A low moan escaped his throat as his grip tightened around her body, and then because she didn’t know what else to do. She began to caress not just his back, but his arms, his face, every piece of warm, golden skin that was exposed.
Just as she was about to fall asleep again, as her hands were beginning to fatigue, she heard him mumble in her hair, “Thank you.”
The next few nights followed suit. They would eat and go to bed, and eventually she would awaken to his nightmares, only to lull him back to sleep with her touch. And every night just as she was about to close her eyes, she would hear him mumble, "Thank you".
She never asked him about it in the morning. It didn’t seem necessary. Besides, her own sleep was affected enough that she began sleeping during the day and staying awake during the night to make sure she could chase his demons away.
Not that he had done anything to deserve it, for he was still just as monstrous during the days as he had been since she’d met him, but he had said "thank you" and for some reason, those words on his lips were enough to forgive a multitude of sins.
On the final day of travel, Isabelle was awakened by a loud screeching. It sounded of a gate that had not seen the benefits of oil.
Stretching, she looked out the window and gasped.
“Welcome, Princess Isabelle, to Castle of Ogan.”
It was a fairy tale, every bit as dark and dangerous—as well as insanely beautiful—as a gothic horror story. The iron gate squeaked as it was forced open, the carriage came to a stop and Isabelle jumped out, craning her neck to see the giant fortress in front of her.
Hundreds of rooms must occupy this space! It had a moat! And boasted of a maze of gardens before one even entered the door! Magic, she felt magic everywhere she glanced. She didn’t even notice she was smiling until Dominique scowled in her direction.
“Pay him no mind,” Hunter said next to her as Dominique made great haste entering his home. “It is one of his many summer homes. He rarely goes back to his country, rather he favors rusticating, or as I like to put it, molding away here in Belgium.”
“It is beautiful,” Isabelle whispered in awe.
“Might I make a suggestion, my lady?” Hunter hooked his arm around her shoulders and led her into the grand entrance. “Perhaps you should keep your admiration to yourself; my friend despises this house. But as you can see, it is closest to your home. I believe he wants you to feel comfortable.”
A laugh escaped Isabelle’s lips. “Comfortable? That is his desire? Have you met the man? If anything he has been going out of his way to make me uncomfortable.”
“Give him time, Princess,” Hunter mumbled.
Chapter Eight
What do you suppose a broken man looks like? Is he wealthy but poor of spirit? Does he plunge himself into debauchery trying to make himself whole again? Is he the fellow that laughs in the face of danger and challenges Hades at every turn? He is all of the above, but most of all, he is me. His reflection is the one I see in the mirror, and his eyes are hollow, for the love that once lived behind them was stolen, the day my father took his last breath.
—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov
Dominique shuddered as he imagined blood-curdling screams echoing off the walls as if his mother’s spirit was still in between Heaven and Hell. He began to sweat as his boots clicked against the hard marble floors. He knew where this path would lead. It would be the same destination his tiny feet had taken him some fifteen years ago.
His trembling hands reached out to touch the smooth wood of the door before pushing it open. Dust-filled air greeted him. His instructions had been clear. No servant was to enter the practice room, lest they wish to find employment elsewhere. And by no means were they to even contemplate cleaning up the mess.
His heels clicked across broken glass. Cold air swept over him and he shook with the memory laid out at his feet. A mother’s betrayal, a father’s jealousy, and finally a little boy’s confusion.
Blood still stained the floor where the bodies had lain, and the fireplace still held burnt pieces of music. The same music he swore he would never play again. And the piano. Dominique swallowed as he neared the piano, its keys dusty from sitting in such a frozen state.
His white glove caressed the keys, coming back with dust and debris. He imagined that his tears still stained the keys, never had he cried as much as he did that night.
With a heavy sigh he took one last look about the room. The air was thick with memories of early death and sorrow. Perhaps it was a mistake returning to this home. But it seemed if he was to keep Isabelle for himself, as a monster would keep his princess in a tower, then he should at least have her close enough to her home that she could easily visit her family.
After all, Belgium wasn’t as far away from London as some imagined. Though the political unrest in Brussels was something to be leery of, they were far enough away in the woods to be safe. And the stories surrounding his haunted castle did wonders for the travelers and French soldiers occupying the area.
As he closed his eyes to shut out the view of the room, his mind conjured up a perfect image of his father. Of his sad smile the night Dominique’s mother died, and of his horror stricken face the night his life was stolen from him; in the same room where he took a life, his was forfeited. Was he truly a beast? Just like his father? To save a girl only to condemn her with a life shackled to him? Her alternative would have been far worse, though he wasn’t sure why he believed so. Perhaps it was instinctual, but she wasn’t safe in London. At least here, she was safe.
Even though, with her presence, his own safety had been called into question. With one final glance about the room, he made his exit, shutting the doors quietly behind him.
Tonight, at dinner, he would notify her of his expectations during their marriage. Intimacy being at the top of the list, and running the household at the bottom. Isabelle must understand that he would claim his husbandly rights, horrid as she may believe them to be.
Above all she needed to understand that he would protect her at all costs; he would gladly die for her, give her everything a person could want. Everything but the thing he had lost long ago. His heart.
“Dominique?” Hunter’s voice echoed in the grand hallway just as the door to the practice room shut. “Your pretty little wife needs to be shown to her rooms.”
Dominique grunted and followed his voice to the entryway. “The butler will see to her comfort—”
“Alas, I felt that you, being the master of the house, should give her a grand tour, after all, the butler has suffered a serious injury to his…” Hunter looked at Brinks and made a choking sound. “Foot, his foot is ailing him.” He nodded his head to Brinks who must have remembered he was supposed to have some sort of injury and began hobbling on one foot. The theatre was not in his future, although it was comical to watch the normally stoic and oddly tall man hop around with such a lack of grace.