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I don’t care how he was this morning. I don’t care how my body responded. I don’t care that it’s our duty, that I have to bear his children, that we’re married now, and the expectations placed on us are as clear as road signs.
I’m scared.
By the time we get to our bedroom and he stands me in front of him, my cheeks are damp with tears. I taste the salt and will myself to stop, but I can’t. I swipe at them angrily. I feel like such a coward.
I barely register the size of the bed or vases of flowers, the muted neutral colors and simple design of the room, the scent of jasmine and rose and the pile of wrapped gifts and cards on a small table. It’s our wedding night, and the only thing that matters to me at this point is what we have to do next.
He unhurriedly undoes the pearl buttons at the back of my neck and kisses the bare skin revealed when each one falls open.
“Why are you crying?” he asks as he slips another button loose and kisses me again. “You’re crying, Harper.”
I shake my head. “I’m—I’m not,” I stutter, but it’s no use. I totally am.
When a few more buttons come undone, he slides a sleeve off my shoulder so one full side of me is bared to him.
“You are, and I want to know why. Do you think I’ll hurt you?”
He continues the deliberate disrobing until I’m wearing nothing but my white satin wedding bra and matching thong. He lays me back on the bed and sits on the edge beside me.
“N-no,” I say, my voice tremulous. “But I don’t know for sure. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you’re capable of.”
I tuck myself into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed and watch him. Earlier tonight, when he realized that there was an attempt at poisoning me, the look on his face terrified me. Now, though… now there’s a different sort of look that makes me more curious than anything.
“You’re brave, Harper. Resilient. This is unlike you.”
Goddamn, why is he so perceptive?
I swallow and lick my lips, looking away, but he doesn’t allow it. With his fingers on my chin, he brings my face back to his.
“Tell me,” he says, in the same voice he used tonight to clear the room, a tone that brooks no argument. I know then that there’s no hiding from Aleksandr Romanov. He sees right through me. With his fingers on my chin, he holds my gaze. “Who did this to you?”
A stranger in a crowded room.
Wrinkled sheets and muted screams.
Blood and pain and the knowledge I’d been used and discarded.
“Did — did what?” I whisper, hoping that if I stall, I don’t have to face this. Facehim.
I’m lying on the bed, half naked. He’s fully clothed sitting next to me. I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m crying under a mask of bravado, and he’s trying to keep his temper reined in.
I’m tired of masks and lies and illusions.
So, so tired.
“You’re fucking terrified of being alone with me. Look at you. You’re practically curled into a fetal position, and I’ve barely touched you.”
A part of mewantshim to touch me. Wants him to make me forget.
His brow furrowed he tries to guess. “Did your mother tell you to fear your wedding night? Are you afraid of what the first time will be like?”
I shake my head. It won’t be my first time.
“No,” I whisper.
What will he do when he finds out I’m not a virgin?
A muscle twitches in his jaw. He’s losing patience. “Someone hurt you.”
