Chapter 2 : The Wedding Night

The voice seemed to come from the very shadows themselves, chilling Eleanor to her core. She stood frozen, her wedding gown suddenly feeling like a shroud.

"I said get out." The voice was clearer now, filled with unmistakable hostility. "Or do I need to have you removed?"

Eleanor''s hands trembled, but she forced herself to speak. "It is our wedding night, my lord. Where would you have me go?"

A bitter laugh echoed from the bed. "Our wedding night? Don''t pretend this farce means anything to me. Leave now, and we can annul this marriage in the morning."

Eleanor felt tears prick at her eyes, but she blinked them back. She had been raised with the understanding that once married, a woman''s duty was to her husband, regardless of circumstances. She had accepted her fate when she entered the carriage. She would not be sent away like an unwanted parcel.

"I am your wife, my lord," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I will not leave."

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then the bed curtains rustled, and a pale hand pushed them aside. In the dim light, Eleanor could make out the figure of a man sitting up in bed. Even in the darkness, she could feel the intensity of his gaze.

"So you''re the one they sent," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Another pawn in their games. Tell me, did they promise you wealth? Status? Or are you simply too foolish to understand what you''ve gotten yourself into?"

Eleanor took a step forward, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. "My name is Eleanor Winters. And I was sent by no one but fate itself."

Alexander Hastings, Duke of Northwood, studied her from his bed. Even in the poor light, his military-trained eyes could make out her form—slender, trembling slightly, but standing her ground. She was younger than he expected, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with eyes that seemed too large for her face.

"Come here," he commanded.

Eleanor hesitated, her mind flashing to the servant with the twisted leg. But she knew she had no choice. Slowly, she approached the bed.

When she was within arm''s reach, Alexander reached out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong for a man confined to bed, his fingers like iron bands around her delicate bones.

"You''re afraid," he observed, his voice low. "Good. Fear might keep you alive."

He released her abruptly, and Eleanor stumbled back a step. "Who sent you?" he demanded again.

"No one sent me," Eleanor insisted, rubbing her wrist. "The marriage was arranged, yes, but I came of my own will."

"Liar." The word was a whisper, but it carried more threat than a shout. "I despise liars. The last person who lied to me lost their tongue. Do you know what a person looks like without a tongue? They drool like dogs and make pathetic noises."

Eleanor''s blood ran cold. This was no empty threat—she could hear the truth in his voice. This man had done terrible things and would not hesitate to do them again.

Yet something in her rebelled against the fear. She had been pushed around her entire life—by her stepmother, by her father, by circumstance. She would not cower before this broken man, no matter how terrifying he might be.

"I speak the truth," she said, lifting her chin. "Whatever the circumstances that brought me here, I entered this marriage willingly. And I do not regret it."

Alexander stared at her for a long moment, then let out a short, bitter laugh. "We''ll see how long that sentiment lasts."

He lay back down, turning away from her. "There''s a divan by the window. Use it. And be quiet. I dislike noise."

Eleanor stood there for a moment, then moved to the window. True to his word, there was a narrow divan, barely wide enough for her to lie on. She removed her heavy headpiece and outer gown, then lay down, pulling a thin blanket over herself.

The divan was hard and uncomfortable, but that was the least of her concerns. Her stomach growled loudly in the quiet room—she had not eaten since the previous evening, as was customary for brides. The hunger was a sharp, persistent ache.

Worse than the physical discomfort was the emotional turmoil. She thought of her brother, Edmund, away at university. He had promised to protect her when he returned, to make sure no one looked down on them again. But she would not see him for months, perhaps years. And by then, what would she be? The discarded wife of a cruel duke? Or worse?

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, soaking into the thin pillow. She cried not just for herself, but for all the lost possibilities, for the life she had imagined but would never have.

In the bed, Alexander lay awake, listening to her muffled sobs and the growling of her stomach. A part of him—the part that remembered being human—felt a twinge of something like pity. But he crushed it mercilessly. Pity was a luxury he could no longer afford. In the two years since his injury, he had learned that everyone wanted something from him. This girl was no different.

He rolled over, facing away from her, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he would send her away. It was the kindest thing he could do, for both of them.

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