Elva swallowed hard, the sound audible in the sudden, ringing silence of the suite. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the silk of her "shield," and she forced her vocal cords to cooperate, though they felt as tight as violin strings.
"W-we don't… we don't actually know each other," she stammered, her voice thinning into a breathless whisper. "It's only logical that we should sleep… normally. Without… any… touching."
The sentence died a clumsy death in the air between them. It was a pathetic defense, and she knew it.
Matthew didn't move. He stood at the perimeter of the lamplight, his expression unreadable. His gaze drifted downward, tracking the line of the pillow barrier she had so painstakingly erected in the center of the mattress, before returning to her face.
There was a flicker in his blue eyes—not anger, but a sharp, clinical curiosity. He had walked into this night expecting a variety of things: the cold arrogance of a Rodriguez heiress, perhaps a performance of bored indifference, or even a calculated attempt at seduction to solidify the alliance. He had not expected a trembling bride building a fortress out of bedding.
Matthew took a step forward. Then another.
The deliberate weight of his stride snapped Elva's paralysis. Her heart leaped into her throat, a frantic bird seeking escape. Driven by pure, unadulterated instinct, she scrambled off the bed. She didn't just move; she fled like a frightened kitten, scurrying across the plush carpet until she found a narrow sanctuary in the shadows beside the massive mahogany wardrobe.
She pressed her back against the cold wall, squeezing herself into the small gap, half-hidden by the furniture.
Matthew stopped. He stared at the empty space on the bed, then turned his head toward the corner where she was currently attempting to vanish into the woodwork. For the briefest of seconds, his stony mask cracked. A glimmer of genuine amusement—faint, but undeniably there—touched his features.
The most feared military commander in the country was now standing in a master suite that had devolved into a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek.
Matthew crossed his arms, his dark silk shirt straining against the formidable breadth of his shoulders. From her hiding spot, Elva peeked out, her eyes wide and luminous in the shadows. The moment their gazes collided, she recoiled, pulling her knees closer to her chest.
Matthew exhaled a slow, controlled breath. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, resonant baritone that filled every corner of the room. It wasn't loud, but it carried the absolute weight of a command.
"Come out."
Elva froze. She clutched the pillow to her chest as if it were a life-preserver in a storm. "I… I'm perfectly fine sleeping here," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Matthew's brow darkened, his patience beginning to fray at the edges. "You are my wife," he stated, his tone level and unwavering. "You are a Salvatore now. You will not be sleeping on the floor beside a wardrobe."
Elva shook her head with frantic energy. "Really, I'm quite comfortable—"
Matthew didn't argue. He simply began to walk toward her.
Elva's breath hitched. Each of his footsteps felt like a drumbeat of approaching doom. He didn't stop until he was standing directly over her hiding spot, his tall frame eclipsing the dim light and casting her into total shadow.
Up close, the sheer scale of him was terrifying. He looked down at her—at the shaking hands, the shallow, panicked breathing, and the glossy, deer-in-the-headlights stare. Nothing about this girl—not the scent of her, not the way she moved, and certainly not this paralyzing fear—matched the rumors of the fierce Victoria Rodriguez.
He inclined his head, leaning down until they were eye-level. The intensity of his gaze was a physical weight.
"I have no interest," Matthew said, his voice dropping to a low, dry vibration, "in touching you against your will."
Elva blinked, her mouth falling open in a small 'o' of surprise.
Matthew straightened to his full height, his shadow stretching across the ceiling. "You've already established your border," he added, gesturing toward the bed.
Elva glanced toward the mattress. From this angle, the pillow wall looked absurd—a soft, white line in the sand. A flush of heat crept up her neck, turning the tips of her ears a soft crimson.
Matthew walked back to the bed and sat on his side, the mattress barely dipping under his weight. He didn't look at her as he gave a curt, final gesture. "Sleep."
Elva lingered in the shadows for a long moment, her eyes darting between the man and the bed. The barrier was still there. It was a safe zone. Slowly, with the extreme caution of a stray animal approaching a bowl of food, she crept out from behind the wardrobe.
She climbed onto her side of the bed, keeping as much distance as the mattress allowed. She lay down instantly, turning her back to him and curling into a tight ball, her fingers still knotted in the fabric of her pillow.
Matthew reached out and killed the bedside lamp.
The room plunged into a thick, velvet darkness. For several minutes, neither of them moved. Elva lay perfectly still, her heart still racing so loudly she was certain he could hear it through the Egyptian cotton. She held her breath, listening to the rhythmic, steady sound of his breathing.
Then, his voice drifted through the blackness—low, calm, and unsettlingly thoughtful.
"…Victoria Rodriguez."
Elva went rigid. Her pulse spiked.
"You are a very strange woman," Matthew remarked.
The silence that followed was heavier than the darkness itself, and as Elva stared into the shadows, she realized the wall of pillows was a very small defense against a man who was already starting to see through her.