The fire was almost dead. Alina sat in the chair and waited for him to respond to her last words.
The poetry book was the only interesting part.
And somewhere in the darkness, Austin was fighting a smile.
She had gone through his room and found his poetry book. And now she was sitting in his chair, in that hideous grey dress, mocking him for reading love poetry. As if this were normal and any other woman had done this to him before.
The last three women in this bed had cried the first night, gone silent on the second and become the furniture by the third. They lay where they were asked, spoke when spoken to, and never once questioned him.
She had been here for just a day and was already arguing with him, demanding that he show his face.
He should've shut her down, should've reminded her of her place and acted like the duke he was. But before he could stop himself, he heard his own voice in the darkness.
"Which sonnets did you read?"
He felt her surprise in the silence that followed. She hadn't expected him to engage, and neither did he.
"The Harwick," She said slowly. "And the Pellerin. But that is overrated."
"Overrated?" He asked in amusement. "The Pellerin is a masterpiece."
"It's a masterpiece if you've never actually been in love," She replied. "It reads like someone describing a fire who has only seen paintings of it. He has written about the idea of love, not love itself."
He had no answer to this because she was right.
"Harwick admits he doesn't understand it," She continued. "While Pellerin pretends to have all the answers." She shook her head and he could almost see her doing that.
"You seem to know a lot about love."
"My father's library was small. So I read the same books many times and then thought about them because, apparently, I had a lot of time as well."
"And you chose to read poetry?"
"I read everything, but poetry was the only thing I understood."
"The Harwick sonnets are structurally weak." He continued the conversation.
"The Harwick sonnets are structurally weak when you read them in a library," She replied immediately. "If you read them at three in the morning when you can't sleep, wondering if anyone will ever look at you the way Harwick looked at his wife; they're perfect."
"How do you know how Harwick looked at his wife?"
"How do you know he didn't look at her that way?"
"Fair point." He replied after a moment.
"The Pellerin is technically brilliant. But his writing is cold and feels artificial."
She waited for another response from him, but none came.
Maybe he has given up.
She looked at his lying silhouette and realized three things:
First: his voice has suddenly become soft and warm while arguing. He had forgotten to be the duke.
Second: He had strong literary opinions.
Third: He had asked her questions, which meant she wasn't furniture. You don't ask furniture questions or argue with it.
"Your library is good," She said again. "The theology section is weak, though. You have all the standard texts, but none of the heretics."
He didn't answer. But he smiled.
"You talk like a barrister," He said.
"And you behave like a ghost. You appear and disappear according to your convenience."
He smiled again, and eventually the conversation died. Alina sat in the chair, her heart still pounding hard from the strangest conversation of her life.
"I still haven't seen your face," She said.
"It's dark."
"Very convenient."
She then heard movement from the bed and saw him turning to the other side.
"Goodnight, Alina."
Alina. He called me by my name??
"You should sleep," He said. "Come to bed."
Fear consumed her again, the same fear she felt last night when he lay on the bed with her. But there was something else too, something she couldn't name.
She stood up, walked to the bed and lay down carefully on her side, removing the nightgown, as far from him as possible.
She wanted to turn over and ask him the questions troubling her since last night.
What was his deal? Why didn't he touch her? Why did he buy her if he wanted to do nothing with her?
But asking would make her look desperate. It would make her look like she wanted him to touch her, like she wanted him.
I don't need anything. Just focus on surviving.
She then closed her eyes and soon fell asleep.
When she opened her eyes in the morning, she noticed the bed was warm, unlike yesterday. She looked around and saw someone moving on the other side of the room.
Austin was standing near his wardrobe, his back turned to her. He was getting ready and had already worn his pants and was holding his shirt. She could see his bare back clearly now.
His muscles moved under the skin as he reached for something. This was the body of someone who trained with soldiers, fought, and used his body for more than signing documents. Her eyes moved to his shoulders, and she noticed a blade scar on his left shoulder.
It was a old burn scar. Alina couldn't help but stare at it. The scar was both horrifying and fascinating.
Suddenly, he turned, and finally, they were face to face for the first time in daylight.
He had deep grey eyes and a sharp jaw. His face looked like it had been carved from the same stone as his castle. It was the kind of face that made people step back without knowing the reason, made them lower their voices, and made them remember their place.
"The staring is included in the contract, I assume," He snickered.
Alina didn't flinch or look away. She kept staring at him.
"The scar," She said. "What happened?"
Instead of answering, he turned around and put on his shirt. After getting ready, as he was about to leave, he stopped.
"Get dressed. You're eating in the great hall today."
He then walked out, leaving Alina alone in the bed, staring at the space where he had been just standing.