The velvet sofa was a miserable substitute for a bed. Every time Hannah shifted, the stiff fabric groaned, and the cold draft from the floor seeped through the thin silk of her robe. But it wasn't the discomfort that kept her eyes snapped wide in the darkness; it was the rhythmic, maddeningly steady sound of Dermin Doren's breathing.
Across the room, the king-sized bed was a vast, shadowed island. Dermin lay there, a silhouette of power and unearned peace. It was 3:00 AM—the "dead hour" in prison, the time when the silence is so heavy it feels like it's pressing the air out of your lungs.
Hannah sat up slowly. Her joints ached, and her heart began to thrum with a dark, jagged rhythm. She looked at the man who had stolen her youth. Ten years. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty days of gray concrete, stale air, and the constant, vibrating threat of violence. While she was learning how to survive a riot, he was learning how to buy the world. While she was weeping over a closed casket in handcuffs, he was sipping champagne in glass towers.
The hatred within her didn't just flare; it detonated. It was a physical heat, a searing coal in the center of her chest that demanded a sacrifice.
She stood up, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. She moved toward the ornate mahogany vanity. Her fingers trembled as she began to slide open the drawers, one by one, with agonizing slowness. Squeak. She froze, her breath catching, watching the shadow on the bed. He didn't move.
In the third drawer, nestled among expensive grooming kits and silk ties, she found them. A pair of heavy, stainless steel tailor's scissors. They were cold, balanced, and terrifyingly sharp.
She gripped the handles, the metal biting into her palm. She didn't feel like a woman anymore; she felt like an instrument of cosmic justice.
She crept toward the bed. Every step was a decade of stolen life reclaimed. She reached the edge of the mattress and looked down at him. Even in sleep, he was beautiful—a cruel, flawless masterpiece. The firelight had died down to a dull, pulsing red, casting deep shadows across the hollow of his throat.
I could do it, she thought, her knuckles whitening around the scissors. I could open that throat and watch the life he stole from me spill out onto these white sheets. I could pierce his heart and finally, finally be at peace.
She wouldn't mind the consequences. What was another prison sentence to a woman who was already a ghost? To her, the "outside" was just a bigger yard with more expensive fences. If she killed him, the story ended. The marriage ended.
Hannah leaned over him, her shadow falling across his chest like a shroud. She raised the scissors, the blades catching a faint glint of moonlight. She hovered the point just inches above his carotid artery. She could see the steady pulse of his blood—the blood of a man who thought he had won.
One strike, she whispered in her mind. One violent, downward motion.
Her arm tensed. Her eyes narrowed, filling with the tears of ten years of accumulated rage. She began the descent, her muscles coiled to drive the steel home.
In a blur of motion that defied the laws of sleep, the world flipped.
Before the blades could even graze his skin, a hand like a band of heated iron clamped around her wrist. With a sudden, violent jerk, Dermin didn't push her away—he pulled her in.
Hannah gasped as she lost her balance, her feet leaving the floor. She slumped into him completely, her body crashing against the hard, warm expanse of his chest. The scissors clattered harmlessly onto the duvet as he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pinning her to him in a crushing, inescapable embrace.
"You really shouldn't sneak up on people in their sleep with sharp objects, Hannah," Dermin's voice rumbled against her ear, deep and rasping with the remnants of sleep, yet terrifyingly alert. "You could really harm someone. Or worse... you could harm yourself."
"Let go of me!" Hannah hissed, struggling like a trapped animal. She kicked out, her knees hitting the mattress, her hands frantic as she tried to wedge space between their bodies. "You monster! You coward! Let me go!"
Dermin didn't budge. He rolled slightly, using his weight to anchor her beneath the heavy duvet. He held her so firm and so close that she could feel the thud of his heart—steady, calm, and utterly unafraid—against her own frantic pulse. His warm breath fanned across her neck, sending a shiver of pure terror and unwanted heat through her frame.
"You brought yourself to this bed, Hannah," he murmured, his grip on her waist tightening until she was fused to his side. "You made the choice to cross the room. Now that you're here, you're staying. I'm tired, and I have a board meeting at eight. Do not disturb my sleep again."
"I hate you," she sobbed, her forehead pressed against the silk of his sleeping gown. "I hate you so much it's killing me."
"I know," he said, his hand sliding up her back to hold the back of her head, forcing her face into the crook of his neck. "But right now, you're going to be still."
Hannah continued to fidget, her hips twisting, her legs thrashing in a desperate attempt to find leverage. She rubbed against the hard planes of his thighs, her breath coming in short, jagged hitches.
Suddenly, Dermin's hand moved from her back to her hip, his fingers digging into the silk of her robe with a warning pressure. He leaned over her, his eyes snapping open in the dark—two shards of frozen blue ice.
"Stop moving, Hannah," he growled, the velvet in his voice replaced by a jagged, carnal edge. "Stop fidgeting and rubbing against me. I am a man, not a saint, and you are currently my wife. If you continue this... you will regret it. You might find yourself entirely unable to walk to the breakfast table in the morning. Is that what you want? To consummate this marriage right now?"
The threat was visceral. It hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Hannah froze. She could feel the raw, masculine power radiating off him, the sheer physical reality that she was utterly overmatched. In the quiet of the room, the sound of his warning was louder than the crashing ocean outside.
She went limp, her muscles turning to lead. She lay there, trapped in the cage of his arms, her face buried in his shoulder. She was paralyzed by a mix of fear, exhaustion, and the crushing realization that he had accounted for everything—even her murderous intent.
"Good girl," Dermin whispered, his grip softening just enough to be comfortable, but not enough to let her escape.
He closed his eyes and returned to his steady, rhythmic breathing. Hannah stared into the darkness, her eyes wide, the scent of him filling her senses. She was trapped in the heart of the enemy's lair, held by the man she wanted to kill, and as the clock on the mantle ticked toward four, she knew one thing for certain: she wouldn't sleep a wink, but the war had only just begun.