Page 72 of His Forced Bride

Because whatever the fuck it is, my body feels it when he gets close to me, even though my mind can't sense it.

The image doesn't fit the man I know.

"What happened to her?"

"Cancer. Took three years to kill her, and every day of it, she kept smiling, kept believing she'd get better. He hired the best doctors, flew her to specialists in Switzerland and Germany. Nothing worked."

Rosa's voice turns quiet.

"He stayed with her through every treatment, every sleepless night. When she died, he buried that part of himself with her. What you see now—the cold, the control—that's what was left after grief finished with him."

The revelation is almost crushing on my chest.

I don't want to think of Yuri as someone capable of tenderness, someone who once loved deeply enough to be destroyed by loss.

It complicates the hatred I need to maintain, muddies the clear lines between captor and prisoner.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to understand who you're fighting. And who you're saving."

"I'm not saving anyone."

Confused, I sit straighter and lean back in the chair.

"Aren't you?"

Rosa stands, collecting my untouched breakfast plate.

"He's been different since you came here. Angrier, yes, but also more alive. Grief is a kind of death, child. Sometimes, it takes another person's fury to resurrect what was buried."

She leaves me alone with thoughts I don't want and knowledge that changes nothing but colors everything.

I spend the afternoon exploring rooms I haven't seen—the library with its leather-bound volumes and chess set positioned for a game never finished, the conservatory where winter light filters through glass panels onto dying plants no one tends.

Evening falls early, bringing with it the sound of vehicles returning.

I watch from the dining room window as black cars pull through the gates.

Yuri emerges from the lead vehicle, and even from a distance I can see something's wrong.

He moves stiffly, favoring his right side.

His dark clothing looks darker in places that catch the porch light—stains that might be dirt but probably aren't.

I meet him in the foyer and notice immediately the blood on his hands and shirt.

For some reason, it makes my heart lurch.

"You're bleeding."

He pauses at the foot of the stairs, taking in my presence and almost walking past me.

"It's not mine."

"Your hands are cut," I tell him, gesturing to where his fingers are cut and swollen, evidence of violence that makes my stomach turn.

"Business meeting ran longer than expected."