A spiral staircase tucked in the back of the corridor caught my attention. Unlike the archaic rosewood staircases nestled throughout the cathedral, this one was metal and clearly built after the original construction. And there was something there . . . in the air of the stairwell . . . I tugged on his arm and inhaled covertly. “Where does that staircase lead?”

He turned, following my gaze, before shaking his head curtly. “Nowhere you’ll be visiting. Access beyond the dormitories is restricted. Only approved personnel are allowed on the upper floors.”

Well, then. Count me in.

I said nothing more, however, allowing him to lead me up several different flights of stairs to a plain wooden door. He pushed it open without looking back at me. I paused outside, staring at the words inscribed above the doorway:

THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE.

I shivered. So this was the infamous Chasseur Tower. Though no visible changes marked the corridor beyond, there was something . . . austere about the place. It lacked warmth, benevolence—the atmosphere as bleak and rigid as the men who resided within.

My husband poked his head back through the door a second later, glancing between the terrifying inscription and me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I hurried after him, ignoring the cold trickle of dread down my spine as I crossed the threshold. There was no going back now. I was in the belly of the beast.

Soon to be in the bed of the beast.

Like hell.

He led me down the hall, careful not to touch me. “Through here.” He gestured to one of the many doors lining the corridor, and I brushed past him into the room—and stopped short.

It was a matchbox. A painfully simple, miserably drab little matchbox with no defining characteristics whatsoever. The walls were white, the floorboards dark. Only a bed and desk filled the space. Worse, he had no personal effects whatsoever. No trinkets. No books. Not even a basket for dirty laundry. When I spotted the narrow window—too high on the wall to watch the sunset—I truly died a little inside.

My husband must’ve been the most insipid person ever born.

The door clicked shut behind me. It sounded final—like a jail cell clanging shut.

He moved in my periphery, and I whirled, but he only lifted his hands slowly, as if placating a feral cat. “I’m just taking off my jacket.” He shrugged out of his sodden coat and draped it across the desk before starting to unbuckle his bandolier.

“You can stop right there,” I said. “No—no more clothes coming off.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not going to force myself on you”—his nose wrinkled in disgust—“Louise.”

“It’s Lou.” He twitched visibly at the name. “Is my name offensive to you?”

“Everything about you is offensive to me.” He pulled the chair from the desk and sat down, heaving a great sigh. “You’re a criminal.”

“There’s no need to sound so self-righteous, Chass. You’re here because of you, not me.”

He scowled. “This is your fault.”

Shrugging, I moved to sit on his immaculately made bed. He cringed when my wet dress soiled the quilt. “You should’ve let me go at the theater.”

“I didn’t know you were going to—that you were going to frame me—”

“I’m a criminal,” I reasoned, not bothering to correct him. It didn’t matter now, anyway. “I behaved criminally. You should’ve known better.”

He gestured angrily to my bruised face and broken fingers. “And how has behaving criminally treated you?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Are you?” He arched a copper brow. “You look like someone nearly killed you.”

I waved a careless hand and smirked. “Hazard of the job.”

“Not anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes blazed. “You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.”

Tension—taut and heavy—settled between us at his words.

I tilted my head and stalked toward him, a slow smile spreading across my face. He glared at me, but his breathing hitched when I leaned over him. His eyes flicked to my mouth. Even sitting, he was nearly taller than me.

“Good.” I curled my hand around one of the knives in his bandolier. Flicking it to his throat before he could react, I dug the tip in hard enough to draw blood. His hand came down on my wrist—crushing it—but he didn’t force me away. I leaned closer. Our lips were only a hair’s breadth apart. “But you should know,” I breathed, “that if a man touches me in any way without my permission, I’ll cut him open.” I paused for effect, dragging the knife from his throat to his navel and beyond. He swallowed hard. “Even if that man is my husband.”

“We have to consummate the marriage.” His voice was low, raw—angry. “Neither of us can afford an annulment.”

I pushed away from him roughly, jerking up my sleeve to reveal the skin of my inner arm. Eyes never leaving his, I dug the tip of the knife in and sliced down. He moved to stop me, but it was too late. Blood welled. I ripped the blanket from his bed and let the blood drip on his bedsheets.

“There.” I stalked to the bathing chamber, ignoring his shocked expression. “Marriage consummated.”

I savored the pain in my arm. It felt real, unlike everything else in this wretched day. I cleaned it slowly, deliberately, before dressing it with a cloth from the cupboard in the corner.

Married.

If someone had told me this morning I’d be married by sunset, I would’ve laughed. Laughed, and then probably spat in their face.

The Chasseur pounded on the door. “Are you all right?”

“God, leave me alone.”

The door cracked open. “Are you decent?”

“No,” I lied.

“I’m coming in.” He poked his head in first, eyes narrowing as he saw all the blood. “Was that necessary?”

“I’m nothing if not thorough.”

He tugged the dressing down to examine the cut, forcing me to look squarely at his chest. He hadn’t yet changed, and his shirt was still wet from the river. It clung to his chest in a particularly distracting way. I forced myself to stare at the tub instead, but my thoughts kept drifting back to him. He really was too tall. Abnormally tall. Entirely too big for this small of a space. I wondered if he had some sort of disease. My eyes cut back to his chest. Probably.