The morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains in pale, dusty shafts, illuminating the quiet aftermath of the night’s storm.

Vincent remained propped on one elbow, his silhouette a dark, brooding contrast to the rumpled sheets. His gaze was fixed on Penelope, specifically, the way her ash-brown hair was splayed across the pillow and the slight, exhausted curve of her lips in sleep.

The realization sat heavy and sweet in his chest, more intoxicating than any vintage he had ever tasted.

It was her first time.

Despite the bold, seductive mask she had donned the night before, she had been untouched. The memory of her sharp intake of breath and the way she trembled beneath his iron grip sent a fresh surge of possessive heat through his veins.

He had expected a woman who had already given herself away to the "bastard" she claimed to love; instead, he had found a temple that had been waiting only for him.

His lips curled into a faint, dark satisfaction. She was his. Wholly, physically, and irrevocably.

But the satisfaction was tempered by a rare, nagging flicker of guilt. He looked down at the faint blossoming bruises on her wrists where he held her, and the marks his teeth had left on the ivory slope of her shoulder.

It had been his first time too.

Had he been too rough?

This was his first time handling a woman, but in the heat of his obsession, the lines between punishment and passion had blurred.

He reached out, one calloused hand hovering just inches from her cheek. He hesitated, his fingers trembling with a rare, microscopic tremor. It had been a concerted effort to accept that this wasn’t just another fevered dream born of longing and gin, the kind that had haunted his lonely nights for years.

The sweet scent of her, roses and the lingering, carnal musk of their union, filled his senses, grounding him in the brutal, beautiful reality of the morning.

They were married. They had consummated the bond in a way that no law or family could ever undo.

Penny was finally, officially, his wife.

He reached for the lace garter she had personally handed to him the night before, the delicate fabric still holding the warmth of her skin. He pressed a slow, reverent kiss against the silk, breathing it in as if it were the only air left in a burning room.

And as he watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, a dark, terrifying clarity settled over him. Vincent knew that if anyone ever tried to take her away from him, or hurt her in any sense, he wouldn’t just bring back a head on a platter. That would be too quick and merciful.

He would slowly torture the will to live out of them, piece by agonizing piece, until they were a hollowed-out shell of a human. He would make them eat their own refuse and beg for a death he would never grant. No one touched what belonged to the Marquis.

Especially not his woman.

**********

When Penelope awoke from her slumber, her first sensation was a strange, grounded heat. Despite the lingering soreness in her limbs, a testament to the Marquis’s relentless intensity, she felt unusually refreshed. She had to admit that even through the haze of her memory, he had been more than "good". He had been utterly, undebatably consuming.

But as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the chamber, the refreshing clarity evaporated, replaced by a sudden, icy dread.

She tried to tug at her arms, expecting the familiar, heavy resistance of sleep-laden limbs, but instead, her movement was jerked to a violent halt. A sharp, rhythmic clink of metal echoed through the silent chamber, vibrating up her arms.

Penelope’s breath hitched. She tugged again, her heart leaping into her throat as she looked up. Her wrists were encircled by cold iron menacles, tethered to the ornate carvings of the mahogany headboard.

"Vincent?" she croaked, her voice dry.

"You’re awake."

The baritone voice came from the corner of the room. Vincent stood near his wingback chair, his silhouette partially shrouded in shadow despite the persistent morning daylight. He was already fully dressed in a crisp black waistcoat that hugged his broad shoulders. His dark hair, still damp from morning wash, was swept back from his brows. He looked every bit the cold, calculating Marquis he had been before the fever of the previous night.

He turned slowly to look at her, those stormy-gray eyes unreadable as they tracked the frantic, desperate movement of her tethered hands against the headboard.

"What is this?" Penelope demanded, her heart hammering against her ribs as she met his gaze. "Why am I in chains, Vincent?"

Vincent casually slipped a hand into his trouser pocket, leaning forward just enough for the light to catch the sharp, predatory angle in his features. He looked at her with a terrifying mixture of lingering satisfaction, and the cold, renewed suspicion of a man who didn’t believe in miracles.

"You proved many things last night, Penny," he said, his voice a low, dangerous velvet. "It was surprisingly enlightening. You proved you could be mine. You proved you could taste like fire. But you haven’t yet proven to me that you won’t vanish the moment I turn my back."

He took a slow step toward the bed, stopping at the foot of the bed, his gaze sweeping over her. He noted the way her ash-brown hair fell over her shoulders, and the marks of his claim still fresh on her skin.

"You told me you meant every promise you made at the altar. You gave your body to me to prove your loyalty. But a woman who can change her heart as quickly as you did yesterday is a woman who can change it again by noon."

He brought out the keys to the menacles, his lips curling subtly as he dangled them before her eyes. "I am a man of precautions, darling, which means until I am much certain that your sudden change of heart isn’t a masterfully acted play meant to destroy me, you will remain exactly where I can find you."

He reached out, his other hand moving with a slow, deliberate heat until his thumb grazed the arch of her foot. The touch was a lingering slow-burn, a silent reminder of the intimacy they had shared just hours before. Then, with a torturous clink, he placed the key on the far edge of the nightstand. It sat there, a glimmering promise of freedom just inches beyond the reach of her shackled hands.

"Remember I said I’d hurt you if you ever left?" he offered her a slow, dark wink. "Consider this a preventative measure, my love. I’ll be heading out now.

Penelope tugged at the chains, the metal clinking mockingly against the headboard. "But this isn’t right," she spoke up, her voice trembling but determined. "I know exactly where you’re going. You’re going to the palace, aren’t you? Today is the day we are expected to grace the royal family as a newly married couple. You cannot go without me, Vincent."

He didn’t even pause.

"I can," he replied, his tone flat and unyielding as the iron around her wrists. "And I will. I’d rather explain your "sudden illness" to the king than explain your disappearance to the world."

"Vincent–"

But he didn’t even look back. With a final, chilling click to the door’s lock, he was gone, leaving her alone in the vast, silent room. The sound was broken only by the frantic, metallic clink-clink of her struggle.

Penelope slumped against the pillows, her breath coming in short, jagged hitches. Her face was scrunched up in pure, unadulterated frustration, the initial shock giving way to a simmering, indignant heat.

"I’ll get you for this," she muttered begrudgingly, giving the chains one last, violent tug that did nothing but chafe her skin. "You won’t hear the end of this."

She looked at the key he had purposefully left behind. Her mind raced, retracing every moment of the night before. She had given him everything— her body, her promises, even the truth of her touch– and still, his response had been to treat her like a prized hound he feared would bolt the moment the gate was left unlatched.

Why wasn’t he taking her with him?

The realization stung.

In her past life, her rebellion had been loud and clumsy; his obsession has been a cage she fought to escape. But now, when she was actually trying to stand by his side, he was still treating her like a flighty captive.

Was he truly that broken by her past rejection? Or was there something more at play?

She let out a low, frustrated growl, her ash-brown hair falling over her eyes. If he thought he was keeping her safe by doing all of this, then he was underestimating the woman she had become.

One way or another, she was going to free herself from this menacles.