Irene's pov
The grandfather clock chimed midnight, and I finally had to admit I was screwed. Papers covered every surface of the library desk—some with actual notes, most with increasingly desperate doodles and question marks. My assignment on Egyptian mortuary rituals was due tomorrow, and I had nothing coherent to show for six hours of work.
"How is anyone supposed to make sense of this?" I muttered, making those hand gestures I do when I'm frustrated. "These so-called experts contradict each other every other sentence."
Two weeks at this mansion and while my daily war with Yin had been entertaining—replacing his blood supply with beet juice was still my crowning achievement—it had completely destroyed any semblance of academic routine.
Between Professor Pembleton's insane flower-arranging lessons and Mrs Fortescue following me around like a deportment-obsessed ghost, I barely had time to breathe, let alone research ancient burial practices.
The library door opened without a sound. I looked up to find Yin standing in a dark dressing gown, his hair slightly mussed, looking like he'd stepped out of some gothic romance novel. His pale eyes swept over the chaos of my workspace with what might have been amusement.
"Working late," he observed, moving into the room with that fluid grace that always made me uncomfortable.
"Trying to work," I corrected, gesturing at the disaster in front of me. "Pretty sure this assignment was designed by someone who enjoys student suffering."
He came closer, scanning my open textbooks and scattered notes. "Ancient burial practices. Egyptian dynasties through Mesopotamian influences. Interesting topic."
"Interesting and completely incomprehensible." I rubbed my tired eyes. "None of these experts agree on anything. Professor Henley says Egyptian embalmers influenced Babylonian burial customs. Professor Morrison insists it went the opposite direction. And Professor Whitman apparently thinks they developed independently with zero cross-cultural contact."
My hands made wild gestures at the competing textbooks. "How am I supposed to write anything coherent when they can't even agree on a basic timeline?"
Yin studied the books for a moment, his expression unreadable. "May I?" He indicated the empty chair beside me.
I blinked. In all our verbal sparring and domestic sabotage, Yin had never once offered to help with my academic work. If anything, his constant retaliations had made studying harder.
"I guess," I said cautiously. "Though I can't imagine you care much about ancient mortuary practices."
"You'd be surprised." He settled into the chair and reached for one of my textbooks. "Professor Henley. His theories on Egyptian embalming are pretty popular in academic circles."
"Wait, you know Professor Henley's work?"
"I'm familiar with most current scholarship on ancient civilisations." He opened the textbook to the mummification chapter. "Though I find academics tend to overcomplicate things that were actually pretty straightforward."
He started reading with the same focused attention he brought to his business correspondence. After a few minutes, he made a soft disapproving sound.
"Professor Henley's made several fundamental errors in his canopic jar interpretations."
I stared at him. "You actually know about canopic jar ceremonies?"
"Removing and preserving internal organs was crucial to mummification." His voice took on this teaching quality I'd never heard before. "Four jars, each protected by a different son of Horus. Imsety for the liver, Duamutef for the stomach, Hapi for the lungs, Qebehsenuef for the intestines. The ceremonies were deeply ritualistic, connected to the deceased's journey through the afterlife."
He spoke with such casual knowledge that I found myself leaning forward, exhaustion temporarily forgotten. "How do you know all this? You talk about it like you were actually there."
Something flickered across his face—amusement or regret, I couldn't tell. "I've always been interested in ancient cultures. You develop extensive knowledge when you have adequate time for research."
"Adequate time." My hands made sceptical gestures. "You're a businessman, not an archaeologist. When did you find time to become an expert on Egyptian burial practices?"
"Maybe we should focus on your assignment rather than my educational background." He deflected smoothly. "Your sources contradict each other because they're working from incomplete information."
For the next hour, Yin guided me through this complex web of cultural exchanges that shaped ancient burial practices. His knowledge wasn't just extensive—it was nuanced, filled with details that weren't in any textbooks and insights that connected seemingly random historical pieces.
"The key is understanding that ancient peoples didn't think in isolated cultures," he explained as we worked through my tangled notes. "Trade routes carried more than goods—they carried ideas, beliefs, practices. A merchant from Memphis to Babylon didn't just transport gold and spices. He carried stories about honouring their dead, descriptions of rituals that might be adapted by other cultures."
I was completely absorbed, my pen flying across fresh pages as my thoughts finally organised themselves. My hands still made those flicking gestures when I was thinking hard, but they'd become less nervous, more contemplative.
"This is incredible," I said, looking at the coherent outline we'd created. "I've been struggling for weeks, and you just made it all make sense."
"You had all the necessary information." There was something almost warm in his tone. "You just needed to see the connections."
"No, this is more than connections. You know stuff that isn't in any of these books. Details about ceremonies, specific practices, the kind of things that only come from primary sources most scholars never see."
Yin was quiet, and I could almost see him weighing how much to reveal. "I've been fortunate in my travels. I've had access to private collections of ancient texts and artefacts that aren't available to university researchers."
It was plausible—the kind of thing a wealthy man with exotic interests might claim. But something in his tone suggested depths he wasn't ready to share.
"Well, whatever your sources, I'm grateful," I said, my hands making grateful gestures at my transformed notes. "Professor Whitman's going to be amazed when I turn this in."
"I'm sure he will be." Yin leaned back, and for the first time since our marriage, he looked genuinely relaxed around me. "Your instincts about cultural exchanges were correct. You just lacked the framework to organise your insights."
The compliment caught me off guard, sending an unexpected flutter through my chest. "Thanks. It means a lot, coming from someone who clearly knows this stuff."
We worked another hour, refining arguments and adding evidence that Yin seemed to pull from thin air. The usual contentious atmosphere between us had evaporated, replaced by intellectual excitement I'd always associated with my best academic experiences.
"There," Yin said finally, setting down his pen. "That should give you a solid foundation."
I looked at our work—pages of organised arguments, supported by evidence I could never have found alone, building toward a thesis that was both original and convincing.
"I don't know how to thank you. This is the best academic work I've ever produced. Professor Whitman's going to think I've been hiding my abilities."
"Maybe you have been," Yin replied, something in his voice making me look up sharply.
"I should..." I started, then stopped. Go to bed? Thank him again? Pretend this connection hadn't happened?
"Yes?" His voice was barely a whisper, and I realised he was leaning slightly toward me.
My hand made a small, uncertain gesture. "I should probably get some sleep. Long day tomorrow."
But I didn't move. Neither did he. The silence stretched between us, filled with unspoken questions neither seemed brave enough to voice.
Finally, Yin cleared his throat and sat back. "Yes, of course. You need rest."
"Right." I gathered papers with movements a little too quickly. "This was helpful. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I stood, arms full of books and notes, then paused at the door. "Yin?"
"Yes?"
"How do you really know so much about ancient burial practices? Don't give me that line about private collections. That was too specific, too detailed. You talked about those rituals like you'd witnessed them."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, so quietly I almost missed it: "Maybe I did."
Before I could ask what he meant, he blew out the lamp, plunging the library into darkness. I heard him move past me, footsteps silent as always, then I was alone with racing thoughts and that lingering scent of something ancient and mysterious.
Standing in the dark, I felt the first crack in the wall I'd built around my heart. For the first time, I'd glimpsed who Yin might be beneath his cold facade—intelligent, knowledgeable, even gentle when he chose.
It was dangerous, this realisation. It could seriously complicate my escape plans.
But as I made my way back to our bedroom, hands making absent gestures in the darkness, I couldn't regret it. Maybe my impossible husband was more than the monster I'd assumed.
The question was what was I going to do about it?