"Skiing accident," I manage.
"So many accidents." He turns me to face him again, and the dress, loose now, threatens to fall. Only my hands clutching the bodice keep me covered. "So many little mysteries."
His eyes are the color of forest shadows, dark and dangerous. This close, I can smell his cologne. He's beautiful in the way a weapon is beautiful, all sharp edges and lethal purpose.
"Take it off."
"I—"
"That wasn't a request, wife."
The last word is deliberate, weighted with ownership. My options are nonexistent. Run, and he'll catch me. Refuse, and he'll do it himself. Either way, this ends with me exposed in every sense.
I let the dress fall.
It pools at my feet in a whisper of silk. I stand before him in the white lingerie Mrs.Hewson selected—virginal lace that does nothing to hide how my body trembles. His gaze travels slowly over every inch of exposed skin like he's memorizing a map to conquered territory.
"Turn around."
I obey, biting my lip hard enough to taste copper. Behind me, I hear the clink of ice in his glass as he takes another sip.
"The Hewson estate," he says conversationally, like I'm not standing nearly naked in front of him. "Quite the fortress. Your mother runs it like a military operation."
My blood runs cold. What else did he notice during negotiations?
"Funny thing," he continues, and I hear him stand, feel him moving closer. "You seemed so different in your photograph. Mousy, your father called you once. Forgettable."
His hands settle on my shoulders, warm against my chilled skin.
"You're not forgettable at all, are you?"
"People change." The words come out too fast, too desperate.
"In three years?" His thumbs stroke my collarbones, and I fight not to lean into the touch. When was the last time someone touched me with anything other than violence or dismissal? "Tell me, Frances. What happened in Switzerland that transformed you so completely?"
"I grew up—"
"Liars," he cuts me off, spinning me to face him, "always over-explain. Try again."
His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. There's something almost gentle in his touch, at odds with the danger radiating from every line of his body.
"I'm your wife," I say, defaulting to the only truth I can tell.
"My wife," he repeats, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "Yes, you are. Which means you're under my protection." His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "So tell me, what are you so afraid of? What has you trembling like a rabbit in a snare?"
The irony would make me laugh if I weren't so terrified. He is what I'm afraid of. Him and what he'll do when he discovers his bride is a fraud, that the alliance he thinks he's secured is built on a foundation of lies.
"You," I admit, because it's true enough. "I'm afraid of you."
Something shifts in his expression. "Smart girl." He releases my face, stepping back to pour himself another whiskey. "Fear keeps you alive in our world. But secrets? Secrets get you killed."
He doesn't touch me again, just stands there sipping his drink while I shiver in my lingerie. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring.
"Get in bed," he finally says.
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Are you going to—"
"Rape you?" He sounds almost amused. "No, princess. When I fuck you—and I will fuck you—you'll be begging for it. Tonight, you're going to lie there and think about what happens when I find out what you're hiding. Because I will find out. I always do."
