Feigning disinterest, I wrung out my soaking hair. “I have none.”
“You . . . have none,” he repeated slowly, looking me over with disapproval.
“That’s what I said, yes—unless you and your cronies would like to ransack Soleil et Lune’s attic. I’ve been borrowing costumes for years now.”
He scowled. “I expected little else. We shall, however, endeavor to find you more presentable garments. I won’t dishonor Reid by having his bride appear a heathen, even if she is one.”
“How dare you?” I clutched the front of my ruined dress in mock affront. “I am a God-fearing Christian woman now—”
My husband hauled me away before I could utter another word.
I swore I heard one of his teeth crack.
After hastily signing the marriage certificate in the study, my husband steered me down a narrow, dusty corridor, clearly trying to avoid the crowded foyer. God forbid anyone saw his new wife. Rumors were probably already circulating the Tower about the scandal.
A spiral staircase tucked in the back of the corridor caught my attention. Unlike the archaic rosewood staircases nestled throughout the cathedral, this one was metal and clearly built after the original construction. And there was something there . . . in the air of the stairwell . . . I tugged on his arm and inhaled covertly. “Where does that staircase lead?”
He turned, following my gaze, before shaking his head curtly. “Nowhere you’ll be visiting. Access beyond the dormitories is restricted. Only approved personnel are allowed on the upper floors.”
Well, then. Count me in.
I said nothing more, however, allowing him to lead me up several different flights of stairs to a plain wooden door. He pushed it open without looking back at me. I paused outside, staring at the words inscribed above the doorway:
THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE.
I shivered. So this was the infamous Chasseur Tower. Though no visible changes marked the corridor beyond, there was something . . . austere about the place. It lacked warmth, benevolence—the atmosphere as bleak and rigid as the men who resided within.
My husband poked his head back through the door a second later, glancing between the terrifying inscription and me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I hurried after him, ignoring the cold trickle of dread down my spine as I crossed the threshold. There was no going back now. I was in the belly of the beast.
Soon to be in the bed of the beast.
Like hell.
He led me down the hall, careful not to touch me. “Through here.” He gestured to one of the many doors lining the corridor, and I brushed past him into the room—and stopped short.
It was a matchbox. A painfully simple, miserably drab little matchbox with no defining characteristics whatsoever. The walls were white, the floorboards dark. Only a bed and desk filled the space. Worse, he had no personal effects whatsoever. No trinkets. No books. Not even a basket for dirty laundry. When I spotted the narrow window—too high on the wall to watch the sunset—I truly died a little inside.
My husband must’ve been the most insipid person ever born.
The door clicked shut behind me. It sounded final—like a jail cell clanging shut.
He moved in my periphery, and I whirled, but he only lifted his hands slowly, as if placating a feral cat. “I’m just taking off my jacket.” He shrugged out of his sodden coat and draped it across the desk before starting to unbuckle his bandolier.
“You can stop right there,” I said. “No—no more clothes coming off.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not going to force myself on you”—his nose wrinkled in disgust—“Louise.”
“It’s Lou.” He twitched visibly at the name. “Is my name offensive to you?”
“Everything about you is offensive to me.” He pulled the chair from the desk and sat down, heaving a great sigh. “You’re a criminal.”
“There’s no need to sound so self-righteous, Chass. You’re here because of you, not me.”
He scowled. “This is your fault.”
Shrugging, I moved to sit on his immaculately made bed. He cringed when my wet dress soiled the quilt. “You should’ve let me go at the theater.”
“I didn’t know you were going to—that you were going to frame me—”
“I’m a criminal,” I reasoned, not bothering to correct him. It didn’t matter now, anyway. “I behaved criminally. You should’ve known better.”
He gestured angrily to my bruised face and broken fingers. “And how has behaving criminally treated you?”