Two

The library was silent, save for the crackle of the fireplace and the erratic rhythm of Bella's breathing.

  

 The man standing before her—her husband, she told herself didn't move. 

He didn't lunge. He simply watched her with an intensity that made butterflies in her belly.

 "You're trembling," he observed. His voice was low, devoid of the mockery Andre had used at the altar. It scraped against her nerves in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

  

 Bella pressed her back harder against the door, her chin lifting. "I’m cold. This castle is a drafty tomb."

  

 He stepped closer.

 The movement was so smooth it was almost unnatural. 

"Is it the cold? Or is it the fact that you are locked in a room with a man you despise?"

  

 "I don't know you well enough to despise you," Bella countered, her voice shaking slightly. "I only know your reputation. The Butcher of the Alps."

  

 He stopped inches from her. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his chest through his dress shirt. 

He didn't smell like the Andre who had dragged her down the aisle. The heavy, choking musk was gone, replaced by the scent of rain-soaked earth and cedar.

  

 "Reputations are armor," he said softly.

 He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist. "Sometimes we wear monsters so the world doesn't eat us alive."

  

 Bella held her breath, waiting for the grab, the bruise.

  

 Instead, his hand settled on her waist with a firmness that was grounding, not painful. 

His thumb rubbed slow circles against the corset boning of her dress.

  

 "Why are you looking at me like that?" she whispered.

  

 "Like what?"

  

 "Like you've never seen me before."

  

 His eyes, dark and bottomless, dropped to her lips. "Maybe I haven't. Maybe I was too busy playing a part to see the woman underneath the veil."

  

 This wasn't the brute she had prepared herself for. This was something far worse. 

A man who wanted to get inside her head before he got into her bed.

  

 He took another step, invading her space completely. 

His thighs brushed against hers through the layers of tulle.

  

 "Turn around," he commanded.

  

 Bella stiffened. "Why?"

  

 "Because you are suffocating," he murmured, his hand sliding up her back to the nape of her neck. His fingers were calloused but careful. "This dress is tight. You can't breathe."

  

 He was right. The corset was digging into her ribs, making her lightheaded. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned her back to him.

  

 She expected him to rip the fabric. Andre was known for his lack of patience.

  

 But he didn't.

  

 She felt his fingers working the tiny, intricate buttons at the back of her gown. He was…patient with it. 

The cool air hit her skin as the lace parted, followed immediately by the searing heat of his fingertips tracing her spine.

  

 "You have a scar here," he noted, his voice a rumble against her back. He touched a faint white line on her shoulder blade.

  

 "I fell from a horse when I was twelve," Bella said, her eyes fluttering shut. The sensation of his touch was confusing her. It was possessive, yes, but it felt like... worship. "My father wanted to put the horse down."

  

 "And did he?"

  

 "No. I stood in front of the stable with a pitchfork until he backed down."

  

 A low chuckle vibrated through him. He leaned in, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder. "A fighter. I like that."

  

 The dress pooled around her hips, leaving her in the corset and silk underskirt. She felt exposed, vulnerable, yet she didn't step away.

  

 He turned her around.

  

 Bella gasped. His eyes were dilated, swallowing the iris. He looked at her with a raw hunger that stole the breath from her lungs.

  

 "Bella," he said, testing her name like it was a secret.

  

 "Andre," she breathed, though the name felt wrong on her tongue.

  

 He winced, "Tonight, I am just your husband. Nothing else."

  

 He didn't wait for her permission. He didn't ask. He simply lifted her.

  

 Bella let out a startled cry as he hoisted her onto the mahogany desk, scattering a stack of papers. 

He stepped between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs, pushing the skirt up.

  

 "What are you doing?" she panicked, her hands flying to his shoulders to push him back.

  

 "claiming my rights," he said, but his tone wasn't demanding. "But not the way you think."

  

 He didn't undo his pants. He didn't force her legs apart. Instead, he leaned down, his forehead resting against hers.

  

 "Open your eyes, Bella," he whispered.

  

 She hadn't realized she’d closed them. She opened them to find him staring right into her.

  

 "I want you to see me," he said. "I want you to know who is making you feel this."

  

 His hand slid up her thigh, higher, past the lace of her stockings. 

When he found her pussy, Bella arched her back, a gasp tearing from her throat.

  

 "You're wet," he murmured, a dark satisfaction coating his voice. "For the monster you hate."

  

 "I don't..." Bella stammered, her head falling back as his fingers began a wicked, rhythmic stroke. "I don't know what I feel."

  

 "Good." He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, his stubble grazing her skin. "Confusion is better than hatred."

  

 He moved with a skill that shocked her. He knew exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply. It wasn't the fumbling, selfish groping she had expected. He was playing her body like a violin, drawing out a melody she didn't know she could sing.

  

 "Andre, please," she moaned, her fingers tangling in his dark hair.

  

 He growled low in his throat and dropped to his knees.

  

 Bella’s eyes went wide. "What are you—"

  

 He didn't answer. He simply pushed her knees wider and buried his face between her thighs.

  

 The sensation was electric.

 Bella cried out, her hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles turned white. 

He was relentless, his tongue skilled and demanding. He wasn't taking from her; he was giving. He was driving her to the edge of sanity.

 Every flick, every suck was made to unravel her.

  

 "Look at me," he ordered, pulling back for a second, his lips slick.

  

 Bella looked down, her chest heaving, her face flushed. She saw a man possessed. He looked dangerous, and utterly captivating.

  

 "You are mine," he said, his voice rougher "Say it."

  

 "I'm yours," she sobbed, the pleasure coiling tight in her belly.

  

 He dove back in, and Bella shattered.

  

 She screamed, her body bowing off the desk, waves of pleasure crashing over her so hard she saw stars.

 He didn't stop until she was limp, trembling, her breath coming in jagged gasps.

  

 The room was silent again, save for the sound of their breathing.

  

 He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 He looked at her, disheveled and ruined on the desk, and a flash of something possessive and painful crossed his face.

  

 "Stay here," he said abruptly. His voice strained.

  

 "Where... where are you going?" Bella asked, her voice a whisper. She felt floaty, unmoored.

  

 "I have to check the perimeter," he lied smoothly. "Fix your dress."

  

 He turned and walked toward the French doors that led to the balcony. He didn't look back. He moved, slipping out into the cold night air before she could even slide off the desk.

  

 Bella sat there for a moment, stunned. 

Her body was humming, her mind reeling. That was... that was her husband? The man who had kicked a bleeding subordinate? The man who treated her like a merger?

  

 She slid off the desk, her legs wobbling. She began to fumble with the buttons of her dress, her fingers shaking.

  

 Click.

  

 The handle of the main library door turned.

  

 Bella froze, clutching the front of her dress to her chest. Had he come back through the hall?

  

 The door swung open with a violent force, banging against the wall.

  

 Andre Volkov strode in.

  

 Bella blinked.

  

 He was wearing the tuxedo jacket again. His hair was slightly mussed, and there was a smear of fresh blood on his white collar. He looked energized, chaotic, his eyes darting around the room with manic energy.

  

 "There you are!" he boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "I told you to stay at the reception."

  

 Bella took a step back, confusion crashing over her like a bucket of ice water. "You... you were just here."

  

 Andre stopped, frowning. He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink, splashing amber liquid over the rim. "Don't be stupid, Bella. I've been dealing with the trash outside for the last forty minutes."

  

 He downed the drink in one gulp and turned to look at her. His eyes raked over her disheveled appearance—her swollen lips, the flush on her chest, the unbuttoned back of her dress.

  

 A dark, ugly sneer curled his lip.

  

 "What is this?" He gestured to her with the glass. "You look like a mess. Did you trip?"

  

 Bella’s heart hammered against her ribs. She stared at him. The scent hit her then.

  

 Smoke. Gunpowder. Acrid cologne.

  

 There was no rain. No cedar.

  

 "I..." she faltered, her mind spinning. "I was waiting for you."

  

 Andre laughed, a harsh, barking sound. He set the glass down and stalked toward her. His movement was heavy, his footsteps loud on the hardwood floor.

  

 "Well, you wasted your time hiding in the dark," he said. He grabbed her arm, his grip bruising, just like at the altar. "Come on. My father wants a toast."

  

 He pulled her close. Bella flinched.

  

 "Stop acting like a frightened rabbit," he snapped. He leaned in to kiss her.

  

 Bella turned her head, and his lips landed on her cheek.

  

 His skin was clammy. His breath smelled of stale tobacco.

  

 It wasn't him.

  

 Panic, pierced through the haze of her post-orgasmic bliss.

  

 "Andre," she whispered, pulling back to look at his face. It was the same face. The same jaw, the same eyes. But the soul behind them was different. "Did you... did you come in through the balcony?"

  

 "The balcony?" Andre looked at her like she was insane. "Why the hell would I climb a balcony in a three-thousand-euro suit? You're hysterical, Bella. Get a hold of yourself."

  

 He released her arm with a shove. "Button your dress. You have two minutes."

  

 He turned his back to her to pour another drink.

  

 Bella stood paralyzed in the center of the room. Her body still tingled from the touch of the man who had been here three minutes ago. The man who had worshipped her body. The man who smelled like the forest.

  

 She looked at the balcony doors. They were slightly ajar, the curtain fluttering in the wind.

  

 She looked at the man pouring whiskey.

  

 And for the first time, Bella realized the terrifying truth.

  

 The man she had married was a monster.

  

 But the man who had just claimed her body... he was a ghost.

  

 And she had no idea which one she was more afraid of.