He doesn't look angry.
That's somehow worse.
My father's anger was a wildfire. Loud and hot and impossible to miss. You always knew when it was coming. You had time to get out of the way.
But this man...
His anger is buried deep. I can feel it underneath the surface, banked like coals that could flare at any moment. But his face gives nothing away. His body gives nothing away. He holds himself like a man who learned a long time ago that showing emotion was a weakness he couldn't afford.
I wonder who taught him that.
When he speaks, his voice is low. Quiet. The barest trace of a French accent curling around the vowels, and oh no, that's attractive too, that's unfairly attractive—
"Where is Abigail?"
Abigail.
So that's her name. The runaway bride with the rain-colored eyes.
I could tell him. I could point to the hidden door, explain that I just woke up here, that I have no idea what's going on, that I'm not part of whatever this is.
But something stops me.
Maybe it's the way she looked at me before she disappeared. The terror in her eyes, so raw and real it made my chest ache.He's gone insane, she said. And if she meanthim—if she meant the man standing in front of me with his golden eyes and his cold anger and his army of men with guns—
Then she was runningfromhim.
No wonder she ran.
Or maybe it's just that I've never been a tattletale.
Even when it would have been easier. Even when it would have saved me. There's something in me that can't do it. Can't sell someone out, even a stranger, even when I don't know if she deserves my silence.
I look Devyn Chaleur in his golden, impossible eyes.
And I say nothing.
The silence stretches between us.
One second.
Two.
Something shifts in his expression. It's barely there, just the slightest tightening around his eyes, but I catch it. I'm trained to catch it. Years of photographing brides has taught me to read the micro-expressions people don't know they're making.
He's surprised.
He didn't expect me to stay silent.
"You were here when she ran." It's not a question. "You saw where she went."
Still, I don't answer.
Another shift. This one I can't read as easily. Interest, maybe. Or something colder.
"Dis-moi," he says softly.Tell me."Where is my bride?"
His bride.
