The interior of the mansion was a tomb of opulence. Black marble floors, mahogany panelling, and oil paintings of grim-faced ancestors who seemed to judge Evelyn's every step.
"Your rooms are in the East Wing," a housekeeper said. Her name was Mrs. Gable, a woman with a bun so tight it seemed to pull her eyebrows into a permanent look of surprise. "Mr. Nightwood occupies the West Wing. You are not to enter the West Wing. Ever."
"I understand," Evelyn said, her voice echoing in the vast foyer. "When will I see my husband?"
Mrs. Gable paused, her hand on the banister. She looked at Evelyn with a strange, hollow expression. "Mr. Nightwood will see you when he wishes to be seen. Usually, that is never. Dinner will be sent to your room at seven. Do not wander."
Evelyn was led to a suite of rooms that were undeniably luxurious but felt like a gilded cage. Silk wallpaper, a canopy bed, and a fireplace that had been pre-lit, casting dancing shadows against the walls.
She waited.
She changed out of the wet, miserable wedding dress, scrubbing the makeup from her face until her skin was raw. She put on a simple silk robe, her long dark hair falling in damp waves over her shoulders.
Seven o'clock came and went. The tray of food—seared salmon and asparagus—sat untouched on the vanity.
By midnight, the silence of the house began to itch at her skin. Evelyn wasn't good at sitting still. She was a creature of movement, of logic, of puzzles.
She pulled out her laptop, the glow of the screen the only light in the room. Her fingers flew across the keys, bypassing the mansion's high-end but standard firewall within minutes. She needed to map the security cameras. If she was going to find those audit reports, she needed to know where the "monster" kept his secrets.
Access Denied.
Evelyn frowned. She tried a different exploit.
Access Denied. Tracking User...
Her heart skipped a beat. She slammed the laptop shut. Whoever had designed the Nightwood network wasn't using standard protocols. It was a custom-built, AI-driven defensive grid.
Impressive, she thought, a small, dangerous smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. But not impossible.
Thirst eventually drove her out of the room. The carafe in her suite was empty, and the dry heat of the fireplace had left her throat parched.
She crept into the hallway. The mansion was shrouded in darkness, lit only by the occasional flicker of lightning from the storm outside. She made her way toward what she assumed was the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the cold marble.
She was passing the grand staircase when she heard it.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A heavy, rhythmic sound. Like something being dragged. Or a slow, deliberate footstep.
It was coming from the West Wing.
Evelyn knew she should turn back. She could hear Mrs. Gable's warning echoing in her head. But the curiosity that had made her a world-class hacker wouldn't let her.
She followed the sound. The air grew colder as she crossed the threshold into the West Wing. The scent changed too—from the smell of old wax and lemon oil to something more masculine. Sandalwood. Expensive bourbon. And the metallic tang of something that smelled like a hospital.
She reached a set of double oak doors, slightly ajar. A sliver of amber light spilled out onto the floor.
Evelyn held her breath and peered through the crack.
The room was a massive library, books lining the walls from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room, a man sat in a high-backed leather chair.
This was Silas Nightwood.
He wasn't the withered old man the tabloids had described. He was young—mid-thirties, perhaps—with a jawline that could have been chiseled from obsidian. His hair was black as a raven's wing, falling over a forehead marked by a faint, jagged scar.
But it was his eyes that stopped Evelyn's heart. They weren't the eyes of an invalid. They were the eyes of a predator who had been trapped in a cage for too long.
He was staring at a glass of whiskey in his hand, his legs covered by a heavy cashmere blanket.
Suddenly, Silas's head snapped toward the door.
"I don't recall ordering a spy for my wedding night," he said.
His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in Evelyn's chest. It wasn't weak. It was a command.
Evelyn froze. She realized, with a jolt of adrenaline, that the "dragging" sound hadn't been him. It was a heavy cane leaning against his chair.
"I... I was looking for water," Evelyn said, stepping out of the shadows. She refused to sound like a victim. She stood tall, the silk of her robe shimmering in the firelight.
Silas's gaze traveled slowly, agonizingly, up from her bare toes to her face. A flicker of something dark and primal sparked in his eyes.
"Water," he repeated, his lips curling into a cruel, beautiful smirk. "In the West Wing. At one in the morning. My wife is either very thirsty, or very stupid."
"I've been called many things, Mr. Nightwood. Stupid isn't one of them."
Silas set the glass down with a sharp clack. "Good. Because I have no use for a stupid wife. I bought you for a very specific reason, Evelyn Vance. And it wasn't for your sparkling conversation."
He reached out, his hand gripping the arm of the chair. The veins in his forearm bulged, revealing a strength that contradicted every rumor she'd heard.
"Come here," he commanded.
Evelyn hesitated for a heartbeat, then walked toward him. She stopped just a foot away. The heat radiating from him was intense.
Silas reached out, his fingers surprisingly warm as they hooked under her chin, forcing her to look down at him.
"They told me you were a disgrace," he whispered, his thumb brushing against the bruise Eleanor had left on her cheek—a bruise she had tried to hide. His touch was electric, sending a shiver down her spine that wasn't entirely fear. "They told me you were a broken thing they wanted to get rid of."
He leaned closer, his scent overwhelming her senses.
"But you don't look broken to me, Evelyn. You look like a wildfire trying to pretend it's a candle."
His grip tightened, just slightly.
"Tell me the truth. Did my 'accident' make you think I'd be an easy target? Did you think you could play the grieving widow before the ink on the contract was even dry?"
Evelyn leaned in, her face inches from his. She could see the gold flecks in his dark irises.
"I think," she whispered, "that you're a man who spends a lot of time hiding in the dark, Silas. And I think you're terrified that someone might actually see you."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush. Silas's eyes darkened, a flash of genuine rage—and something else, something like hunger—crossing his features.
He suddenly yanked her forward, forcing her to stumble until her knees hit the edge of his chair. He didn't let go of her chin.
"You have a very sharp tongue, little wife," he hissed. "I wonder if it will stay that sharp when I decide to break you."
"You can try," Evelyn challenged, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Silas stared at her for a long moment, his gaze dropping to her lips. For a second, she thought he was going to kiss her—or kill her.
Instead, he pushed her away with a cold laugh.
"Get out. Find your water and go back to your cage. Tomorrow, the games begin. And I promise you, Evelyn—I never lose."
Evelyn didn't run. She straightened her robe, looked him dead in the eye, and turned around.
As she walked away, she felt his eyes on her, burning a hole through her back.
She reached the door when his voice stopped her one last time.
"And Evelyn?"
She turned her head slightly.
"Don't try to hack my server again. If you want to see my secrets, you'll have to earn them. In my bed."
Evelyn's blood turned to ice, then fire. He knew.
She didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. She stepped out into the dark hallway, her mind racing.
Silas Nightwood wasn't a monster. He was a challenge.
And as the lightning illuminated the hallway in a brief, brilliant flash, Evelyn realized one thing:
This marriage was going to be war. And she was going to enjoy every second of it.