As I turned to my new husband, my stomach flipped.
That was when an uncanny twinge in my gut bloomed. Looking into this man’s eyes—in that single moment he thought I didn’t witness—I saw something lurking beneath the surface, yet to breach.
His cold expression wasn’t set on me.
No, he was looking at my father.
Something in his regard made the skin of his face as animated as any porcelain mask. Beautiful and cold. He looked to be made more of stone than he was flesh, a desolate warmth.
When those sharp eyes caught mine, the mask melted. If I were as naive as I was five minutes before, I may have taken it as sincere.
Now I suspected there was something transactional about the kindness, like a buzzard deciding to spend a few innocent moments with a dying woman out of the kindness of its heart.
Mr. Kamenev and my arms looped together with champagne flutes in hand, the crystal glass teasing a cool sensation on my lips.
His gaze lifted from the cup to my eyes, the look almost as chilled as the champagne.
Chapter Two
The Performer
Awkwardness is to be expected on your wedding night,my mother would say. Though I never imagined how truly gauche it would be to bring a stranger into my home.
“It is ... nice.” Mr. Kamenev slid his finger over the surface of a table in the hall, dust pushing into a small pile.
“Let us not begin our union with lies. You can say it.”
“Do you not have staff?” He pretended to admire some of the art on the wall.
“No.”
“Why is it that you live so differently from your family?”
“Blood will not determine how I live. I am comfortable.”
“I see ...” His voice trailed off.
My fingers hovered over the hallway table for a candle, brushing against the blade of the letter opener and some loose change before grasping the box of matches. My fingers shook as if my bones would rattle and fall apart if I pushed them to be occupied any longer. The match struck once, twice, too many shaky times, with no light in sight.
As I went to strike it again, his hand stopped mine, his arms reaching around me from behind.
His fingers trailed down the back of my hand and pinched the match from me, plucking the box soon after. The match lit with ease. The glow of his hand appeared in the darkness, and he carefully lit my candle.
I gripped the side of the table, unsure if I was embarrassed or bashful. Hosting had never been my strong suit.
“Take a seat, get comfortable.” I gestured loosely toward the living room, slipping from him as I cupped the candle. There were no gas lamps in the home; it was too old for that. I never liked the harshness anyway.
He sat down at the small table by the window, placing a bottle of wine from the reception in the middle.
I gathered some glasses from the kitchen and sat across from him, sliding one over along with a corkscrew.
“At least it is quiet,” he muttered as he began to drive the screw into the seal.
“Good riddance. I don’t think I could have taken any more shrills from my mother.” I placed my cheek in my palm as I watched him pour the wine.
“An occasional occurrence, hopefully.” There was humor in his tone as he picked up his glass and held it to his nose.
The night was quiet in the street, only the sound of summer insects and the occasional bark of a faraway dog. The cobblestones and footpaths glistened with the memory of rain that had passed not an hour ago.
