Page 40 of Whisper of Nightmares

But if she is a wolf, he must be her alpha, for she stands down with a final sneer, before storming down the hall without them.

Euphemia’s mind is a storm of guilt and shame.

She hadn’t mean to hurt her…

Her intentions had been the opposite.

Yet again, she’d made a mistake. Chosen the wrong words. The wrong choices.

Yet again, Euphemia finds herself on a path that feels condemned.

Perhaps this was inevitable.

This is the fate she’s meant for.

A cursed bride to a cursed lord, forever a burden on the people in her life.

Asvald steps forward. Together, they watch Kelda disappear around the corner.

Only once the echoes of her footsteps can no longer be heard down the chamber, does he turn to Euphemia. “Forgive her. She has been through much.”

“I understand,” she says meekly.

But she doesn’t. Not fully.

Euphemia has also been through a lot, and she doesn’t combust at every slight infraction.

Then again, she thinks of Thurstan, and maybe she does.

Regardless, arguing with Asvald would be pointless. He seems to be just as much of a bystander to Kelda’s rage as she is.

“Welcome to Thorfell Manor,” he says without inflection.

She almost thanks him on reflex, but she catches the dryness in his tone just in time.

Asvald gestures for Euphemia to follow him down the corridor.

As they wander the labyrinthian layout, Euphemia realizes for the first time how understaffed this place seems. Not a single servant roams the halls. Not even a flicker of candleflame can be glimpsed from under any of the doors they pass.

Perhaps it’s merely late in the evening and she’ll see more of them tomorrow.

After a short walk, they reach a door. It’s not until after he bids her a good night that Euphemia makes the connection that he’s lead her to her bedchamber.

She steps inside and it is perhaps the most elaborate part of the manor she’s seen yet.

Lavish rugs stretch across the floor, and navy velvet curtains frame the windows, lending the chamber a warmth she’s found nowhere else in the drafty manor. Tapestries cover the walls, depicting ships battling churning seas, and warriors clashing with spears and shields. Every surface bears something—a carved chair, a brass candlestick, a painted chest, shelves lined with weathered books. It’s so unlike the barren halls beyond that Euphemia can only assume this room was spared whatever emptied the rest of the manor.

As Euphemia kicks off her sodden shoes and clothes, she stares at the tapestries. They’re likely references to specific battles, but she doesn’t recognize them at first glance. Perhaps her father fought in some of them.

She’s tired of battles and wars. Tomorrow she will take the tapestries down.

Tonight, she needs to rest.

Grabbing a nightgown from the armoire, Euphemia throws it over her head, and plops onto the bed. As she lays there, trying to unwind, she thinks about how this isn’t the wedding night she imagined. No husband beside her. No joining of bodies.

She should be grateful.

Horror stories abound about what a young woman can expect from her husband on that first night, worse still if he is anything less than kind.