“Before we figure out what this marriage looks like,” I finish. The answer is diplomatic and measured and absolutely useless.
Her chin drops. More tears drip from her jaw, and each one lands with the force of a blow.
Autonomy, to her, does not translate. She hears rejection and shame.
I have to work inside the language she already knows until she has the vocabulary for another one.
I thought getting her out of that compound was the hard part. I was a fool. The compound was geography. What I’m facing now is architecture—nineteen years of load-bearing walls constructed by a sadist who taught this woman that her worth is measured by whether a man will accept her.
Every gentlemanly instinct I have is actively hurting her.
“Listen.” I cross to her. Her head stays down, but I can see her pulse hammering at her throat. “I was mistaken. I waswrong. We’re going to share a bedroom. And a bed. Tonight and every night. Okay?”
Her head lifts. The tears are still there, clinging to her lashes, but profound relief crosses her face and she exhales—a shuddering release that travels through her whole body.
“Come on.” I gesture down the hall. “Let me show you my—our—room.”
The size and decor of the main bedroom is not something I’ve ever paid much attention to, but tonight, I try to see it the way Prudence does.
The bed is enormous. The headboard is upholstered in dark gray linen. The windows stretch the width of the far wall, and the city lays itself out beyond them. There is a seating area in the corner with a reading chair I use twice a year. A low dresser. A pair of lamps cast warm pools of light onto plush carpeting.
Prudence stops just inside the door. Her eyes have gone wide again.
I gesture for her to follow me to the bathroom door and push it open.
The bathroom has marble counters, a glass-walled shower, and heated floors. To me, it’s just a bathroom, but Prudence stands in the doorway and stares as if it’s the Cistine Chapel.
I cross to the shower and open the glass door. “This knob controls the temperature. Turn it left for hot, right for cold. Start in the middle and adjust from there.” I twist the handle and water cascades from the rainfall head, drumming against the tile.
She takes one step closer. Then another. Her hand reaches out, palm up, fingers spread, and catches the spray.
Her entire body transforms.
The wariness drops from her posture. Her shoulders unfurl. Her lips part, and a sound escapes her—not a word, not a gasp,more a soft “oh” before she breaks into a smile which in turn causes me to smile.
Damn, if I don’t get a huge ego stroke from her expressing pleasure over my showerhead. I want to see more of that smile on her face. I want to be the one who puts it there. I suddenly feel a primative masculine desire to lavish her with enjoyable experiences and show her more of the pleasures she’s been deprived of.
She cups the water in both palms and lifts it, letting it run down her wrists and forearms.
“It’s warm,” she whispers.
“It can be warmer.” I reach past her and twist the knob a quarter-turn left and wait a few seconds until steam rises. She presses both hands flat under the stream and makes that sound again, and a crack splits open inside me.
I’ve brokered deals worth hundreds of millions. I’ve sat across the table from men who could have me killed and smiled my way to a handshake. None of it—not one single achievement in my thirty-two years—has produced in me what this woman’s awe at hot water is producing right now.
I clear my throat and rein myself in.
“Towels are on that rack.” I point. “Shampoo, conditioner, and soap are on the shelf inside—use whatever you want.”
I step out for a minute to grab an O’Rourke’s Pub t-shirt and a bathrobe from my closet, and hang them both on a hook on the door. “You can wear these when you’re done. Nicholas will have a few articles of clothing here for you tomorrow morning.”
She’s still wearing an excited grin, and it’s contagious. I’ve done something right. Thank god. I’m not sure it makes up for the faux pas of trying to maintain separate bedrooms, but at least I got one thing right.
“Take your time,” I tell her, and leave.
I change in the bedroom with the bathroom door closed and the sound of running water filling the silence. I pull on sleep pants and skip the shirt, then pull back the duvet, sit on the edge of the mattress, and stare at the far wall.
How am I going to explain all this?
