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“Your skin,” he murmured almost thoughtfully. He put one finger on me... gliding the tip down the valley of flesh in a fiery trail. “Flawless.”

I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to reply that he was flawless, too. That all of his smooth skin was remarkably perfect. Not a single imperfection or scar from battle or childhood mishap.

A movement beyond him snared my attention, and my stomach pitched.

The pale smudge of a lady’s gaping face filled a crack in the drapes where the fabric had not—could not—fully come together.

I stiffened as she ogled us, her eyes wide as she drank greedily from her wine goblet. How veryniceshe had refreshments whilst she enjoyed the spectacle. I wanted to upend the wine into her face. I wanted to hide under the coverlet. I had been fooling myself into thinking I could pretend others weren’t in the room with us.

“What is it?” he asked, noticing me stiffen. He looked over his shoulder where the drapes hung an inch apart, seeing the woman watching us for himself. “Fucking jackals,” he growled, leaving me and seizing the edges of the drapes in a violent yank. To no avail—they would not completely close.

I gazed at the magnificence of his great muscled back, skimming the inked designs snaking down his shoulder blade. I tracked the long indentation of his spine, and wondered how even a man’s back could be so beautiful. He lingered at the foot of the bed, his shoulders lifting as he inhaled heavily, clearly angry.

The moments stretched until he finally turned and faced me, his body filling my vision. “Don’t look there.”

“How can I not?”

“Eyes on me.” He pointed to his face. “Look only at me.”

A strange little thrill fluttered through me at the deep command... at the glittering pale of his eyes detectable even through the veil. And more than that. There was a sudden kinship between us. We were allied in this.

Until it’s over and he learns the truth.

I settled back with a shiver, fixing my gaze on him and trying not to think about the lady watching outside the curtains of the bed.

The solidness of his warrior body pressed down on me, sinking us deeper into the mattress. My hands fluttered uncertainly to his chest, palms resting there over inked flesh, appreciating the strong thud of his heart. That black opal, gleaming dark as night, threaded with vibrant colors, dangled between us, brushing myskin, and I hissed, startled at the shocking spark from it, the humming warmth.

Looking up, my eyes blinked and sharpened, questioning what I was seeing.

The damp cold had churned itself into fog. It floated mist-like above the bed. I snuck a glance around his shoulder at that dreaded crack in the drapes. The same fog had infiltrated the chamber. I could no longer see the lady’s face through that narrow opening. I could not see anyone or anything anymore save a milky-gray vapor. The fog intensified, found us in the bed, curling around our limbs as softly as fingertips, enveloping us... protecting us.

Exclamations rose from outside the curtained bed, remarks about the sudden haze stealing inside the chamber through the arrow slits. Complaints of the growing cold. Distress at the lack of visibility. Feet shifted and scuffed along the floor, and I realized some of the witnesses to the bedding were departing the room.

A relieved smile curved my mouth as I gave thanks, at least in this case, for unforeseen acts of nature.

He touched my face, and my smile slipped, alarm skittering through me. Would he break his vow? Would he pull the veil off me and look his fill?

Braced, I waited for what was to come. He made no such attempt, and, after a few beats, I exhaled.

My heart stuttered at his hand on my face. The veil barred skin-to-skin contact, but I felt that caress through the fabric as intensely as a brand. I managed not to flinch or recoil as his thumb stroked side to side, rasping the fabric against my cheek. I felt dazed that he should care enough for me, his wife of a few hours, whose face he had yet to see, to so tenderly touch me.

He lowered his head, brought the side of his face against mine, and whispered against my ear, his warm breath sending a tremor through me: “Trust me?”

Trust him?

I didn’t even know him. Only his reputation for savagery. For death. And yet he was asking for my trust when he didn’t have to—when he didn’t need it to complete this bedding. He could go about this however he wished.

I pulled back and looked into those eyes staring so earnestly, even though he couldn’t see me. I trusted him, I realized with a little astonishment. This stranger. My husband. I really did.

I nodded.

He smiled then, slow and beguiling, and I died a little inside.

This man was attractive when he was grim and unsmiling, but like this? He was viciously beautiful.

“Still not one for words?” he asked.

“I...” My voice came out as a croak, and I swallowed and tried again. “I trust you.”