My Arranged Husband Had A Terrifying Reputation — But His Reaction Behind Closed Doors Left Me Speechless

Part 1

My body felt like it was made of lead.

I crawled up into the massive bed, sinking into the mattress.

The sheets were freezing.

I lay on the extreme edge, my back to him, staring at the faded floral pattern on the wallpaper.

My family had traded me to this estate to clear a debt we could never repay.

Everyone knew the stories about the men in this house.

They were ruthless, violent, and took whatever they wanted without consequence.

I listened to the rustle of his clothing.

The heavy clunk of his boots hitting the floorboards echoed in the massive room.

A soft clinking of glass signaled he was pouring another drink.

Then came silence, save for the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the glass.

“Megan.”

His rough voice floated across the dark room.

I stiffened, gripping the quilt tighter.

“Yes?”

“My father was a monster,” Craig said quietly.

The anger had bled out of his tone, leaving only deep exhaustion.

“He locked his wives in the dark.”

“He broke their fingers.”

“He died screaming at phantoms.”

I held my breath, waiting for the inevitable cruelty I had been sold to endure.

My pulse thrummed violently against my throat.

“I am not him.”

“I don’t want you, but I will not hurt you.”

“You can sleep.”

I closed my eyes.

For the first time in three days, I actually did.

Dawn did not break over the remote estate.

It merely diluted the darkness into a bruised milky gray.

The rain had stopped, but the wind continued to howl around the stone turrets.

It was a high-pitched mournful wail that rattled the glass in the window panes.

I woke with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs.

For a fraction of a second, I smelled stale tobacco and thought I was back in my father’s car, being driven to my fate.

Then the scent of cold ash and sharp leather registered.

I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the heavy curtains.

I was alone in the bed.

I pushed myself up onto my elbows.

My body ached in new spectacular ways.

The bruise on my elbow was a violent purple from when I was shoved into the vehicle yesterday.

The muscles in my neck were stiff from sleeping rigidly on my side.

Craig was still in the chair.

He slept with the same tense aggression he possessed while awake.

His head was thrown back against the leather.

His jaw was clenched tight.

One arm hung off the side, his knuckles grazing the floorboards.

His white dress shirt was crumpled and stained with soot from the fireplace.

The top three buttons were undone, revealing a shadow of dark chest hair.

In the harsh morning light, the exhaustion etched into his face was undeniable.

Deep lines bracketed his mouth.

The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises.

He looked entirely human, entirely mortal.

It shattered the terrifying image the rumors had painted of him.

A sharp, authoritative knock rapped against the heavy mahogany door.

Craig didn’t stir.

I froze.

I pulled the velvet quilt up to my chin, my knuckles white.

The knock sounded again, louder this time.

The brass handle turned, and the door swung open.

Brenda stepped into the room.

She was followed by a young maid carrying a heavy silver tray.

The housekeeper’s face was an unreadable mask of pinched disapproval.

Her dark eyes swept the room.

They landed first on the empty side of the bed.

Then they shifted to me, huddled under the covers.

Finally, she glared at Craig sprawled in the chair.

A microscopic sneer touched the corner of Brenda’s mouth.

She had run this house with an iron fist for decades, thriving on the fear instilled by Craig’s father.

“Put it on the table, Heather.”

Brenda instructed the maid, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

The clatter of porcelain against silver finally broke through Craig’s exhaustion.

He flinched, his brow furrowing.

He opened his eyes, blinking sluggishly at the ceiling for a moment.

Then he dragged his gaze to the intruders.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Brenda?”

Craig rasped, his voice rough with sleep.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing as he stretched his neck.

“It is eight o’clock, sir.”

Brenda said smoothly.

“I brought breakfast and hot water for the new bride.”

She paused before the title, injecting just enough hesitation to make it an insult.

She wanted me to know I held no real power here.

Craig pushed himself up, his joints cracking loudly.

He looked at the tray.

Two boiled eggs, a pot of tea, and a few dry slices of toast.

He looked at Brenda.

Then he looked at me.

I was still clutching the blanket like a shield, staring at the housekeeper with wide, anxious eyes.

“Get out.”

Craig said.

Brenda blinked.

“Sir, the water will go cold.”

“I said get out.”

The color drained from Brenda’s face as Craig’s voice hardened into something cold and absolute.