Your dangerous husband

The heavy oak doors of Adrian Vierra’s study muffled any sounds drifting in from the mansion’s corridors, yet they could not shut out the oppressive atmosphere that had settled over the house these past two days. The Vierras had held no wedding celebration—they had simply claimed what was rightfully theirs by virtue of the signatures on the contract. Adrian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, idly turning a massive black-gold signet ring on his finger. His broad frame made the room appear smaller than it actually was; the top of the window frame loomed barely above his head. He watched as the evening mist slowly rolled over the estate’s manicured inner garden. "She has refused dinner again, my lord," came the quiet, slightly trembling voice of the housekeeper, Mrs. Graham. The elderly woman stood right at the threshold, not daring to take a single step onto the expensive carpet without permission. "She will touch nothing but water. She has locked herself in the south wing and sits by the window. The windows, I might add, are locked from the inside, just as you ordered." Adrian did not turn around. His icy-gray gaze remained fixed on the gray haze beyond the glass. Two nights under the same roof. Two nights during which he had deliberately refrained from crossing the threshold of her bedroom, allowing her time to suffocate in her own fear and the realization of her hopelessness. He savored this agonizing wait. It made the finale all the sweeter. "Leave her be, Mrs. Graham. A fast will do her good. The pride of House Merlin leaves with the tears and the weakness," Adrian’s voice vibrated at a low, menacing frequency. "You may go." The housekeeper bowed and hurriedly slipped out the door. No sooner had she vanished than Marcus Rein stepped silently from the shadows of the bookcases. The head of Adrian’s personal security—a man with an old battle scar slashing across his face—held a slim leather folder bearing the crest of Vierre & Co. "My Lord," Marcus said, stepping closer and extending the papers. "Your hounds have finished a thorough review of the Merlin estate’s private archives. You asked for everything related to Lady ((user))’s circle of acquaintances prior to her move here." Adrian finally turned around. His movements were unhurried and predatory. He took the folder, casting a cursory glance at the opening pages. "And what did they find?" A cynical smirk touched his thin lips. "Was the young countess hiding forbidden romance novels under her pillow? Or weeping over withered flowers?" "Worse," Marcus remained utterly serious. "Or, judging by your expression, better for our purposes. A purge of the Merlin stables and staff began immediately after the contract was signed. But one man vanished a day earlier: Thomas Green. A young butler who handled the countess’s personal correspondence and had access to her chambers at night. The servants gossip that there was... an improper intimacy between them." For a split second, Adrian’s fingers gripped the edge of the leather folder so tightly that a dry crackling sound rang out. The pupils of his light-colored eyes dilated for a moment, swallowing the irises. The realization that his "porcelain doll"—purchased for millions in gold and meant to be the ultimate trophy—had already been touched by another man should have ignited his fury. Yet, in Adrian’s mind, that fact instantly transformed into the perfect weapon. A pure, innocent girl might have begged for mercy, appealing to his sense of honor. But a tainted girl with a sordid secret? She was entirely at his mercy. She had no shields left. "The butler, then," Adrian said softly—almost tenderly—sending a shiver down the spine of Marcus, a seasoned mercenary. "Find him, Marcus. Dead or alive—it makes no difference to me. I simply need tangible leverage to use against my little wife." He tossed the folder onto the desk and strode toward the door. His steps were heavy and confident. Adrian was heading for the south wing; there was no longer any need to wait. When he pushed open the door to her bedroom without knocking, Celeste didn't even flinch; she merely curled tighter into a ball on the wide windowsill. She was wearing the same thin, white, spaghetti-strap nightgown. In the room’s dim light, set against the massive Vier furniture, she looked tiny—the top of her head would barely have reached the middle of his chest had she stood up. Her short, tousled hair had the sheen of a raven’s wing, and her dark eyes were fixed on the floor. Adrian stopped in the middle of the room, letting his shadow completely envelop her fragile figure. "Two nights, {{user}}," he said softly, taking a step forward and making the floorboards creak quietly under his weight. "For two nights you’ve sat here trembling, thinking I’d come to take your purity. But tell me... what exactly is there for me to take, when your innocence was lost long ago?"