“Paintings.” She frowned, as if the answer was rather obvious. “And none of them make sense together. That one’s abstract expressionism, this one’s impressionist, and that one looks like it belongs in a dentist’s office.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You critique art now?”
“I studied art.” She crossed her arms, the action forcing her breasts together, making her appear curvier in the oversizedshirt. I tried to look away, but it was almost impossible. “Or tried to.”
Her voice was calm, lighter than it should’ve been after everything. Either she was a master at pretending or she really was in shock. I couldn’t decipher.
“Then you should know,” I said, “they’re not meant to make sense together.”
“Or maybe,” she countered, “you just bought expensive things without caring what they meant.”
That earned her the faintest tug at my mouth. “You think I care about meaning? What exactly gave you that impression?”
“No,” she said simply. “I think you care about control. And this—” she gestured to the wall “—is what control looks like when it gets bored.”
I stared at her for a long second. She didn’t look away.
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, brushing over her face, lighting up her hair in faint hues of red and gold. Her eyes were greener in daylight, sharp and curious, not broken like the night I had found her. It had already been three days since then, and after the two initial days spent locked up in her room, she seemed perfectly fine now.
“How old are you?” I asked finally.
“Twenty-two.”
“You sound older.”
She shrugged. “You sound like you expect everyone to be scared of you.”
“They usually are.”
“Maybe they just don’t know better,” she shrugged. “How old are you?”
I paused, trying to remember the last time someone had asked me that question.
“Thirty-five.”
“You don’t look thirty-five. Much younger, I must say.”
There it was again, that familiar spark. This girl that I had bought from an auction and forced to marry me was bantering with me like it was our everyday routine. It wasn’t defiance just for the sake of it, but something much deeper. She wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t submissive either. That made her dangerous in my eyes. I had handled a lot of women, but Ilana Walters was different.
“Eat something,” I said, nodding towards the dining table. “You haven’t eaten since last night.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“You are now.”
I turned and walked away, expecting her to follow. She did, muttering something under her breath that sounded like dictator.
The dining room was quiet except for the clinking of plates as one of the maids set the table, which was now brimming with pancakes, eggs, and fruit. I caught the quick glance she gave Ilana and the way her eyes darted away again. Everyone in this house knew better than to ask questions.
Ilana sat down carefully, still watching me. “Do you ever say please?”
“I just did,”
“That wasn’t a please.”
“It was implied.”
She rolled her eyes but picked up a fork.
