Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
His lip curls in something like a smirk. “You are expected to share a bed. It is our wedding night.”
Arthur
This rather young woman has walked into my home, found one of the many secrets of the place, fallen into my inner sanctum and insulted me. My initial response is to whip her impertinent ass, but I wanted a drink first. She has not arrived at a convenient time, but she seems to think she takes precedence over a war.
But the horror that spreads over her sweet, very pretty face when I tell her she is expected to share a bed is so charming I very nearly forget the many misbehaviors that preceded it. She is rather beautiful, with curling blonde hair and deep brown eyes, creamy skin dappled with freckles across the bridge of her pert nose. If she were transported to some far-flung countryside this very moment, I would think her a milkmaid.
This little bird is as innocent as they come. Though she speaks with the vocabulary of a noble, her accent marks her as a country creature, simple and untouched. Her plain dress is actually quite charming, in its own way. If I were the sort of man to soften to a sweet, innocent girl, I might become quite attached to her.
Unfortunately, I am not that sort of man.
I have been broken, inside and out. I do not feel softness. I do not feel affection. I certainly never make the mistake of becoming attached.
I did not want a match, or a wife. I am certainly not suitable material for a husband. If I were to be matched at all, I had assumed the Artifice would have assigned me an independent fortune hunter type of woman. Someone with the fortitude to withstand the rigors of being married to a man like me, someone with enough self-interest to survive.
This girl is far too young, with a delicacy and a sweetness that exists in sharp contrast to my world.
The Artifice has thrown this lamb to the wolf.
Her innocence is obvious, and her reluctance is equally clear.
Once it was revealed that I had a match, I expected a certain level of enthusiasm and excitement in the chosen woman. I was previously ranked as one of the top ten eligible matches in The State. I am used to women throwing themselves at me, though their advances were pointless given there could never be any serious relationship between us. Still, that did not stop many of them from suggesting more casual dalliances, and it did not prevent me from accepting their generous offers.
Those days are over now, and I expected to have a mate who came to me with eager compliance, not this frightened yet sassy little thing who looks at me with more fear than lust in her pretty doe-eyed gaze.
“Come with me,” I tell her. “Where are your bags?”
“I didn’t bring any. I didn’t know I was coming.”
She truly did not. I cannot imagine how those on the other side of the proverbial ditch failed to read the right name, but it seems like an entirely avoidable and irresponsible mistake.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen, sir,” she says. I like that she added the sir; it is the first bit of respect she has shown since she arrived.
Nineteen is a ridiculous age. The Artifice has given me someone to babysit, not a wife.
I lead her through the halls to the bedroom. I did have a room prepared to receive my new wife. My actual private bedroom has none of the accouterments that this room has. There is a large bed covered in black silk sheets and coverlets, and an even larger wardrobe that stands empty and open, waiting to receive what I had assumed would be an extensive collection of clothing.
This is a bedroom for a sophisticate. It swallows my bride whole. Her trepidation becomes even more obvious as she pales and stares around herself. “There are no windows,” she says.
“I like to keep things dark,” I reply. “For my eyes.”
“Yes, you hurt your eyes. Can you even see me?”
Again she asks one of those overly blunt simple country questions.
“Yes, I can see you,” I reply. “My eye injury has resulted in a sensitivity. It has not diminished my ability to see, merely my ability to tolerate light.”
“What kind of injury does that?”
I am caught between the desire to chastise her for her bluntness, and the amusement at being questioned so boldly.
“A chemical one,” I say. “There is a bathroom through that door. Stay here and settle in. Are you hungry?”
“No,” she says. “I ate on the plane. They fed us a lot of food in little compartments. It was nice. I thought I would be afraid of being in the sky, but it turns out I’m not afraid… of that.”
She trails off at the end, not quite able to make the blanket statement that she’s not afraid. She is afraid of me, and of this place. In the confines of this room, I can smell her. She still has the scent of earth and meadow clinging to her. I wonder what I will do to her. I wonder what my world will do to her.