The words fell like a gavel. Final. Irrevocable.
Husband and wife.
She swayed—just slightly, almost imperceptibly—and I caught her elbow to steady her. The touch was automatic, instinctive, and when I realized what I'd done, I expected her to wrench away.
She didn't.
She stood there, my hand on her arm, her eyes fixed on the ring that marked her as mine. And something cracked inmy chest—some wall I'd built years ago, when I'd decided that wanting things only led to losing them.
"Gabrielle," I said softly.
She looked up at me, and in that moment—with the sun in her hair and tears on her cheeks and fury still burning beneath her exhaustion—she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
I reached up without thinking, my thumb brushing across her cheekbone, catching the tear that trembled there. Her breath caught. Her lips parted.
And for one suspended moment, the hatred in her eyes flickered into something else. Something confused and unwilling and achingly vulnerable.
Then it was gone, and she stepped back, breaking the contact.
"Don't touch me," she whispered.
I let my hand fall.
***
The others dispersed quickly after the ceremony—Antonov to file the paperwork, Vartan to check on security, Semyon with a last weighted look that said more than words ever could. Within minutes, we were alone on the terrace, husband and wife, strangers in the most intimate sense.
She stood at the balustrade, staring out at the sea. The train of her dress pooled around her feet like spilled milk. She hadn't spoken since the ceremony ended.
"There's a dinner planned," I said. "If you're hungry."
"I'm not."
"You should eat something. You've barely—"
"I said I'm not hungry." She turned to face me, and the ice was back—harder than before, if that was possible. "Is there anything else you need from me tonight? Any other performances you require?"
The question cut deeper than she knew. I thought of what usually followed a wedding—the consummation, the claiming, the final seal on the contract we'd just signed.
I'd thought about it. God help me, I'd thought about little else for weeks. Having her in my bed, her body soft and warm beneath mine, her voice crying out in pleasure instead of fear.
But I looked at her now—exhausted, grieving, held together by nothing but spite and stubborn will—and I knew I couldn't. Not tonight. Maybe not for a long time.
I wanted her. But I wanted her to be willing more.
"No," I said. "Nothing else tonight."
Surprise flickered across her face. "You're not going to—"
"No." I moved toward the door, pausing when I reached it. "Your rooms have been moved to the master suite. Your things have been transferred. But you'll have your own bedroom, your own space. I won't..." I forced the words out. "I won't force that on you. Not ever."
She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Like mercy was the last thing she'd expected from her monster of a husband.
"Why?"
"Because I want you to come to me." I held her gaze, letting her see the truth beneath the words. "When you're ready. If you're ever ready. I want it to be real."
"It will never be real."
