I tuned him out, rolling my eyes. It was quickly becoming a habit around him. “Look, Chass, you’re my husband, so I feel I should be honest with you in saying I’ll gladly murder the Archbishop at the first opportunity.”

“He’d kill you before you even lifted a finger.” A fanatical gleam shone in his eyes, and I raised a politely skeptical brow. “I’m serious. He’s the most accomplished leader in Chasseur history. He’s slain more witches than any other man alive. His skill is legend. He is legend—”

“He is old.”

“You underestimate him.”

“Seems to be a theme around here.” I yawned and turned away from him, shifting to find a softer bit of tub. “Look, this has been fun, but it’s time for my beauty sleep. I need to look my best for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I’m going back to the theater,” I murmured, eyes already closing. “What I caught of the performance this morning sounded fascinating.”

There was another pause, much longer than before. I peeked at him over my shoulder. He fidgeted with the candle for a few seconds before taking a deep breath. “Now that you’re my wife, it’s best if you stay within Chasseur Tower.”

I lurched upright, sleep instantly forgotten. “I don’t think that’s best at all.”

“People saw your face at the theater”—anxiety flared in my stomach—“and now they know you’re my wife. Everything you do will be monitored. Everything you say will reflect back on me—on the Chasseurs. The Archbishop doesn’t trust you. He thinks it best you stay here until you can learn to behave yourself.” He gave me a hard look. “I agree with him.”

“That’s unfortunate. I thought you had better sense than the Archbishop,” I snapped. “You can’t keep me locked in this trou à merde.”

I might’ve laughed at his appalled expression if I hadn’t been so angry. “Watch your mouth.” His own mouth tightened, and his nostrils flared. “You’re my wife—”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that! Your wife. Not your slave, nor your property. I signed that stupid piece of paper to avoid imprisonment—”

“We can’t trust you.” His voice rose over mine. “You’re a criminal. You’re impulsive. God forbid you even open your mouth outside this room—”

“Shit! Damn! Fu—”

“Stop it!” Blood crept up his throat, and his chest rose and fell heavily as he struggled to control his breathing. “God, woman! How can you speak so? Have you no shame?”

“I won’t stay here,” I seethed.

“You’ll do as you’re told.” The words were flat—final.

Like hell. I opened my mouth to tell him just that, but he’d already stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle my teeth.

The Interrogation

Reid

I woke long before my wife. Stiff. Sore. Aching from a fitful night on the floor. Though I’d argued with myself—reasoned vehemently that she’d chosen to suffer in the tub—I hadn’t been able to climb into bed. Not when she was injured. Not when she might wake in the night and change her mind.

No. I’d offered her the bed. The bed was hers.

I regretted my chivalry the moment I stepped into the training yard. Word of my new circumstance had obviously swept through the Tower. Man after man rose to meet me, each with a determined glint in his eye. Each waiting impatiently for his turn. Each attacking with uncharacteristic belligerence.

“Long night, huh, Captain?” my first partner sneered after clipping my shoulder.

The next managed to hit my ribs. He glared. “It isn’t right. A criminal sleeping three rooms from me.”

Jean Luc grinned. “I don’t think they were doing much sleeping.”

“She could cut our throats.”

“She consorts with witches.”

“It isn’t right.”

“It isn’t fair.”

“I heard she’s a whore.”

I bashed the handle of my sword into the last one’s head, and he sprawled to the ground. Extending my arms, I turned in a slow circle. Challenging anyone who dared confront me. Blood ran from a cut on my forehead. “Does anyone else have a problem with my new circumstance?”

Jean Luc howled with laughter. He in particular seemed to enjoy my trial, judgment, and execution—until he entered the ring. “Give me your best, old man.”

I was older than him by three months.

But even battered, even exhausted, even old, I would die before yielding to Jean Luc.

The fight lasted only a few minutes. Though he was quick and nimble, I was stronger. After a good hit, he too crumpled, clutching his ribs. I rubbed the blood from my freshly split lip before helping him up.

“We’ll need to interrupt your conjugal bliss to interrogate her about Tremblay’s, you know. Like it or not, the men are right.” He touched a knot under his eye gingerly. “She does consort with witches. The Archbishop thinks she might be able to lead us to them.”

I almost rolled my eyes. The Archbishop had already confided his hopes to me, but I didn’t tell Jean Luc that. He enjoyed feeling superior. “I know.”

Wooden swords still clacked, and bodies thudded together as our brothers continued around us. No others approached, but they shot me covert looks between rounds. Men who had once respected me. Men who had once laughed, joked, and called me friend. In only a few hours, I’d become the object of my wife’s rejection and my brethren’s scorn. Both stung more than I cared to admit.

Breakfast had been worse. My brethren hadn’t allowed me to eat a bite. Half had been too eager to hear about my wedding night, and the others had studiously ignored me.

What was it like?

Did you enjoy it?

Don’t tell the Archbishop, but . . . I tried it once. Her name was Babette.

Of course I hadn’t actually wanted to consummate. With her. And my brothers—they would come around. Once they realized I wasn’t going anywhere. Which I wasn’t.

Crossing the yard, I threw my sword on the rack. The men parted for me in waves. Their whispers bit and snapped at my back. To my irritation, Jean Luc had no such scruples. He followed me like a plague of locusts.