Chapter 16
Mina tossed and turned that night, her dreams filled with horrors—fingers reaching out from shadowed corridors, laughter closing in around her, fear coursing through her veins.
She dreamt she was back in that wing of the castle, trying to find her way out.
When she reached for a door, it was locked.
She ran the other way, the laughter growing nearer in the darkness, but there was no escape—only turn after turn through endless stone corridors.
When she awoke the next morning, she felt drained of all life, exhaustion heavy in her limbs, though her mind continued to race.
Someone had known she was there. And yet, if it had been the Count, or Sofia, or even the driver, surely they would have said something—would have acknowledged her presence.
Her thoughts returned to that first night in the castle, to the sounds outside her door: not one voice, but two.
How many others were within these walls?
And why had she not been told? Why the secrecy?
Mina tried to carry on with her day as usual, but as Sofia arrived to escort her to breakfast, the question lingered at the edge of her thoughts.
Who is in the opposite wing of the castle?
Yet to ask it would mean revealing that she had broken the one rule both the Count and Sofia had impressed upon her from the start—that she was never to walk the castle alone.
As she ate, she turned over the possibilities.
If it had been another servant—someone whose presence had never been mentioned—wouldn’t they have already spoken to Sofia about the encounter?
She considered Father Petru, wondering if he might be staying in the other wing, but recalled Sofia’s assurance that he had returned to his home.
A member of the Count’s family, perhaps?
But if that were the case, why conceal it?
The questions circled without answer, her unease deepening as she struggled to make sense of it all.
Later, when Mina returned to her chambers, she sat at her desk and resolved to write to Lucy again, despite still awaiting a reply.
But as she lifted the quill, her mind went blank.
What could she possibly say? She couldn’t very well burden her dearest friend with her concerns.
It would only cause Lucy distress, and there was nothing she could do from so far away in London.
Mina pushed away from the desk, her eyes scanning each corner of the room for something—anything—to occupy her mind.
She was dreadfully bored, but more than that, she was lonely.
Melancholy and unease clung to her. The castle still did not feel like home, and these people—the few she had encountered—did not feel like family.
She swallowed the tightness in her throat and wandered to the window.
The day beyond was bright and clear, the sky a sharp blue despite the chill in the air.
Her thoughts drifted back to the night before, to the book that had been so deliberately left for her to find.
What had it meant? Had it been a threat?
A warning? Or merely an acknowledgement of their presence—proof that someone else moved through those halls unseen?
Part of her regretted her cowardice—the way she had hidden behind the door. Had she pushed past her fear, she might have answers by now. But then again, if she had, what if something far worse had happened?
She could not explain it, only that she had known, instinctively, not to reveal herself. Whether that knowledge came from intuition or from the fear instilled in her by Sofia and the Count, she could not say.
***
That evening, she’d expected to dine alone, as was becoming tradition. When Sofia brought her to the dining room, Mina found herself without appetite, an ache in her chest that no food or drink could ease. Still, unwilling to seem ungrateful, she sat and tried to eat.
Her thoughts drifted to Lucy. What was she doing back in London?
Dining with her mother in their townhouse, just a few doors down from Mina’s old home?
Or perhaps out in the city with Arthur, falling in love, feeling a happiness she deserved more than anyone Mina had ever known.
And Jonathan—he was likely in his office, poring over some dense tome or buried in paperwork, content as could be.
Despite her loneliness, the thought warmed her.
“It appears I’m late.”
Mina looked up, and there, in the doorway of the dining room, was the Count.
“You’re back,” she said, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears. She stared at him, struck by the tangle of emotions rising within her—anger at his unexplained absence, and relief at seeing someone other than Sofia.
“I am,” he said, walking over to the table and pouring himself a glass of wine. Mina glanced toward the doorway and noticed Sofia had withdrawn, lingering just beyond. “Did you miss me, wife?” A hint of a smirk played at his lips, and Mina frowned. Was this a game to him?
She straightened, irritation flaring. “I hardly noticed your absence.” She reached for her wine, intending indifference, but her mood bled into her tone, the words as cold as the air beyond the castle walls.
“Are you angry with me?” he asked, tilting his head with apparent curiosity. The question did not seem to trouble him, which only stoked her irritation.
“Of course not. You’re practically a stranger to me.
How can I be angry with someone I do not know?
” she asked, aware she was testing his patience—and finding she didn’t care.
He had pressed her to reveal her passion, then vanished without explanation.
If he thought she had been waiting for him, she would not give him the satisfaction.
His mouth quirked, as though suppressing a smile. “I see.” He moved toward her at an unhurried pace, and with each step her pulse quickened. “Where are my manners?”
He circled her chair and knelt before her, one hand drawing it slightly away from the table so that her knees faced him. The movement sent a flutter through her stomach. Taking her hand in his, he lifted his gaze to hers.
“Forgive my tardiness,” he said. “We’ve only just married, and already I have disappointed you. Can you forgive me?” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes—whether at his own theatrics or at the heat coloring her cheeks, she did not know.
Mina cleared her throat and looked away from the intensity of his gaze. “I suppose I’ll consider it.”
“Would it help if I told you I brought you a gift?”
She met his eyes then, one brow lifting. “You think I can be so easily bought?”
“No,” he said, a faint smile touching his mouth. “I do not.”
He rose and stepped behind her, the soft rustle of movement close at her back. A moment later, she felt the cool weight of jewelry settle at her throat, layered over the crucifix she wore. Mina lifted the pendant to inspect it—an emerald set in silver.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. Reaching behind her neck, she slipped the crucifix free and laid it gently on the table, then raised the deep green pendant again for a closer look.
The Count leaned down, his breath warm beside her ear as he said, “It made me think of you.” The movement sent a chill down her spine. He circled the chair and held out his hand. “Come. I have something to show you.”
She paused, tempted to mention Sofia’s remark—that the Count had not left the castle, only withdrawn within it. But to what end? What right had she, after all, to press him for answers?
Mina took his hand, allowing him to draw her to her feet. They reached the doorway before she stopped short. “Wait. My necklace.”
“Sofia will return it to your chambers,” he said, already moving on.
Only then did Mina realize that Sofia was nowhere to be seen. Had the woman already known where they were going? Would she be displeased by their sudden disappearance?
As the Count led her down the hall, Mina reminded herself that she did not need permission to walk the castle with her own husband.
The word itself made her glance at him anew—how strange it was to reconcile the idea she had always held of what a husband should be with the man beside her.
He was handsome, certainly, and outwardly courteous, despite his poor communication—but he was still a stranger.
Somewhere deep down, she had always believed she would marry for love, but all of that had changed.
He led her into a room she recognized at once—shelves lined with books from floor to ceiling. A fire already burned in the hearth, the warmth filling the space, and she wondered if he had been here before coming to her. Her chest constricted at the thought, disappointment stirring despite herself.
“I hear you enjoy reading,” he said.
“I do,” she replied, moving past him toward the shelves.
“Then Mr. Harker knows you well.”
She turned to find him directly behind her, sending her heart racing. She hadn’t heard him approach.
“Yes,” she said, steadying herself. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
“So he is like family.”
“I would say so.” She turned back to the books, fixing her gaze on the spines, though the words blurred together.
“Then he must know all your secrets.”
“I don’t believe I have any.”
“Ah.” The Count leaned against the shelf beside her, his gaze fixed on her face. “That cannot be true. Every woman has her secrets. It is the nature of your sex.”
For a moment, she was tempted to tell him about the other wing of the castle, about the book and the shadowed figure—but fear held her tongue. The thought of being abandoned again, left alone in this place, was too much to bear.
“And you?” she asked instead, glancing at him. “You have no secrets?”
He tilted his head, that familiar, almost feline gesture, as though he were sizing up his prey. “I have a history, certainly,” he said. “I have lived many lives. But my desires are simple.”
She swallowed and turned back to the shelves.
“And women?” she asked, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Are we truly so complex? So difficult to understand?”
He stepped closer, his hands settling at her waist and drawing her back against him. She tensed at the unfamiliar intimacy, even as a spark of desire flared low in her belly.
“Complex?” he murmured, bending toward the hollow of her neck. “Certainly.” His breath warmed her skin, and she shivered. “Difficult to understand? I would not say so. One need only be willing to observe.”
His lips brushed her neck, and her mouth went dry, some part of her wanting to give in to the warmth of his affections. But then she remembered that night on the walkway, the passion he had coaxed from her, only to disregard her with so little care.
She slipped gently from his grasp and walked over to the couch, putting distance between them.
“Perhaps I am mistaken,” he said softly.
She stared into the flames of the hearth, aware of his gaze lingering in the corner of her vision.
She couldn’t meet his eyes, too overwhelmed by the treacherous sensations stirring in her body.
She wanted him, wanted to be with him. That was not a sin, seeing as he was her husband.
It was all a woman could hope for in an arrangement such as this—not to cower from her husband’s touch.
And yet the thought of letting him near, of releasing the passion deep within her, only for him to leave her again . . . it was too much.
The Count followed her to the couch and sat on its arm. He reached out, brushing strands of hair from her face. “Tell me what troubles you, wife.”
“You left me,” she said. The words were sharper—and far more honest—than she had intended. After a night without sleep, after the terrible dreams, the fear, the isolation, her defenses were crumbling. “You were gone for days. You didn’t even tell me you were leaving.”
She swallowed hard, unwilling to let a tear fall before him.
“I apologize,” he said softly. “But I assure you, it was never my intention to leave you feeling . . . such a sense of abandonment.”
“I didn’t feel abandoned,” she said. But as the silence stretched between them, she knew it was untrue. She had felt abandoned. He had left without explanation, without warning, leaving her to wait and wonder.
Mina glanced toward the doorway, not seeing Sofia, though she assumed the woman lingered somewhere beyond.
She lowered her voice as she said, “You are my only real company here. Without you, my days are empty.” She flicked a glance up at him, catching something like sympathy in his eyes.
“I’m not asking for pity. I only—” Her voice faltered.
“I would appreciate knowing when you will be gone. Or when you will be busy.”
For a moment, he said nothing. He seemed to weigh her words carefully.
“I see,” he said at last. “It appears I am still growing accustomed to being a husband.” He rose and moved to the mantle, leaning against it.
“I have always believed that being a husband meant providing—for one’s wife, for one’s household.
” His voice carried a note of fervor. “I am ambitious, Wilhelmina. I have a need to build, to acquire, to conquer.”
She watched him closely.
“But it is all done for those I care about. For those I love.” He turned, looking down at her. “Sacrifice is the burden of a man who leads. Yet I see now that I have been sacrificing you in that pursuit. That I have already failed you.”
Guilt and confusion twisted in her stomach, and she looked down at her hands in her lap.
“I don’t know how to behave in this role,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what is expected of me. How to spend my days. It feels as though I am merely existing.”
He came over to her, easing onto the seat beside her. “Would that be so terrible?” he asked. When she looked at him, he took her hand in his. “I would not wish you a life of labor or struggle. You have already known too much of that.”
Her gaze dropped to their joined hands.
“Would it be so wrong,” he went on, “to fill your time with things that you enjoy? To pursue that which brings you pleasure?” He reached out, cupping her cheek, and her heart thrummed.
Slowly, he leaned in. His lips brushed hers, sending a shiver through her. She melted into the sensation, feeling the fire of his passion as he pulled her into his embrace. Her doubts and fears vanished, and there was only him. His lips, his hands, the feel of his skin on hers.
She had been unbearably lonely since arriving at the castle, and his touch was a balm to ease the ache.
He eased her down onto the bearskin rug, and she abandoned all notion of anger and resentment. She surrendered to the moment, letting him claim her as his own.