Rule Five: his time, his gaze lingered, not on my face, but lower, a cold, impersonal assessment that made my skin crawl. "While this is a business arrangement, you are legally my wife. There are… physical expectations that accompany that title. They will be met, as and when I require. Displays of reluctance or resistance are pointless. This is part of the contract you accepted when you walked down that aisle."
The blood drained from my face. I'd braced myself for this possibility, but hearing it stated so clinically, stripped of any pretense of intimacy or desire, was a violation all its own. It reduced me to a biological function, an obligation to be discharged. The silk of my gown felt suddenly abrasive against my skin.
He stood up, unfolding his height with lethal grace. He walked to a sideboard, poured two fingers of a dark amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, but didn't offer me any. He took a slow sip, his back partially turned. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of his pronouncements and my terror.
"Your suite is through that door," he said finally, nodding towards a door on the far side of the room, away from the imposing bed. "It is adequately appointed. Staff will attend to your needs. You will dine with me tomorrow evening. Silas will provide you with a schedule and necessary information. Be punctual."
He turned back to face me, the glass held loosely in his hand. The lamplight cast deep shadows under his cheekbones, making him look even more severe, more inhuman. "Do you understand the terms of your… employment, Mrs. de la Rosa?"
The use of my new name felt like a brand. My throat was tight, dry. Fear warred with a burgeoning spark of defiance deep within, the part of me that was Nyx, observing, cataloging vulnerabilities. But defiance was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not yet. Not with his threats hanging over everyone I loved.
I forced my chin up, meeting those obsidian eyes. Showing fear felt dangerous; showing defiance felt suicidal. I settled for a mask of cold acceptance, the same detachment he displayed.
Yes," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, though it felt like shards of glass scraping my throat. "I understand."
A flicker of something – not approval, perhaps mere acknowledgment of compliance – passed through his eyes. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Good." He took another sip of his drink. "Then our business for the evening is concluded. You may retire."
He didn't move. He simply stood there, watching me, a silent command to leave his presence. The dismissal was absolute. I was dismissed like an unsatisfactory servant after a briefing.
I rose, my legs shaky but holding. The weight of the gown, the weight of the diamond, the crushing weight of his rules pressed down on me. I didn't look back at him, at the bed, at the room that felt less like a bridal suite and more like the antechamber to an execution. I walked towards the door he'd indicated, my footsteps unnaturally loud on the polished floor.
As my hand touched the cold brass handle, his voice stopped me, low and final.
"Remember the rules, Penelope. The consequences of forgetting will be… educational."
I didn't turn. I didn't reply. I opened the door and stepped through into the luxurious prison of my own suite, closing it softly behind me. Leaning back against the solid wood, I finally let the tremors take hold, sliding down until I sat on the cold marble floor, the ridiculous train of my wedding gown pooling around me like a shroud. The silence of my new room was deafening, broken only by the frantic hammering of my own heart.