The Wedding Night They Never Had

She could read nothing there. It was impossible. His mouth was set into a grim line, his jaw forbidding and square, the stubble that darkened it making him look even more dangerous and disreputable.

She sort of wished he were the ravening wolf she’d been led to believe he was from the tabloid stories. Because if he were, then he might have done something to answer the restless calling that rose up between her thighs. If he were, then maybe none of these strange feelings inside of her would be questions. They would simply be action.

She was supposed to be learning to dance, but what she was learning was the unexpected joy in feeling feminine and fragile. It had always been something she despised.

She was small, and it meant she could not fight back physically against the men who kept her imprisoned. The men who oppressed her people and her country.

She had taken no joy in the things that made her a woman. In her softness. Had never found her breasts to be at all useful.

But he made them feel heavy. Aching with desire to be touched.

Suddenly, their existence seemed to make sense, and that was a wholly awing and unexpected sensation.

But he was controlled. Dispassionate. And he seemed not to feel any of the things that she did. None of the sparks that rioted over her skin as he shifted his hold on her.

She had forgotten she was learning to dance. She was simply following his movements. Her feet somehow naturally gliding over the floor in a rhythm, following along with his own.

“You’ve done this before,” he said.

She shook her head. “No.”

Yet as he said that, she had a memory. A faint one. A small one.

Of laughing and twirling in the ballroom, standing on her father’s feet.

She pushed it away.

“No,” she said, her throat going tight. “No. There was never any dancing.”

“Well, you are very good at it.”

“Why compliment me?” She looked at him, feeling angry. Angry that he was trying to bring memories up inside of her when she would just as soon not have any. “You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I find that I hate the world that brought you to the place you’re in now. But not you.”

“Disappointing.”

She didn’t know why that made her angry. Only that it did. Perhaps because it would be satisfying if he felt something as hard-edged for her as hatred.

Because she felt like she was being cut open from the inside, being held in his arms, and he was like marble. Unmoved. In...everything.

“Don’t be petulant, Annick. It does not suit you.”

“Don’t try to be kind, Maximus. It does not suit you.”

“I have never met a woman filled with so much spite when she’s getting exactly what she wants.”

“And I have never met a man who so determinedly did not live up to his reputation. Disappointing.”

He cocked his head to the side, his eyes keen. And suddenly she felt naked in a way that was disconcerting but not entirely unpleasant. “What exactly is disappointing you?”

“I don’t know, but you are legendary. Playboy. Soldier. Either identity. I would have expected you to be something a bit more... I don’t know. Dangerous.”

And suddenly, she found herself being propelled back, her shoulders butting up against the wall of the ballroom. “Am I not dangerous enough for you?”

She huffed. “I have subdued you.”

And that was when she felt the air between them change. His lips curved into a half smile, the light in his eyes turning into a blue flame.