She would have to undress for him.
Let him see her body—the freckles she hated, the scars on her back, the bruises still healing on her ribs.
Would he be disgusted?
Would he care?
Would he even notice, or would he simply blow out the candles and take her in the dark?
And he would touch her.
His hands on her skin, on places no one had ever touched.
His mouth, perhaps, if the novels were to be believed.
His body pressing against hers, into hers, joining with hers in a way that seemed both terrifying and strangely…
intimate.
Would she feel anything?
The novels spoke of pleasure, of women crying out in ecstasy, of sensations that overwhelmed and consumed.
But they also spoke of duty, of wives who endured rather than enjoyed, who lay still and silent while their husbands took their pleasure.
Which would she be?
The thought was overwhelming.
Terrifying and strange and somehow…
not entirely unwelcome?
She’d never thought about children before.
Never allowed herself to imagine a future that included them.
But now, lying in the darkness with her heart racing and her cheeks flaming and her mind full of questions she had no answers to, she couldn’t help but wonder.
To create a child, she would have to…
to do that with Theron.
Multiple times, probably.
The maids had giggled about how often their husbands wanted it.
“Every night for the first month,” one had said, and the others had laughed and agreed.
Every night.
Kat’s breath came faster.
Every night, she would be in his bed.
Every night, he would touch her, claim her, use her body for his pleasure and to create an heir.
Would she grow to like it?
Would it become easier, less frightening?
Or would it always be something to endure, a wifely duty she performed because she had no choice?
She didn’t know.
She had no way of knowing.
The maids had seemed to enjoy it, or at least not mind it.
They’d giggled and blushed and shared knowing looks.
One had even said, “Once you get past the first time, it’s actually quite nice.
My husband knows just how to—” and then she’d been shushed by the others, who’d noticed Kat listening from around the corner.
But what did that mean?
What did a husband do to make it “quite nice”?
All she had were questions and fears and a curiosity that burned almost as hot as her embarrassment.
Kat pulled the blanket tighter around herself, as if she could hide from her own thoughts.
But they wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t leave her alone.
Would Theron expect her to know what to do?
Would he be patient with her ignorance, or would he be frustrated by her inexperience?
Would he want her to touch him too?
The thought made her face burn even hotter.
How?
Would he guide her, or would he expect her to know instinctively?
And afterward—what happened afterward?
Would he hold her, or would he simply roll away and go to sleep?
Would they talk, or would there be awkward silence?
Would he expect her to leave his bed and return to her own room, or would she be expected to stay?
There were so many things she didn’t know, so many questions she had no way of answering.
In a week, maybe two, she would know the answers to all these questions.
She would know what Theron looked like, how he touched her, whether he was gentle or rough.
She would know what it felt like to be intimate with a man, to have him inside her body, to be joined with him in the most fundamental way.
She would know if it hurt as much as she feared, or if there was pleasure to be found in it, as the novels promised.
And she would know if she could survive it—not just the physical act, but the vulnerability of it.
The exposure.
The surrender of control over her own body to someone else.
The thought made her tremble, though whether from fear or anticipation or some confusing mixture of both, she couldn’t say.
Kat took a shaky breath and tried to calm her racing heart.
This was foolish.
She was getting ahead of herself, imagining things that might never come to pass—or at least, not in the way she feared.
What if he was rough?
What if he hurt her, not out of cruelty but simply because he was large, and she was small, and he didn’t know how to be gentle?
What if she bled?
The maids had mentioned that too—that there would be blood the first time, proof of her virginity.
Would it be a lot of blood?
Would it stain the sheets?
Would it hurt more because of the bleeding?
What if she cried?
Would he be angry if she cried, or would he stop?
Would he care that she was frightened?
What if she couldn’t do it?
What if her body simply refused, tensed up too much, made it impossible?
Would he force her anyway?
Would he have the right to force her, as her husband?
The questions spiraled through her mind, each one more frightening than the last.
But then, quieter, another thought emerged:
What if it wasn’t terrible?
What if Theron was kind?
What if he was patient?
What if he took his time and made sure she was comfortable and didn’t hurt her more than necessary?
What if there really was pleasure to be found in it?
What if the maids were right, and once she got past the fear and the pain of the first time, it could actually be…
nice?
What if she liked it?
The thought was almost more frightening than the fear of pain.
Because if she liked it, if she found pleasure in her husband’s touch, what did that make her?
The church said women weren’t supposed to enjoy such things, that it was a duty to be endured for the purpose of procreation.
Only wanton women, sinful women, enjoyed the marriage bed.
But the maids had enjoyed it, and they weren’t sinful.
They were good women, faithful wives, devoted mothers.
Maybe the church was wrong.
Maybe it was all right for a woman to find pleasure with her husband.
expected?
She didn’t know.
She had no way of knowing.
First, she had to survive the journey.
Then the wedding.
Then…
whatever came after.
One step at a time.
Her eyes grew heavy at last, her racing thoughts beginning to slow and blur, though her face still felt warm, and her heart still fluttered with nervous energy.
She pulled the blanket tighter and let herself drift, floating on the edge of sleep.
She couldn’t control what Theron would be like, couldn’t predict how he would treat her.
All she could do was hope—hope that he would be kind, hope that he would be patient, hope that he would see her as more than just a duty or a curse.
And if he wasn’t?
If he was cruel, if he hurt her, if he was everything she feared?
Then she would survive.
The way she’d always survived.
She would make herself small and quiet, would endure what she had to endure, would find small moments of peace wherever she could.
She’d survived twenty years in this house.
She could survive whatever came next.
But oh, how she hoped she wouldn’t have to just survive.
How she hoped there might be something more—something better, something worth living for rather than just enduring.
Her last coherent thought was a question, whispered into the darkness of her small room:
But sleep didn’t come easily.
She lay there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the house settling around her—the creak of old wood, the whisper of wind through the eaves, the distant chime of the clock marking the hours.
At some point, she couldn’t say when, she found herself getting out of bed.
Her feet were cold against the floor as she padded to the window and looked out at the estate one last time.
The moon was nearly full, casting silver light across the grounds.
She could see the gardens below, the paths she’d walked during her rare moments of freedom.
The stables where her father had beaten her.
The fountain where she’d found her smooth stone.
The rose bushes where she’d discovered her ribbon.
This had been her world.
This small estate, these few buildings, this narrow slice of existence.
And tomorrow, she would leave it all behind.
She pressed her hand against the cold glass, feeling the chill seep into her palm.
Somewhere out there, beyond the estate walls, beyond the southern lands she’d never seen, Theron Blackwood was waiting.
Perhaps he was looking out his own window right now, wondering about the bride who was coming to him.
Perhaps he was dreading it, resenting the political necessity that had forced him to accept a second wife.
Or perhaps he wasn’t thinking about her at all.
Kat stood there for a long time, watching the moonlight paint shadows across the grounds, memorizing the view she’d seen from this window for so many years.
When she finally returned to bed, her feet were numb with cold, and her eyes were heavy with exhaustion.
She climbed back under the blanket and closed her eyes, and this time, sleep began to pull her under.
What if he’s kind?
It was a foolish hope, she knew.
A desperate, childish wish.
The world had taught her not to hope for kindness, not to expect gentleness, not to believe that anyone would see her as something other than a curse.
But as sleep finally claimed her, pulling her down into dreams of dark forests and scarred faces and eyes that might—just might—see her as something other than a curse, she clung to that hope like a lifeline.
Because hope, however fragile, was all she had left.
And tomorrow, she would carry it north, into the unknown, and see if it was enough to light her way.