“Magnus... I’m sorry you feel compelled to say that you’re proud of me.”
She was discovering how alarmingly easy it was to be honest when one was drunk.
His eyes flared in genuine surprise. “Is this what’s bothering you?”
Her silence clearly answered the question for him.
He was quiet a moment. Then he gave a soft, stunned laugh.
“Alexandra... in a single evening, you have either mildly terrified, captivated, or put into their places, sometimes all at once, most of thetitled of the ton. From what I’ve heard from other guests, the younger women are ready to fall at your feet, as though you’re Aristotle and can teach them your ways. All the men are envious and claim to be baffled by why a woman like you would marry a brute like—”
He pressed his lips together.
They both knew why she’d married a brute like him.
“I once said you would have made a fine general, Alexandra. You may have noticed I’m not in the habit of making frivolous statements.”
She managed to smile at this. It felt wobbly on her lips.
“That is kind of you to say. And I am still proud,” she reflected, somewhat puzzled. “That is, I still have pride. I don’t know what the use of pride is to me. I feel at times I haven’t the right to any at all. That’s all just to say, Magnus, that I’m not proud at all of what I did on our wedding day.” Her voice was hoarse now. “Not at all.”
“Alexandra...” Her name was cracked in the middle with emotion.
And also something like impatience.
She stared at him.
She realized, then, how seldom his voice betrayed any vulnerability at all. He was so fiercely guarded.
And so.
It seemed her husband was fraying, too.
“You are...” He gave a soft, almost despairing laugh.
“You are formidable,” he finally said quietly. Tenderly.
Almost resignedly. As if this was something so very clear, anyone could see it.
As if she was the conqueror.
As if he was trying to explain to her that he’d never had any choice but to take her however he could get her.
His voice had gone thick.
She could feel some realization struggling to come into focus on the periphery of her awareness. Something she could not quite grasp hold of.
Her skin was all but singing from his nearness. Like all those sirens whose job it was to lure sailors to their doom.
Touch me.
Don’t you dare touch me.
These thoughts battled over her.
In this moment she was two girls. The one who had known him only two months, who would have been obliged to submit to him in bed on her wedding night.
And the woman who wanted desperately for him to touch her now.