The morning after my wedding, I wake up alone in my study, neck stiff from sleeping on the leather couch like some kind of exile in my own home. Sunlight cuts through the blinds in sharp lines, and for a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about the woman sleeping in my bed down the hall.
My wife.
The word sits strange in my mouth, foreign and unwieldy. I've had mistresses, companions, transactions that lasted a night or a month. But a wife? That's something else entirely. That's permanent. That's dangerous.
I can still feel the phantom press of her hand in mine from the blood oath, the way her eyes never left mine even as the blade cut into her palm. No fear. No hesitation. Just cold calculation and something else I couldn't quite name. The same loo
