Taming The Sinner: The Doctor’s Cold Game

"Don't mistake this for affection," Helena said, trying to push his arm away. It was like pushing a granite statue.

"I don't," Authur murmured. "I think you're a calculating witch."

He grabbed her hand. "Come here."

He dragged her down the hall, into the private elevator. He punched the button for the penthouse.

"Where are we going?"

"Home," he said mockingly.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse living room. One wall was entirely glass. It looked out over the city, thirty stories up.

Authur walked to the sliding glass door and kicked it open. The wind roared in, cold and violent.

He pulled Helena out onto the balcony.

"Authur, stop!" Helena gasped. She squeezed her eyes shut.

She had acrophobia. Severe, crippling fear of heights. It was a remnant of a childhood trauma she never spoke about.

Authur didn't know that. Or maybe he didn't care.

He pushed her toward the railing.

"Open your eyes," he commanded.

Helena shook her head, gripping his lapels blindly. Her knees buckled. "I can't. Please."

"Look at your kingdom, Mrs. Alexander!" He forced her backward. Her lower back hit the railing. There was nothing behind her but air and a three-hundred-foot drop.

Helena screamed, a short, sharp sound of pure terror. She clamped her arms around Authur's neck, burying her face in his chest. She was trembling so violently her teeth chattered.

Authur paused. He felt her fear. It wasn't fake. It wasn't a performance. She was terrified.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, instinctively steadying her. "Helena?"

"Don't let go," she sobbed into his shirt. "Please don't let go."

The vulnerability hit him harder than the ice water had. He had expected her to fight. He hadn't expected her to cling to him like he was her only lifeline.

"I've got you," he said, his voice dropping an octave.

He pulled her away from the edge, back into the safety of the living room. He kicked the door shut, cutting off the wind.

Helena didn't let go. She stood there, shaking, breathing in his scent.

Authur looked down at her. Her hair was wild, her face pale. The adrenaline of the moment shifted. The fear turned into something electric.

He ran his hand down her back. She felt fragile.

"You're afraid of heights," he stated. It was a realization.

"Yes," she whispered, pulling back.

Authur didn't let her retreat. He kept his hands on her waist. He looked at her lips. The memory of the kiss in the church surfaced.

"You're not as tough as you pretend to be," he murmured.

He leaned in. He wasn't angry anymore. He was intrigued. He brushed his lips against her ear. "Maybe I should test what else you're afraid of."

His hand moved to the zipper of her dress.

Helena froze. Her body went rigid. A memory flashed-not of heights, but of hands. Unwanted hands.

She shoved him. Hard.

"No!"

She scrambled back, her eyes wide with a different kind of fear. A trauma fear.

Authur stumbled back, insulted. "What? I'm your husband."

"Don't touch me," Helena gasped, hugging herself. "Never touch me like that."

Authur's face hardened. He fixed his jacket, his ego bruised. "Fine. Don't worry. You're not my type anyway."