The dining room was a cavern of polished obsidian and silver, the air heavy with the scent of roasted duck and aged Bordeaux. Hannah sat at the far end of a table that could easily seat twenty, her midnight-blue silk robe a stark contrast to the white linen. She didn't look at the crystal. She didn't look at the three different forks laid out for her. She only looked at her plate, her movements frantic, her fork clattering against the china with a rhythmic, desperate speed.
She ate as if she were still in the mess hall, shielding her food with her arm, a reflex ten years of incarceration had burned into her nervous system. She wanted to be done. She wanted to be away from the weight of Dermin's gaze, which sat on her like a physical pressure from the head of the table.
"Slow down, Hannah," Dermin said, his voice a low, smooth vibration in the quiet room. He hadn't touched his food. He was simply watching her, swirled his wine in a glass that cost more than her freedom. "Nobody is going to take it from you here."
"I'm finished," she snapped, dropping her silver onto the plate with a loud clang. She didn't wait for him to respond. She pushed back her heavy chair, the legs screeching against the marble floor like a dying animal. "I'm sleepy. I'm going to bed."
She turned and fled the room, her bare feet silent on the cold floors. She scrambled up the grand staircase, her heart thumping against her ribs. She reached the master suite and burst inside, desperate for the sanctuary of a locked door.
But the room had changed.
The stained, muddied sheets she had sprawled on earlier were gone. In their place were fresh, crisp linens of Egyptian cotton, tucked so tightly they looked like a sheet of ice. The pillows were plumped, the duvet smoothed. The scent of lavender and expensive laundry soap replaced the smell of rain.
The door clicked behind her.
Hannah spun around. Dermin was standing there. He hadn't stayed at the table. He had followed her up the stairs like a shadow she couldn't shake.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch. "This is my room. Go to your own."
"Hannah," Dermin said, his voice maddeningly patient as he began to unbutton his shirt. "This is our room. There is no 'yours' and 'mine' in this house. There is only 'ours'."
"I am not sharing a bed with you!" she shouted, pointing a shaking finger at the massive king-sized mattress. "I will never sleep beside the man who let me rot! I'll sleep in a different room. This house has thirty bedrooms, Dermin. Pick one!"
Dermin stepped further into the room, his eyes fixed on hers. "The other rooms in this wing belong to the staff. The guest houses are on the far side of the estate, and the security systems are armed for the night. They are locked, Hannah. Completely inaccessible."
"Then I'll sleep with the maids!" she barked, moving toward the door. "I'd rather share a cot with a stranger than a palace with a traitor!"
Dermin blocked her path, his tall frame filling the doorway. "And how do you think that would look? The Mistress of Doren Estate, sneaking into the servants' quarters because she's afraid of her husband? Think of their comfort, Hannah. They are professionals. They don't want their lady looming over them in the middle of the night."
He reached out and turned the heavy brass deadbolt. The clack of the lock echoed through the room like a gunshot. He took the key and slid it into his pocket.
"Get used to it," he said simply.
Hannah watched in horrified silence as he turned away from her. Without a shred of modesty, he began to strip. He pulled his shirt off, tossing it onto a chair, revealing a back that was broad and mapped with the subtle, powerful lines of a man who took care of himself. He moved to his wardrobe, pulling out a silk sleeping gown, changing right there in the center of the room.
"Go do that somewhere else!" Hannah screamed, shielding her eyes with her hands. "Have you no shame?"
"I am your husband," he countered, his voice muffled as he pulled the gown over his head. "You should get used to the sight of me, Hannah. You'll be seeing a lot of it over the next years."
Hannah turned her back to him completely, staring out the window at the dark, churning Pacific. She heard the rustle of the sheets, the heavy thump of his body settling into the mattress. The bed creaked as he got comfortable.
"Hannah," he called out. It wasn't a request; it was a summons. "Change out of that damp robe. Come to sleep. The bed is heated."
Hannah turned around, her eyes narrowed into slits of pure venom. She stood by the fireplace, her silhouette small against the massive room. "Are you really that arrogant, Dermin? Are you really going to close your eyes next to me?"
She took a step toward the bed, her voice dropping to a dangerous, jagged whisper. "Aren't you afraid? Don't you think for a second that I might wait until you're deep in your dreams and find something sharp? Don't you think I'd love to see you never wake up?"
Dermin lay back against the pillows, his hands behind his head. He looked at her, and to her shock, he didn't look threatened. He looked... amused. A dark, twisted sort of adoration flickered in his eyes.
"If I am to die," he murmured, his gaze tracing the curves of her body beneath the silk robe, "I can think of no better way than at the hands of a woman as beautiful as you. It would be a poetic end, don't you think?"
He patted the space beside him. "Come here."
"Never."
Hannah reached out and slapped the light switch on the wall, plunging the room into near-total darkness, save for the dying orange glow of the embers in the fireplace.
She didn't move toward the bed. Instead, she walked to the far side of the room, where a long, velvet-upholstered sofa sat facing the window. It was stiff and narrow, designed for sitting, not for sleeping. She grabbed a small throw pillow from a chair and curled up on the velvet, pulling the edge of her robe over her legs.
"I am sleeping here," she announced into the darkness. "And if you try to move me, I will scream loud enough to wake every neighbor for ten miles."
Silence stretched between them. From the bed, she could hear the slow, steady rhythm of Dermin's breathing. He didn't argue. He didn't come for her. He simply stayed in the warmth of the silk sheets, a silent, powerful presence in the dark.
"Goodnight, Hannah," his voice drifted across the room, sounding far too satisfied for a man sleeping alone.
Hannah didn't reply. She squeezed her eyes shut, her body stiff on the uncomfortable sofa, ignoring the man on the bed with every fiber of her being. She was free of the prison, but as she listened to the ocean crashing against the cliffs, she realized she had simply traded one set of bars for another—and this one came with a heart that beat only for her destruction.