Elara's entire body went a violent shade of crimson. The water droplets on her skin seemed to sizzle against the heat of her blush. "Don't... don't make fun of a cripple," she whispered, her voice cracking as she tried to pull her arms tighter over her heavy, bare breasts.
"I'm looking at my wife," Evan said, standing up with a feline grace that made her flinch. The loose fabric of his sleep trousers hung low on his hips, and as he closed the distance, the heat radiating off his bare skin hit her like a physical weight. "And right now, my wife looks absolutely stunning."
He stopped just inches from her, smelling the soap and the lingering scent of the warm night air. "Okay, now listen. You've taken a shower too, so let's go back into the house and rest. You escaped to the kitchen last night—don't try it again tonight. Otherwise, Maya will assume her brother-in-law is some kind of demon that her sister fears so much." He flashed a wolfish grin. "I have a reputation to maintain, you know."
Watching Evan turn and saunter back into the room, Elara hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the dark yard, then at the golden light of the bedroom. With a shaky exhale, she followed him.
Inside, the room felt smaller, charged with a strange, buzzing energy. Evan sat before the small, polished mirror, picking up a wooden comb. He looked at his reflection, running his fingers through the dark, silken strands that fell past his shoulders.
"Long hair is really troublesome," he mused, tilting his head. "Maybe I should just cut it all off. It gets in the way when I'm cooking."
"No! Don't do that," Elara blurted out, her voice louder than she intended.
Evan paused, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Oh ho? Since you like it so much, I suppose I'll keep it."
Elara looked away, embarrassed. "I just... it suits you. If you find it troublesome to comb, you can ask for help. That's how Maya and I always did it for each other."
"Yes, that's right," Evan said, extending the comb toward her. "Then you should help me do it from now on."
"Me?" Elara pointed a finger at her own chest, her eyes wide.
"Yes, you. You are my wife. If not you, then who else will do it? Unless you want me to go ask the neighbor, Mrs. Gable?"
"No!" Elara stepped forward quickly, taking the comb. The thought of that old woman's hands on Evan made her stomach turn. She stood behind him, her breath hitching as she felt the warmth of his back. Slowly, with hands that trembled only slightly, she began to work the comb through the black silk of his hair. Evan closed his eyes, leaning back slightly into her touch, letting the silence of the room wrap around them.
When the last tangle was gone, Evan stood up. Without a word of warning, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.
Elara's breath punched out of her. His back was a map of lean muscle and smooth skin, glowing amber in the candlelight.
"Let's get some rest," he said casually, tossing the shirt aside and turning toward the bed.
"Then... then you should go and rest," Elara said nervously, her eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards. "I will not disturb you." She turned on her heel, her lame leg dragging slightly in her haste to reach the door.
"Elara." Evan's voice was lower now, laced with a faint, dangerous edge of anger. "This is your room. Your bed. Where exactly are you going if you aren't sleeping here? Into another man's bed?"
"No! No, you misunderstood!" she cried, spinning back around, her hands waving frantically. "I was going to Maya's room to sleep! I just thought..."
"Maya has been busy all day. She's a Royal Guard, Elara; she's exhausted. Don't go disturbing her." Evan sat on the edge of the mattress, his chest heaving slightly. "Are you worried we won't both fit? Is the space too small for you? The bed is quite big."
"No, nothing like that," she whispered, her shoulders sagging. "I was just... I was afraid you would be angry. Having to share a space with me."
"Why should I be angry?" Evan asked, his expression softening into something devastatingly sincere. "I asked you to take a bath. I asked to sleep with you. Why would I be angry about the very thing I requested?"
Faced with that gaze, Elara swallowed hard. She took slow, agonizing steps toward the bed, every thump-slide of her leg echoing in the quiet. Just as she reached the edge, she suddenly veered away, grabbing a spare blanket from the bed.
"This is good," she said, her voice brittle. "I can sleep here. You take the bed. I'll sleep on the floor. Don't worry... I won't touch you."
Evan stared at her, a mixture of frustration and pity swirling in his chest. What world is this where the "prize" has to beg the "winner" to take the bed?
"My dear wife," Evan sighed, "just what game are you playing? There's no need for such a thing. Just come onto the bed."
But she remained stubborn, curling up on the hard floor like a wounded animal. Evan eventually gave up, blowing out the candle and laying down. He stared at the dark ceiling, the silence of the room heavy with the things left unsaid.
"Are you asleep?" he asked into the dark.
"No," her voice came from below. "You didn't sleep either?"
"Not able to. Let's chat," Evan said, rolling onto his side to look down at the silhouette on the floor. "How old are you this year?"
"Twenty-four," she replied.
"Twenty-four... that's young, really. But I suppose in this world, where most marry at sixteen or seventeen, you feel quite late."
"I am late," Elara said with a hollow laugh. "There's a woman my age in the village; she married at sixteen. She has three children now. Her eldest is six."
"I guess if she has a small army of children already, you really are behind schedule," Evan teased gently.
"It's to be expected. I'm a short cripple, and my family isn't wealthy. Why would any man take a fancy to me?"
"Then what about me?" Evan retorted. "Didn't I marry you?"
"You were forced," Elara said, her voice gaining a realistic, painful clarity. "If the Black family hadn't wanted to humiliate you, you could have married a young, talented noblewoman. I know very well that marrying you is just my great luck. It was the Black family's intention to destroy you—to ruin your reputation by shackling you to someone like me."
Evan felt a pang of genuine anger—not at her, but for her. "It's not that exaggerated, Elara. You have a house, a trade, you're beautiful, and your sister is a high-ranking official. This is the average level of ordinary people. You're doing better than most."
"You don't have to comfort me, Evan. I know the reality." She paused, her voice trembling. "Don't worry about anything. I will never touch you or force myself on you. I just have one request: please stay for at least a year. If you stay a year, the gossip will die down. After that, you can leave. You can tell everyone I was a bad wife, or that I cheated... I won't stop you. I just want you to have a chance at a real life later."
Evan listened, his heart sinking. He could hear the bone-deep low self-esteem in her words. She didn't see him as her husband; she saw him as a beautiful guest she was holding captive. He realized then that no amount of flirting or "alpha" posturing would fix this tonight. She was too sensitive, too broken by a lifetime of being the "village joke."
If he wanted her to truly be his, he had to build her back up, brick by brick.
"Okay," Evan said softly, his voice echoing with a new kind of gravity. "I promise you. I will stay here for a year. I will live with you."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Evan closed his eyes. A year? Fine. But by the time that year is up, Elara, you won't be looking for a way out. You'll be looking for a way to keep me in this bed forever.