Mrs. Lamy's impassive escort back to the East Wing felt like a march to the gallows. The temporary shield of "hysterics" wouldn't hold once the bedroom door closed.
He didn't wait long Less than an hour after I'd locked myself in my suite, trying desperately to calm the frantic hammering of my heart and plan my move for the dead drop signal, a single, authoritative knock sounded. Not Mrs. Lamy's precise tap. This was heavier.
Before I could feign sleep or illness, the door opened. Vincent stood framed in the doorway, still impeccably dressed in his dinner suit, but he'd shed the jacket. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing powerful forearms. The casualness was more terrifying than formality. His grey eyes scanned the room, then pinned me where I sat rigidly on the edge of the ornate chaise lounge, still in the cream cashmere and trousers.
"Penelope you really think discussing personal issues in front of my staff is the way to go? you so badly want to evade your duties" he stated, his voice low, devoid of the earlier, dangerous purr. It was flat. Impatient. "The theatrics served their purpose at dinner. They are redundant now." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click. The lock engaged automatically.
My breath hitched, genuine terror spiking. "Vincent, please…" I started, the tremor in my voice real this time. "What I said…"
"Is irrelevant to the contract," he cut me off, taking a step closer. The space in the large room suddenly felt suffocatingly small. "Your past traumas, real or imagined," his gaze flickered over my face, sharp, assessing, "do not negate the terms of our agreement. You are my wife. There are expectations."
He took another step. I instinctively shrank back against the chaise, my hands gripping the velvet upholstery. "I can't," I whispered, the plea ripped from me. "Not like this. Not when… when I feel like this. After today… after seeing…" I couldn't bring myself to say it, but the image of the bloodied paperweight, the choked gasp, flashed between us.
"Seeing justice served?" he supplied, his voice hardening. He stopped barely a foot away, looking down at me. The dim light from the bedside lamp carved harsh angles into his face. "That changes nothing between us, Penelope. It was business. This," he gestured vaguely between us, "is also business. A clause to be fulfilled."
His dismissal of the horror, of my visceral terror, was absolute. He saw no connection, offered no empathy. The vulnerability I'd weaponized at dinner was now just an inconvenient obstacle to be overcome.
"I was raped, Vincent!" The word tore from my throat, harsh and desperate. I met his gaze, letting the raw, manufactured pain flood my eyes. "At seventeen! By a man I trusted! It wasn't just… it broke something. Being touched… intimately… by a man, especially when it feels forced… it makes me freeze. It makes me… sick." I wrapped my arms around myself, making my body small, trying to project a visceral revulsion that wasn't entirely fake. The thought of his hands on me, after witnessing his capacity for violence, triggered a very real nausea.
He didn't flinch. His expression remained chillingly impassive. "Unfortunate," he said, the word devoid of sympathy. "But it does not alter the reality of your position. Or mine." He leaned down slightly, bracing one hand on the back of the chaise near my head, caging me in. The scent of his cologne, sandalwood and something darker, mixed with the faint, ever-present metallic hint that seemed to cling to him now. "Your fear is noted. Your reluctance is understood. But it is leverage to not fulfil your side of the bargain"
His free hand lifted. Not to strike, but to touch. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair back from my temple. The contact was light, almost clinical, yet it sent a jolt of pure revulsion through me. I recoiled violently, jerking my head away, a choked gasp escaping.
His hand froze. Impatience flashed in his eyes, sharp and dangerous, replacing the cold calculation for a split second. "Do not," he warned, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I am not your teenage assailant, Penelope. I am your husband. This is not an assault. It is a transaction." He emphasized the word, making it sound uglier than ever. "Acknowledging your… history… does not grant you license to defy me."
He reached for me again, this time his hand settling firmly on my shoulder. His grip wasn't painful, but it was unyielding, anchoring me in place against the chaise. "The expectation will be met. Tonight." His tone brooked no argument. "Your fear is inconvenient, but manageable. Your resistance," his fingers tightened fractionally, "is not."
Panic, white-hot and blinding, surged. Nyx screamed strategies – Knee to the groin! Scream! Bite! – but Penelope was paralyzed, trapped by the overwhelming reality of his strength, his proximity, and the terrifying consequences of physical defiance. He could break me as easily as he'd broken that man's hand.
"Please," I begged, tears spilling over, hot and shameful. "Don't make me… not like this… not when I'm…" I couldn't finish. The terror was too real, the performance bleeding into genuine trauma.
He studied my face, my tears, my trembling body pressed back against the chaise. That impatience warred with something else – a cold, pragmatic assessment. Forcing a violently resistant wife, even one bound to him by contract, could be messy. Undignified. Potentially damaging to the asset he needed to present publicly. He needed her compliant, not shattered beyond repair.
He released my shoulder abruptly, straightening up. The sudden lack of pressure was almost as shocking as the grip. He ran a hand through his dark hair, a rare gesture of visible frustration.
"Your distress is… excessive," he stated, his voice tight with controlled annoyance. "And counterproductive." He paced a short, sharp turn away from the chaise, then back, his movements radiating pent-up energy. "I require a functional wife, Penelope. Not a weeping hysteric. Nor," his gaze swept over me with cold disdain, "a traumatized child."
He stopped pacing, looming over me again. "You will learn to manage this… affliction. You will learn to separate the past from the present obligation. Silas will procure a therapist. Discreetly. They will… assist you in overcoming this inconvenient barrier." He made it sound like fixing a faulty appliance. "Until then," he fixed me with a stare that promised no reprieve, only a delay, "the expectation is suspended. Not waived. Suspended."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked towards the connecting door to his own suite – the door I'd seen as a boundary of peril. He paused with his hand on the knob. "Do not mistake this for kindness, wife. It is pragmatism. Ensure your… recovery… is swift. My patience for this particular brand of weakness is exceedingly limited."
He opened the door and left leaving me gasping for breath at his callousness in the middle of the room.