Anton
I shouldn't have said that.
The words slipped out before I could catch them, quiet enough that I can pretend I didn't say them at all. But I did. And the way she went still beneath me, the way her breath hitched, tells me she heard.
I pull out of her carefully. Roll onto my back. Stare at the ceiling while my heartbeat comes down from wherever the hell it just went.
She's lying beside me, silent, her breathing still uneven. I can feel the warmth of her skin from here. Can still taste her on my mouth. Can still hear the way she said my name when she came apart, like she didn't know she was going to say it until it was already in the air.
This was supposed to be simple. A transaction. Fulfill the obligation, give the council what they want, and keep my distance from the woman they shackled me to.
Instead, I took my time with her. Instead, I put my mouth on her like I had something to prove.
Instead, I held myself still inside her and told her she was beautiful, because she is, and because the way she looked up at me with those wide brown eyes made something crack open in my chest that I don't have a name for.
I need to get a grip.
"Are you alright?" I ask. My voice comes out rough.
"Yes." Soft. A little breathless still.
I should say something else. Something that acknowledges what just happened between us. But I don't have the words for it, and even if I did, I don't trust myself to use them right now. Not when I can still feel her pulse echoing against my skin.
"Get some sleep," I say.
She turns onto her side. Faces the door. Doesn't say anything.
I lie there in the dark and listen to her breathing even out. Slow. Steady. She falls asleep faster than I expected. Maybe she's exhausted. Maybe she's learned how to shut herself down on command, the same way I have.
My hand moves without permission. Settles on her hip, over the sheet. Heavy. Warm. I don't pull it away.
I don't sleep.
I lie beside my wife and stare at the ceiling and think about the sound she made when I first pushed inside her. The way her fingers dug into my arms. The way she said yes like she meant it, not because she was trained to, but because something in her wanted this as much as something in me did.
And I think about Gregor Malekonosh's hand on my shoulder and his eyes on Kira's stomach and the word soon falling out of his mouth like he owned us.
My jaw locks.
The council wanted proof. They got it. I did what was required. But lying here with the scent of her on my skin and the heat of her body beside mine, I know something shifted tonight that I wasn't prepared for.
I wasn't supposed to want her.
I wasn't supposed to notice the way she reads a room, reads me, with those quiet eyes that miss nothing. I wasn't supposed to care that she was scared but pushed through it. I wasn't supposed to feel my chest crack open when she caught my hand and told me she wasn't afraid enough to stop.
I grip her hip a fraction tighter. She doesn't stir.
This is a problem.
Because the council didn't give me a wife. They gave me a weapon they intended to use to keep me inline. A soft, sweet, perfectly trained weapon who just looked at me in the dark like I was something more than the cage they put her in.
And the most dangerous part isn't that she got under my skin. It's that I let her.
I finally fall asleep sometime around three in the morning. When I wake, the bed is empty and the sheets on her side are cold. Pale light filters through the curtains. It’s early. Maybe six.
I sit up. Listen.
From somewhere downstairs, I hear the faint sound of movement. Cupboards opening and closing. The quiet clink of dishes. A kettle.
She's in my kitchen.
I pull on a pair of sweatpants and go downstairs barefoot, following the sounds and the smell. Coffee. Something else too. Something warm and rich that I can't place until I round the corner into the kitchen and see her standing at the stove.
She's wearing a simple wool dress that hugs her curves in ways that stir my blood. Her hair is down, falling in waves past her shoulders. She's barefoot too, and she's stirring something in a pan with the kind of easy, practiced motion that tells me she's done this a thousand times.
Eggs. She's making eggs. And there's bread in a basket on the counter, and sliced tomatoes, and a small dish of butter that I didn't even know I had.
She turns when she hears me, and for a second, I see something unguarded on her face. Warmth. A softness that isn't rehearsed. Then she catches herself and the composure slides back into place.
"Good morning," she says. "I hope you don't mind. I wanted to learn your kitchen."
Learn my kitchen. Like it's a subject she's studying. Like making me breakfast the morning after our wedding night is a test she intends to pass.
"You didn't have to do that," I say.
"I know." She turns back to the stove. "Sit down. It's almost ready."
I sit, but only because I don't know what else to do. I watch her move through my kitchen like she belongs there, pulling plates from the cupboard on her first try, finding the coffee mugs without asking where they are. She must have mapped the whole kitchen before I woke up.
She sets a plate in front of me. Eggs, perfectly cooked. Toast. Tomatoes. A cup of black coffee.
Then she sits across from me with her own plate and starts eating. Calm. Quiet. Like this is the most natural thing in the world.
It's not natural. None of this is natural. Twenty-four hours ago I didn't know what she looked like, and now she's in my kitchen making me breakfast and I can still feel the ghost of her thighs around my hips.
"How did you sleep?" she asks.
"Fine."
A lie. She probably knows it's a lie. But she nods and takes a sip of her coffee and doesn't push.
"I thought I'd spend today getting the house organized," she says. "If that's alright. Some of the cupboards could use rearranging, and I noticed the guest bedroom linens need rotating."
She noticed. She's been here less than twelve hours and she's already done an inventory of my house.
"Do whatever you want with it," I say.
She looks up at me. Studies my face. "Is there anything you'd prefer I not touch?"
"My study. End of the hallway downstairs. Stay out of it."
A flicker of something crosses her expression. Acceptance. Like she expected a locked door somewhere and was just waiting to find out which one.
"Of course," she says with that practiced smile again.
We eat in silence after that. The food is good. Better than good. The eggs are exactly the way I like them, which is impossible because she doesn't know how I like them. She just got it right.
When I'm done, I push back from the table. She starts to stand, reaching for my plate, but I pick it up myself and carry it to the sink.
She watches me do it. Something flickers across her face again. Surprise this time. Small and quickly hidden.
"I have work today," I say. "I'll be back late."
"Anton."
I stop. Look back.
She's still sitting at the table, hands wrapped around her coffee mug, morning light catching the chestnut shades in her hair. She looks young. Younger than she did yesterday in that wedding dress and veil.
"Thank you," she says. "For last night. For being..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Careful."
Something twists in my chest. Sharp and unfamiliar.
"Don't thank me for basic decency," I say.
Then I walk out before I do something stupid like sit back down and ask her what she's thinking behind those quiet brown eyes.