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Jaw slack, Vangie gaped at her husband. Good Lord, she’d punched Ian. He was known for his vile temper. What would he do? Where was her dagger? She darted a frantic look at the nightstand.

Not there. Think. Where had she laid it?

She wasn’t given to violence. Why had she hit him so hard? A welt, red and raw like a fresh branding, was clearly visible on his angled face. The intense, provocative glimmer in his eyes sent a fresh dash of heat across her cheeks.

“Ian…” No, she would not apologize. He deserved it, the brute.

Why was he grinning? Was her new husband dicked in the nob? She frowned, inching her way backward. Perhaps he was mad. Mayhap it wasn’t bad temperament plaguing the man at all, but lunacy. She sent a sidelong glance to the open wardrobe.

Where is my blasted dagger?

Clasping her hands before her, she warily regarded him. A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he gasped as he stole closer, his gait purely predatory. She sucked in another wheezing lungful of air. It was most difficult to breathe or think when one was stalked.

Ian crept onward, step-by-step.

For every step he advanced, Vangie retreated until she was brought up short by the small bench she’d just vacated. She tried to skirt around it, not daring to take her eyes from him. Her hip grazed the dressing table, rattling the contents on top. Reaching beside her, her gaze fixated on him, she grasped wildly. Her hand closed on the handle of the silver hairbrush.

She sent it sailing at his head.

He ducked then laughed, a deep resounding echo in his chest. He was enjoying this, the cretin.

She tossed objects at him as fast as she could grab them. A crystal perfume bottle. Engraved hand mirror. Jar of face cream. Jewel-encrusted comb. Her wedding wreath. All careened past him.

He dodged each item, stealthy edging nearer.

Broken glass, petals and leaves, globs of cream, and a puddle of perfume, which bathed the room with its citrusy scent, littered the floor.

In desperation, she tossed the last item, a filmy lace-edged handkerchief.

A feral grin on his lips, he followed its fluttering descent onto the rug then raised mocking eyes.

The damned cur. He still laughed at her.

She frantically sought something else to throw at him. Ah, there it was. Her jeweled dagger had been beneath the handkerchief the entire time. She snatched the blade, wielding it before her.

He’d gloat no more.

Ian’s focus dipped to the knife, and his mirth lines shifted into irritation. “Put down the blade.”

“No.”

“Vangie, give me the knife.”

She shook her head, daring to take a step forward, the blade tilted at a dangerous angle. The metal glinted in the candlelight. She knew how to use it. Puri Daj had insisted upon it.

He retreated a cautious step, his dark gaze narrowed and trained on the blade.

This certainly was not how she envisioned her wedding night.

“I shall not be called a lóoverni.” Emboldened, she took another step his direction. No man, not even her husband, had the right to call her a whore.

“Give it to me.” His eyes slowly rose to meet hers, his expression unreadable. His lips thinned, and he extended his hand, palm upward. “I shan’t ask you again.”

A shaky laugh escaped her. “Not likely, my lord.” She angled the dagger in the direction of the adjoining door. “Now leave.”

It happened in an instant. With his foot, he gave a vicious yank to the rug she stood upon.

Vangie cried out, her arms flailing, desperately trying to stay upright.