The moonlight had shifted, cutting a sharp, silver diagonal across the expansive master suite. The only sound was the rhythmic, muffled thud of the Pacific Ocean against the cliffs below and the erratic, shallow breathing of two people who were technically married but spiritually at war.
Dermin was a shadow on the narrow velvet sofa, his long limbs cramped, his large frame looking awkward and displaced in the room he owned. Hannah lay in the center of the massive king-sized bed, the silk sheets feeling like liquid ice against her skin. She was staring at the ceiling, her mind a whirlpool of the day's insults and the stinging memory of Eleanor's rejection.
Then, Dermin's voice broke the silence. It was low, gravelly, and laced with a sudden, sharp edge of insecurity.
"Hannah?"
She didn't move. "What?"
"In the prison..." He paused, the sound of his breathing hitching. "Were you with anyone? Did you have... a lover?"
The question was like a spark dropped into a vat of gasoline. Hannah's pride, already bruised and raw, erupted. She rolled onto her side, glaring into the darkness toward the sofa.
"Leave me alone, Dermin," she hissed. "Mind your own business. My life for the last ten years has nothing to do with you. You weren't there. You don't get to ask."
"I'm your husband," he countered, his voice rising slightly. "And you're... you're too beautiful, Hannah. Even in that hell, you were too beautiful to have been left alone. Someone must have noticed. Someone must have tried."
A bitter, reckless demon took hold of Hannah's tongue. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to puncture that calm, possessive shell of his until he bled the same way she had for a decade. She wanted him to see her as something he couldn't fix or clean.
"Oh, you want to know?" she snapped, her voice dripping with venom. "Fine. You want the truth? I wasn't alone. Not even close. I did it with everyone, Dermin. I did it with the guards to get extra rations. I did it with the other prisoners—the women. We found ways to stay warm in those cold cells that you wouldn't even understand. I had lovers, Dermin. Many of them. And honestly? I miss those moments. I miss the touch of people who actually stood by me while you were busy becoming a billionaire."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.
Then, she heard the rustle of the wool blanket. The sofa creaked violently as Dermin stood up. His silhouette approached the bed, his footsteps heavy and purposeful.
"Stay away from me!" Hannah scrambled backward toward the headboard, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Dermin, I mean it! Go back to the sofa!"
He didn't stop. He reached the edge of the bed and sat down, the mattress sinking deeply under his weight. The moonlight caught the side of his face—his jaw was set like iron, his eyes dark with a mixture of agony and a sudden, terrifying resolve.
"I thought..." he began, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "I thought you were still the girl I knew. The virgin girl who cried when I first held her hand."
He leaned over her, his shadow swallowing her completely. "But if you've received so much 'experience,' Hannah... then you won't mind one more. At least this time, it will be genuine. If you could give yourself to guards for a piece of bread, surely you can give yourself to your husband for a life of luxury."
"No!" Hannah shrieked. She tried to scramble away, her silk robe sliding against the sheets, but she was trapped. She moved so far toward the opposite edge of the bed that her shoulder went over the side. She was about to fall when Dermin's hand shot out.
He caught her by the waist and pulled her back toward the center of the bed, his strength effortless. He hovered over her, his chest inches from hers, the heat radiating off him in waves.
"Dermin, stop! Please!"
"Why should I stop?" he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "You said you miss it, didn't you? You miss being touched."
His hand moved, tracing the line of her arm with an agonizing slowness. His fingers were long and warm, and despite her hatred, the sheer physical sensation of a human touch that wasn't a prison search made her head spin.
He began to move his hand over her stomach, the silk of her gown the only barrier. He was being erotically, maddeningly gentle.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with a repressed longing. "So hauntingly beautiful. I'll be gentle, Hannah. I'll show you that my touch is better than any guard's. I'll make you forget them all."
His hand reached the hem of her robe, his palm resting against her skin. The intimacy was a physical weight, a pressure that was breaking through the walls of her anger. She felt the tears welling up, the lie becoming a leaden weight in her throat. She couldn't do it. She couldn't let him think she was that woman.
"Stop!" she sobbed, her hands coming up to clutch his wrists. "Stop, Dermin! I lied!"
Dermin froze. "What?"
"I lied!" Hannah cried, the tears finally spilling over. "I never... I was never with anyone. Not the guards, not the prisoners. No one touched me. I spent ten years in a tomb, Dermin. I haven't been touched by anyone since the night you left me."
The silence returned, but the tension had shifted. It was no longer the heat of a predator; it was the stillness of a man who had just been given back something he thought was lost forever.
Dermin stared down at her, his eyes searching her tear-streaked face. He looked at her trembling lips and the way she was shaking beneath his hands. Slowly, very slowly, he pulled his hand back. He didn't say anything for a long time.
He reached out and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. The gesture was so tender, so reminiscent of the boy he used to be, that Hannah let out a small, broken whimper.
"Goodnight, Hannah," he said softly.
He stood up from the bed, his stature regaining its usual cold composure. He walked back to the sofa, lay down, and pulled the wool blanket over his shoulders.
Hannah lay in the middle of the bed, her heart still racing, his touch still burning on her skin.