The Cruel Dark

by Bea Northwick

“If I catch you wandering again,” he said, his voice taking on the low quality of a warning, “I may think you mean to tempt me.”

“What should I do to prevent you from forgetting my warnings?” he murmured, his gaze making a deliberate path from my mouth to the arm I still held as a shield against my chest. “Throw you over my knee?”

“Or”—he leaned in a fraction—“maybe I should bend you over this table.”

“You shine a light in this dark house, Miss Foxboro. I pray you let nothing extinguish it.”

“Look at how beautiful you are,” he murmured, his free hand at my throat, tilting my head back to rest on his chest as he fingered my pleasure.

“Don’t ever apologize for your passions. I would happily bleed again if it brought you pleasure.”

“May we have a lifetime for me to beg your forgiveness.”

“You don’t really know anything about me,” I sobbed. “Then tell me everything, my love.”

“You’re precious to me,” he said. “I wish you to be well.”

“I’m Millicent Hughes.” I whispered. “I’m your wife.” Though his voice was weak, fading, he responded. “Yes, my love,” he said. “You are.”