, violent sobs. She was appalled with herself, but could do absolutely nothing to stop them. Vincent’s arms folded about her and drew her close, and she turned her face to hide it against the warm thermal shirt and the even warmer flesh below it.

"It’s all right," he whispered. "It’s all right."

He soothed her with his body and with his words, but the tears wouldn’t stop. It was as if she were crying for all the days between now and the moment he’d found her, for all the difficult times in-between, for all the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years they’d denied happiness and joy, accepting fear and doubt instead. Time stretched on before her, in all likelihood a much longer time than had passed between them to date. To imagine that aching emptiness between them for such a time filled her with horror and dread, but to imagine a life without him was impossible. She had to convince him it was all right, she had to.

But she couldn’t, because she couldn’t stop crying, and instead it was Vincent who used those words, over and over again.

"It’s all right, it’s all right."

She didn’t know how long she lay there, weeping her heart out, but she was certain that at least half an hour passed before the tears began to ease. Finally she felt some control returning. She tried to draw a deep breath, but it shuddered, shaking her chest fitfully. His hand rose to stroke over her hair and back, and the tenderness of his touch almost made her start up again. She found that sometime during that half hour her left arm had made its way around his waist, and her right one clutched his thermal shirt tight, just over the region of his heart. Beneath the woven cotton she could feel the deep, steady rhythm of its beat. Between that and his voice, she finally felt herself beginning to calm. She didn’t want him to see her face right now, she knew it had to be blotchy and red-eyed with her tears, but she had to convince him, and so she leaned back in his arms and met his gaze only to find his own eyes were red as well. He’d been crying too, and she hadn’t known!

"You have to believe me, Vincent," she hurried to assure him. "I’ve never believed you could hurt me, but I accept that you’re just not comfortable with that level of intimacy between us. It’s not important. The only thing that matters to me is having you in my life. I’ll accept any terms you have, anything at all, just don’t leave me, please."

Tears fell from his lashes at her words, and they filled her with both sorrow and dread. She was terrified by what he might say next, certain it would be to tell her it was for the best if they were to part.

"No, please no," she rushed in, trying to stop him.

She clutched him tighter with arms and hands, as if she were afraid he’d push her from him physically as well as with his words, certain it would happen when she saw his left hand rising toward her shoulder. But it passed that point to cup her cheek in its palm, and his thumb stroked soothingly along the sensitive plane of flesh, brushing away her own tears as they fell to match his.

"Shhh, Catherine. I won’t leave you, I promise."

She stared up at him, stunned by his words.

"You won’t?"

"Never!" he exclaimed vehemently. "I will never leave you, my love, I promise."

Twice. That was twice that he’d used the words ‘I promise’ with a vow not to leave her. He had to mean it, it had to be true, and yet it was so unexpected and so inexplicable, she didn’t know what to say.

"Catherine, I know that your nightmare about me was what you thought my reaction would be to your scar, but you’re wrong."

It took several seconds for her to analyze this particular sentence’s meaning, and finally she gave up, certain she simply didn’t understand.

"It was just a dream, Vincent, it wasn’t real," she said instead.

"You’re wrong, Catherine," he insisted.

She knew from the way he spoke and the look in his eyes, that he wasn’t talking about her last words, but instead repeating his own.

He shook his head, and she could tell that he was having his own difficulty in articulating what he wanted to say just now.

"I’ve been having dreams too, Catherine," he began tentatively, his eyes meeting hers. "And I need to tell you about them."

She frowned at the hesitant and anxious look on his face, but waited silently for him to continue.

"They started shortly after you went back above, after you left the tunnels three weeks ago. I came above one night to see you. You were standing on a footstool, hanging the new sheers over your balcony doors."

She watched his eyes grow distant, and knew he was envisioning that night clearly. She remembered it as well, but now she incorporated a silent Vincent standing just out of sight on the other side of the glass, watching her.

"Why didn’t you stay?" she asked, her voice catching.

When he answered, the words didn’t seem to have anything to do with her question and at first she wondered if he’d heard her at all or was still lost in the memory of that night.

"You were wearing this," he said, his hand stroking over the glittery fabric of her cropped sleeptop.

His next words, however, confirmed her worst fears.

"When you reached up to fix the curtains, I could see a few inches of your scar."

Catherine drew in a deep, gasping breath and tried to push herself out of his lap. His arms tightened around her, though, not allowing her to leave. She knew her struggles were futile by the strength of his hold, and finally she gave up and curled against his chest, her breath panting and her heart pounding.

"Please, Vincent…"

She didn’t know what he wanted from her. He’d promised he wouldn’t leave her, but talking about this wasn’t wise. What if he changed his mind?

"That night I had the first dream," he continued, ignoring her words.

"Don’t, please…" she whimpered, knowing what had to follow.

"In it you wore this," he said, still stroking the crop-top. And I knelt beside you, as you lay on my bed." His voice trembled and broke at those words, but a minute later he went on. "I traced the scar with my fingers, upward from the open gap in your clothes, and then I followed my fingers with my lips. You tasted so sweet, so sweet…"

She looked up at him, astonished, and watched his eyes grow hazy with the memory as he stared down, his gaze now directed somewhere at her mid-section.

"I wanted to reach the end of the scar, to touch you there, to kiss you there…"

Oh, god. She couldn’t believe he was actually saying these things to her. She couldn’t believe he’d actually had such a dream.

"The next night I had another dream. It was like the first, only this time I traced the scar downward…"

Oh my god. This couldn’t be true, it couldn’t. She stared at him open-mouthed with disbelief and suddenly the haze cleared and he met her gaze, his own eyes filled with a stunning intensity.

"I know you think that when I see your scar I’ll be reminded of what happened that day, that I’ll feel responsible somehow for what happened, and that it will be a constant reminder of my fears of how I might hurt you with my own hands. You’re right, Catherine, about some of that, but you’re also wrong," he added. "I do feel responsible, at least in part."

"No, Vincent," she cried, shaking her head vociferously.

"I know it’s not my fault," he continued, stopping her. "I know it’s unreasonable and irrational but what my heart and head tell me are sometimes two very different things. Don’t worry, Catherine, I can live with the conflict," he said, a wry smile finally breaking through his solemn expression. "As long as you survived, none of that really matters to me now."

She closed her eyes and let out a heavy sigh of relief.

"But you were wrong, Catherine, about the scar."

Her eyes flew open wide in startled disbelief once more.

"I should feel what you thought I would. It should remind me of those fears."

He stopped for a moment, then shook his head, a stunned look on his face.

"But it doesn’t."

She was speechless. She could think of absolutely nothing to say in response to those amazing words. He had to be lying to her, trying to make her think all was well by denying what she was sure had to be true. Could he possibly hope to fool her in such a way? Surely he realized she knew him better than that, that she would see through such a painfully obvious falsehood? The disbelief in her face was clear, and as though he’d read her mind, she knew that he followed her line of reasoning as clearly as he read her expression.

"It doesn’t, Catherine," he insisted. "It doesn’t inspire fear in me, though it should. When I see it now, every night in my dreams," he added intently, "I feel only two things – relief that you’re still alive and with me, and…"

She frowned, angry that he would withhold the truth from her, and anxiously hoping he would say no more. The contradiction of her wishes was ironic, but she ignored the irony, too busy dealing with the conflicting emotions that contradiction wrought.

"Desire. Hunger."

The timber of his voice shook, and she could see how difficult it had been for him to say those two words. His eyes pleaded with her, but she didn’t know whether it was for understanding or sympathy or simply her continued presence. She was far too busy assimilating the astonishing implications of those two words to figure it out.

"No," she said, shaking her head in denial. "Don’t tell me that. I know it’s not true," she whimpered.

"It is true," he insisted.

She stared at him, stunned, and his gaze was locked to hers, willing her to believe the truth of his words. His hands gripped her hard along her right side, at shoulder and waist, and suddenly she felt his thumb insinuate itself into the opening between the crop-top and skirt, to brush lightly along the bare skin there.

"Vincent," she whispered hoarsely.

He continued to stare down at her, but now his expression grew hazy once more. His other fingers had joined the thumb beneath the edge of her top, and had tentatively moved inward, until the tender ridge was found. His breath shuddered in a gasp then, and hers did as well, as his hand slid slowly upward along her torso, tracing the scar. She was frozen in place, incredulous and stunned. When he reached the end of the scar, he didn’t stop, instead continuing his upward glide to smoothly cup the soft flesh and taut peak of her breast in his palm. At that exact moment he leaned down and covered her mouth with his own, kissing her deeply, passionately.

She was lost. No matter what her mind told her, it was impossible to do anything else when he kissed her like that but to kiss him back. She’d never envisioned a first kiss like this between them. Somehow she was sure he would be shy and hesitant, letting her take the lead. She’d envisioned herself doing just that, slowly leading him on to deeper and more intimate caresses with her mouth, lips, teeth and tongue, but it was Vincent who led the way, and there was no hesitancy in his kiss. It was masterful and powerful. He controlled her completely. His tongue demanded entrance and she opened to him without thought, a willing slave to his every wish. He explored her mouth with reckless abandon, tracing slick soft tissue and hard enamel both, drinking her in with a thirst that was desperate to be slaked. Only when he sensed the dire need for air in her, did he break off the kiss, and only minimally then. Their lips separated by bare millimeters, as they drew gasping, shared breaths between them.

"It’s true," he repeated, breathing into her mouth.

The words vibrated from his lips to her own, and she shuddered in response, desperate to take in as much of his breath as she could.

"It’s true, it’s true," he reiterated feverishly, punctuating each phrase with warm, moist kisses. Beneath her top, his hand moved firmly upon her, kneading her breast until the nipple ached with taut arousal. "You’re mine, Catherine, and I won’t let any other have you ever again, not Tom or Elliot or anyone else," he added hoarsely.

The words were barely out when he took her mouth again in a kiss even more demanding and devastating than the one that had come before. He captured the taut peak of her breast between his forefinger and thumb and tugged hard, the firmness of his touch assuaging the ache building there. She groaned loudly into his mouth at the nearly overwhelming sensation, and at that sound he gasped and released her, sliding his hand away from the tender tip and soft curves to grip her round the ribs once more. The tips of his nails bit into her flesh. There was no pain, and no real damage, but instead a heightened sense of ecstasy as he claimed her for his own.

With a shuddering groan he pulled his mouth from hers and buried his face against the curved length of her throat, the staccato beat of his heart pounding fiercely through him and to her. She could feel it against her chest, she could feel it further up, in the wild strumming of his blood racing erratically through his carotid artery, and lower down, it was there as well, in the fierce pulsing of his hard erection as it pressed against her outer thigh. Oh, god!

Catherine moaned and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight against her body. She wouldn’t let him go, she couldn’t. "Never! Never again, never any one but you, Vincent, never!" she cried, arching against him in complete and utter submission. She was his, only his. "Anything you want," she whimpered feverishly. "Anything, anytime, anywhere. Only for you, my love, only for you."

His hands tightened upon her and his nails sank in deeper, creating tiny half-moons of red that sent prickling starbursts of excruciating pleasure through her. His growl built to a crescendo of dominant possession, and his whole body seemed to expand around her, encompassing and enclosing her within the protective bulwark of his muscled length and curtaining mane. The hand at her ribs released her suddenly and she whimpered at its absence, but a second later she groaned with relieved satisfaction when it retraced the scar’s length, this time in the opposite direction, towards her belly. His fingers reached the elastic waist of her skirt and slipped beneath it without pause. She moaned, her excitement mounting, and slid her right leg off the arm of the chair and down along his own, opening her thighs for his touch. Suddenly he froze. His hand clutched the soft curve of her belly, just above the springy curls and she cried out, desperate for him to continue.

"No, oh, god, please no!" she moaned, pressing her own hand atop his through the soft-woven fabric of her gown.

But it remained steadfast where it was, and she whimpered with frustrated desire.

"Please, Vincent, oh, please, don’t stop."

He pulled away from her throat abruptly and stared down at her. Beneath the short top her breasts heaved with rapid, panting breaths. The tips of each were hard and tight, her nipples clearly visible through the warm weave of the fabric. The cropped hem was tugged up to just beneath her breast along the right side, and several of the small red marks left from his nails could be seen, even in the dim candlelight of the chamber. The skirt waist plunged down on the same side, and his arm crossed over her belly while the hand attached to it lay hidden beneath the glittery threads. He knew he only needed to slip his fingers down three inches to find the wet hot center waiting.

It took all his will not to do just that. Her whole torso was flushed pink with sexual desire, and he groaned at the sight of her, lying there so obviously aroused, waiting for him, begging him. He groaned again and leaned down to lave wetly against the red marks on her ribs, soothing the pinprick sensations there with the raspiness of his tongue. She moaned softly in response, and the sound reverberated in his head, making him dizzy. She tasted so good, better than in his dreams, so much better…

"Please, Vincent," she whimpered, pressing down on his hand once more.

Her words wove their way through the billowing stream of their bond, and it was then that he realized that the sense of her was returned fully, that she had finally let go of the tight hold she’d placed over it this last week. He growled low in his throat, intensely relieved, and strangely enough it was the strength of that relief that brought him back to his surroundings and back to his senses. Slowly he pulled back from her and took in her reclining length on his lap.

Oh, God, how he wanted her!

Just as suddenly, though, the image of Peter flashed in his head, and with it came the echo of his words from their conversation less than a week ago.

Let Catherine take the lead…

He closed his eyes tight and leaned back in his chair, willing the emotional upheaval filling him to subside.

"No, Vincent, no!"

He opened his eyes and found her staring up at him, imploring him. The way she looked right now, her hair and clothes so disheveled, her body flushed and warm and her lips wet and swollen with his kisses. How could he possibly do it? He reached down to pull her upright in his lap then hugged her close.

"I love you, Catherine. I love you."

Her arms came around his back and grasped him tight. "I love you, Vincent," she murmured, almost delirious with desire.

He stood up abruptly, and she slid her arms around his neck, snuggling in close. When he sat her down a minute later, in the chair beside him, she let out a distressed cry.

"No!"

"Shhh, Catherine, it’s all right," he whispered hoarsely, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

But he gently disengaged her arms from around his neck, resolutely ignoring her whimper of protest, and moved toward the wardrobe, where he fished in the deep pocket of his cloak as it hung on an outer hook. Finally he retrieved a folded piece of paper and returned to sit beside her at the table. Catherine leaned her head on folded arms, trembling, and he stroked along her back gently, trying to soothe her without causing further distress.

"I don’t understand, Vincent," she said, her voice muffled in her arms.

"We have to talk, Catherine."

At hearing him speak the words he’d used when they’d first entered the chamber, she groaned. God, would they never be done with talking? Why had he kissed her and why had he stopped? That’s all she wanted to know. But it was never that easy with them, and she knew this would be no exception. With a shuddering sigh, she finally sat up, re-belting the tunnel robe around her over-heated body.

"Last week, before you came down for your last check-up, Peter and I had a talk."

She frowned at that, finally looking at him directly for the first time since he’d removed her from his lap.

"A talk?" she asked, warily.

He nodded.

"A talk about what?"

"About you and me."

Her frown deepened and Vincent hurried on before she could speak.

"Please don’t blame him, Catherine, I asked him to come down early. I… I needed his advice."

"You needed Peter’s advice? Why not Father’s?" she asked, confused.

Vincent paused and looked down before answering her question.

"Father hasn’t been particularly… helpful in this area. I needed someone more objective."

Catherine’s eyes widened as the nature of Vincent’s concerns became clear. He’d spoken to Peter about their relationship; not the emotional one that currently existed, but the physical one that they both craved but never spoke of. On the heels of that thought, came another, striking swift and hot; the physical behavior she’d found so inexplicable this evening and the kisses and caresses they’d shared a moment ago, were all related to that talk. Whatever had been said then must have had a major impact on his beliefs. As a result of that talk, it seemed clear that Vincent had made a decision to allow them to move forward. She clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes flew open wide and the trembling that she’d just began to control returned again with a vengeance. Oh my god…

"Vincent," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "Are you telling me…?"

She couldn’t say it, so afraid she’d misjudged the situation, so afraid that she’d jinx it.

He met her gaze and in his own she read anxiety and fear, but also determination. He covered her shaking hands and drew them away from her mouth, holding them enclosed in the larger sphere of his own. He took a deep breath before answering, and she in turn held her own as he did.

"I won’t be the obstacle to the fulfillment of our bond, Catherine, not anymore."

The breath she’d been holding escaped her in a rush and she felt all her muscles collapse. Only his hands about her own held her in place.

"Oh, God," she whimpered. "Don’t tease me, Vincent, not about this."

His eyes filled with tears. "I’d never do that, Catherine, not about this."

"You… You mean we can be together?"

He hesitated, but finally nodded almost imperceptibly.

A new and worrisome thought suddenly occurred to her. What exactly did he mean by ‘together’. God knows they’d had their share of misunderstandings and miscommunications in this area often enough, though that wasn’t really surprising, considering how little they’d actually spoken on the topic.

"Vincent," she hurried on anxiously. "We’re talking about the same thing, aren’t we? We’re talking about… about us making love, right?"

He bit his lip, obviously extremely uncomfortable, but nodded again.

"Thank God," she said, pressing her forehead to their twined hands with relief.

She was shaking all over now, and Vincent pulled his chair closer to hers and freed up one hand to circle her shoulders and hold her tight.

"When?" she said abruptly, looking up anxiously. "Now, please now, Vincent," she added quickly, her eyes and voice pleading with him.

Vincent swallowed hard at the look of urgency in her eyes. The desire he’d felt from her a few minutes ago was still so strong within him. He could taste it on his tongue and smell it through his very pores.

"Soon, Catherine," he replied hoarsely. "We have to talk first."

"Talk about what?" she asked incredulous. "I don’t want to talk any more." She leaned in closer and rested her forehead against his wearily. "I’m tired, Vincent, so tired of waiting. I just want to lie with you in your bed and in your arms. I need to touch you and I need you to touch me. I need to feel you inside me," she added in a whimper. "Please, Vincent, no more talking."

Oh, God, how would he ever survive this? It was almost impossible not to do exactly as she asked. It would be so easy, so very easy, to take her to his bed, to lie beside her, to take her body for his own. Oh, God…

"Please, Catherine. Please do this for me. We need to talk – it’s necessary, and I promised Peter."

His last words seemed to have made an impact. She looked up slowly, a puzzled expression in her eyes, then with great effort sat back in her chair, putting some much-needed distance between them.

"This wasn’t a decision I made lightly, Catherine. It doesn’t mean I still don’t have fears for us, fears for you, for your safety. I said it before, remember?"

She nodded, her gaze pinned to his. "We must go with caution…" she repeated, envisioning the rocky outcrop where they’d sat when he’d spoken those words.

"And with care," he finished. "Nothing has changed the requirement for that. But I couldn’t resolve the conflict by myself. I knew I was too close to it, both emotionally and physically. You were too, Catherine, no matter how much you protested that I wouldn’t hurt you. You couldn’t know that, because I didn’t know that," he added miserably. "I needed Peter’s insight to give me the objective perspective we both lacked."

With hands that shook, he unfolded the piece of paper and smoothed it out on the table in front of him.

"We made a list, Catherine, and I promised him that you and I would go over it together before we did anything."

Despite the words spoken before, and despite her anxiety over such an intimate discussion of their relationship with someone who stood as a father figure to her, Catherine was now intensely curious about what had been said. She leaned against his shoulder so that she could see what was written on the crinkled paper. Her eyebrows rose abruptly at the two column headings at the top of the page labeled ‘Children’ and ‘Sex’. Children? Vincent and Peter had discussed the potential for children? Her eyes avidly scanned the writing below that column, but there was very little there, and she sat back, disappointed.

"What does this mean?" she asked, pointing to the two bullet points of DNA and sperm motility.

"Father and Peter had many discussions speculating about my origins when I was younger. They tried to learn as much as they could – at one point they even wanted to do a DNA analysis, but it just wasn’t feasible at the time. Because of that, they could never really be sure of how or why I was different at a genetic level. The question of whether or not I could father children came up, of course. I was only in my teens then, and I was as curious to know the answer to that as they were. It was before Lisa, before I knew that children would never be an issue for me," he finished sadly.

"Oh, Vincent."

She leaned against him and circled his back with her arm, rubbing up and down along the trembling planes with a soothing motion. When he drew in a deep breath, she felt his heartbeat, erratic a moment before, slow down to a more normal rhythm.

"They were able to address the question from another angle, though," he finally continued. "Motility is a good enough measurement, though it could tell them nothing about any genetic factors. I gave them a sample when I was fifteen, and again when I was twenty-five. Both times there was nothing to indicate that I would be capable of fathering a child."

Her heart skipped a beat, and sorrow, deep and wide, spread itself open beneath her. No children. They would never have children. Only then did she realize that this was a secret, desperate dream she’d hidden even from herself. She glanced up at him to find his face pale and wan and knew he’d felt and understood the emotions she’d just undergone. She nodded, acknowledging them silently, and resumed the long, calming caress of her palm against his back, trying to ease his sorrow and pain, as well as her own.

"Based on those early tests, he didn’t think it would be an issue." He glanced at her pale face, and added; ‘One way or the other. But he thought it would be wise to rerun the test once more, just to make sure."

"And?"

He looked at her, confused.

"What were the results," she prompted quietly.

"Oh. Actually, I haven’t…" He turned bright red. "So much has happened this last week – I forgot about it."

He stood up and returned to the wardrobe and rummaged in the same pocket the list had been in, finally retrieving a small plastic container. He stared at it for a moment, chagrined, and was surprised when Catherine’s smaller hand closed over his, easing the container from his suddenly lifeless fingers. He stared at her, confused by her sudden and unexpected presence.

"It can wait," she told him enigmatically. She set the container down on the ledge over the head of his bed and led him back to the table.

Their attention was now turned to the second column on the paper, succinctly labeled ‘Sex’. Below that there were four simple bullet points; Nails, Teeth, Strength and Size. She looked up, waiting for him to explain the direction their conversation had taken that day. If possible, his face was even redder than before.

"What could happen," he whispered in response to her silent question. "We were trying to think of what could happen, how likely it was and if there were any controls to minimize the possibilities."

She nodded and the lack of discomfort in her own eyes helped to calm him.

"What did Peter think?" she finally asked.

"He said that even… normal… couples often suffered minor injuries during…"

"Sex," she finished for him, calmly.

He nodded, swallowing hard.

"But that we needed to take extra precautions, for the obvious reasons," he added hastily.

She nodded again. "What else?"

"He used an analogy that made sense to me."

She waited for him to go on, curious as to the tentative tone of his voice.

"He said that even animals in the wild, who have the means to kill and maim their prey…"

That thought was so painful that for a moment he was unable to go on.

"He said they could obviously hurt their mates as well, but didn’t. He thought it must be an evolved protective mechanism. He thought it should apply to us as well, especially in light of the bond’s presence…"

"Yes, of course," she said, smiling gently. "I agree with him completely."

"Catherine, I want to believe it, too, and it does make sense, but we’re taking a terrible risk in order to find out if it is true."

"A risk worth taking, Vincent," she replied insistently, staring deep into his eyes.

He was breathing hard, fear tight in his chest and in his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, Vincent, I am so sure!" she responded instantly.

They stared at each other for a long moment, then finally he blinked, as though emerging from a dream.

"We still need to take great care," he repeated.

She nodded, agreeing immediately. "Whatever it takes."

"Peter has some recommendations."

Vincent pointed hesitantly toward the bottom of the page, where another list of five items waited.

"Below, Father," she read from the first line.

"He thinks the first few times should be here, with Father nearby, in case anything happens," he finished hoarsely.

A sudden, extremely disturbing thought occurred to her.

"Does Father know?" she asked, turning bright red.

"No, he doesn’t," Vincent hurried to assure her. "Peter thought we should tell him, but he also thought that as long as he was nearby to help, if necessary, than that was enough."

Catherine nodded, relieved, then turned her attention to item 2: Cathy – dom.

"Dom?" she asked, confused.

"It means… I should let you take the lead," he finished lamely.

"Ohhh, dominant," she added brightly, the pieces falling into place.

"Yes," he said, feeling his cheeks flush again for at least the tenth time.

"Catherine, you need to know that Peter thinks this won’t be easy. I have to agree. There’s something in me that responds so strongly to you. It’s so instinctive, so possessive, so beyond comprehension. It’s what worries me most about us taking this step. You know what happened just half an hour ago," he added fervently.

She nodded, suddenly solemn. "I know." Suddenly her voice became shyly hesitant, and she glanced away for a moment, before looking back at him. "I always thought I would have to lead you through our first kiss, but when it happened…"

A dreamy expression filled her face and Vincent watched with growing apprehension.

"You can’t think that way, Catherine, not now," he insisted urgently. "I need you to be strong, because I don’t think I’ll be able to do it alone. You have to be the one that sets the pace, that determines how far… how much… how…"

The words trailed off and he looked miserable, unable to complete the thought so obviously worrying him. Her hand cupped his chin and lifted his face until she could see his eyes. In her own he saw both sympathy and determination.

"I promise, Vincent, that I will do everything in my power to control the situation. You don’t have to say any more – I understand what Peter is saying. I’ll try not to disappoint you."

"Oh, Catherine." He turned his face in her hand to press a warm kiss against the center of her palm, gratitude and love shining from his clear blue eyes. "No matter what happens, you could never disappoint me."

She leaned down to press her forehead against his, and they rested that way together for a few minutes, regaining their composure. Finally, simultaneously, they sat up and turned back to the paper once more, their eyes moving automatically to item 3: C – Foreplay.

"Well, this one’s pretty obvious," she said, blushing. She turned to find his cheeks as red as hers felt. "Though to be completely honest, Vincent, you should know – in case you don’t already – that all it really takes for me is to be near you."

Her voice turned shy again, as she felt her whole body flush in response to the memories filling her of just half an hour past.

"When I think about the experiences I’ve had before, they all seem so irrelevant. No one has ever made me feel the way you do, the way you do just by standing near me, just by the touch of your hand on my arm, the glance of your eyes…"

She was suddenly lost in another world, and Vincent, stunned though he was by her words, couldn’t help but stare at her face in awe, seeing the truth of them reflected there. Finally she shook off that dreamy expression and found him studying her intently. She blushed again but couldn’t help smiling.

"Long story short, you’ll get no argument from me," she added with a roguish grin.

He nodded, looking away quickly, and she went on to item 4: V – Same.

"Hmmm… I’m not sure I understand Peter’s purpose here, though believe me, Vincent, that’s not going to be a problem," she said, trying to lighten the increasing anxiety she was feeling from the big man beside her.

This was an area Vincent couldn’t let pass by without comment, despite his discomfort – the ramifications of it were too important.

"His purpose was to try and ensure that I had as much control as possible when we were finally together, that I was able to give over the lead to you as much as possible as well. What he meant…"

He paused and tried again.

"What he wanted me to do…"

He stopped, absolutely unable to find a way to articulate the thought and action that went with Peter’s notes.

"I understand, Vincent," Catherine said gently, rubbing his arm. "This was something for before we were together, wasn’t it?" she asked softly.

He nodded, heat flaring in his face.

"Don’t worry, it will be all right."

He shook his head, a feverish light in his eyes. "I… I don’t think I can, Catherine, not with you down here, not knowing that you know…"

"Shhh, it will be all right," she repeated emphatically. "Don’t worry – I said I would make sure everything went well, and I meant it. Leave it to me."

He swallowed hard, and finally nodded.

"Come on," she said, smiling, "let’s finish the list, ok?"

He nodded again, and they turned back to the paper once more.

"Protection," she said, reading the first word behind the final number 5. Below it were written ‘Condoms – probably not’ and ‘Cathy’.

"Well, based on what you said earlier, this doesn’t seem to be something we need to worry about," she said after a moment’s thought. "Is that why Peter wrote ‘probably not’ behind condoms?"

She wouldn’t have thought it possible for Vincent to turn a darker shade of red than he already was, but he did, and her eyes widened.

"What is it, Vincent," she asked.

"That’s not what he meant," he muttered, the words so low they were almost inaudible. "He thought they probably weren’t an option for us… For me," he clarified, looking down and away, intensely embarrassed.

"Oh."

"Peter and I had to talk about it, Catherine," he went on quietly. "You have to realize that this is as much an issue of concern for me as everything else."

She nodded, her eyes wide, then glanced down at the paper again, in order to give him a few minutes of much-needed privacy. Her eyes fell upon the numbers scribbled in the margin of the paper, and a light suddenly went on.

"Is this…?" She blushed and fell silent.

"Yes," he whispered, mortified.

The heat filling him suddenly took on a different component. It was hot as well, a warmth really, mingled with a sense of growing excitement and anticipation. He frowned as he tried to make sense of the confusing emotions, then suddenly realized they weren’t his own. They were coming from the bond. They were coming from Catherine. He looked up abruptly, shocked, and this time she was the one who turned away, embarrassed.

"I’m sorry, I…"

She stopped, unable to finish. A flash of heat swept over their bond, erasing the earlier traces of those other emotions. Part of him was intensely grateful for their absence, part of him fervently wished them back. A tapping on the pipes drew her attention. Though she hadn’t yet learned the intricacies of their communication system, she had picked up quite a bit during the last three years.

"Twelve o’clock?" she asked, hesitantly.

He nodded. "Yes, midnight."

"The chess match is probably over by now."

"Probably," he agreed quietly. "And if not, they’ll likely finish in the morning."

"So Peter’s probably in the guest chamber now."

"Yes," he said, his voice sinking low as he realized where she was going with this oddly abbreviated conversation.

"And Father’s nearby, too, in his own chamber…"

Vincent nodded, suddenly unable to find his voice.

Catherine read the conflicting emotions on his face, desire and fear, and reached out to cover his suddenly trembling hands with her own.

"Oh, Vincent, don’t be afraid, my love. I know we’ll be fine, both of us." She stood up, but never released his hands, urging him to his feet as well. "Come to bed, please. We can just talk if you like. We won’t do anything, not until you’re ready."

A soft snort of wry amusement met those words, though his eyes still look haunted.

"Talk? With you in my bed?" He shook his head and all traces of humor disappeared. "You overestimate my will power, Catherine."

She couldn’t help the hopeful smile that briefly crossed her features then, but she managed to erase it quickly nonetheless.

"Put the lanterns out, please?" she finally asked softly.

He nodded, but stood motionless before her for a few minutes more, his hands clasped in hers. Finally he turned and retrieved two unlit lanterns from the floor beside the entrance and left the chamber, turning right. A minute later his tall, rangy body appeared again and was gone, heading in the direction of the bathing pool.

Catherine stood still as stone, counting the seconds, and soon he was back, standing before her once more, the look of shy hesitancy and muted excitement shifting slowly beneath the more fearful visage that couldn’t be hidden. She smiled, trying to calm him, but her own excitement was almost overwhelming, and her lips trembled. She slipped the warm tunnel robe off her shoulders and laid it over a chair as she kicked her slippers off, then reached up to push the warm woolen robe from his own shoulders.

Vincent watched her, bemused, and though he didn’t try to stop her, she could feel the trembling of his own muscles along his shoulders, beneath the cream-colored thermal shirt. When the robe fell away, she made no attempt to catch it, but instead stayed still, her hands upon his chest, her eyes holding his. Slowly his hands rose until they rested lightly at her waist. The pressure there was non-existent at first, but finally she felt herself urged forward by slow increments. His eyes had dropped to her lips, and she trembled even more as she realized that he was going to kiss her.

She let her eyes drift closed and waited for the touch of his lips on hers. His thumbs stroked softly along her sides, beneath the cropped edge of her top, and as he drew her closer, one hand slid away, behind her back, in order to hold her more securely, while the other pressed inward, palm flat, to feel the silky skin beneath her gown. His thumb found the lightly-raised ridge of her scar and began to stroke there just as his lips touched hers. Suddenly her eyes flew open wide and she stepped backward abruptly, out of his arms. She stared at him across the three feet that now separated them, her breath panting harshly, a wild light in her eyes.