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?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Are you?” He arched a copper brow. “You look like someone nearly killed you.”

I waved a careless hand and smirked. “Hazard of the job.”

“Not anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes blazed. “You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.”

Tension—taut and heavy—settled between us at his words.

I tilted my head and stalked toward him, a slow smile spreading across my face. He glared at me, but his breathing hitched when I leaned over him. His eyes flicked to my mouth. Even sitting, he was nearly taller than me.

“Good.” I curled my hand around one of the knives in his bandolier. Flicking it to his throat before he could react, I dug the tip in hard enough to draw blood. His hand came down on my wrist—crushing it—but he didn’t force me away. I leaned closer. Our lips were only a hair’s breadth apart. “But you should know,” I breathed, “that if a man touches me in any way without my permission, I’ll cut him open.” I paused for effect, dragging the knife from his throat to his navel and beyond. He swallowed hard. “Even if that man is my husband.”

“We have to consummate the marriage.” His voice was low, raw—angry. “Neither of us can afford an annulment.”

I pushed away from him roughly, jerking up my sleeve to reveal the skin of my inner arm. Eyes never leaving his, I dug the tip of the knife in and sliced down. He moved to stop me, but it was too late. Blood welled. I ripped the blanket from his bed and let the blood drip on his bedsheets.

“There.” I stalked to the bathing chamber, ignoring his shocked expression. “Marriage consummated.”

I savored the pain in my arm. It felt real, unlike everything else in this wretched day. I cleaned it slowly, deliberately, before dressing it with a cloth from the cupboard in the corner.

Married.

If someone had told me this morning I’d be married by sunset, I would’ve laughed. Laughed, and then probably spat in their face.

The Chasseur pounded on the door. “Are you all right?”

“God, leave me alone.”

The door cracked open. “Are you decent?”

“No,” I lied.

“I’m coming in.” He poked his head in first, eyes narrowing as he saw all the blood. “Was that necessary?”

“I’m nothing if not thorough.”

He tugged the dressing down to examine the cut, forcing me to look squarely at his chest. He hadn’t yet changed, and his shirt was still wet from the river. It clung to his chest in a particularly distracting way. I forced myself to stare at the tub instead, but my thoughts kept drifting back to him. He really was too tall. Abnormally tall. Entirely too big for this small of a space. I wondered if he had some sort of disease. My eyes cut back to his chest. Probably.

“They’ll think I murdered you.” He replaced the dressing and opened the small cupboard again, grabbing another cloth to mop up the floor and basin. I finished wrapping my arm and joined him.

“What do we do with the evidence?” I wiped my bloody hands on my hem.

“We burn it. There’s a furnace downstairs.”

My eyes lit up. “Yes! I set a warehouse on fire once. One match, and the whole thing went up like a smokestack.”

He stared at me in horror. “You set a building on fire?”

These people obviously had hearing impairments. “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

He shook his head and knotted the towel. “Your dress,” he said without looking at me. I glanced down at it.

“What about it?”

“It’s covered in blood. It needs to go too.”

“Right.” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “I don’t have any other clothes.”

“That’s your problem. Hand it over.”

I glared at him. He glared back. “I don’t have any other clothes,” I repeated slowly. Definite hearing impairment.

“You should’ve thought about that before you slashed open your arm.” He thrust out his hand insistently.

Another second passed.

“Fine, then.” A wild little laugh escaped my throat. “Just fine!” Two could play this game. I attempted to jerk my dress over my head, but my fingers—still stiff and painful—prevented me from succeeding. The wet fabric caught around my neck instead, strangling me, and I nearly broke the rest of my fingers in a desperate attempt to pry it away.

Strong hands soon reached forward to assist me. I leapt away on instinct, and my dress ripped as easily as it had done in the theater.

Flustered, I threw it in his face.

I wasn’t naked. Soft, flexible undergarments covered my sensitive bits, but it was enough. When he extracted himself from my dress, his face was burning. He averted his eyes quickly.