Page 70 of Lost in the Dark

Whatever I desire?

Oh, Gods.

She didn’t dare voice those thoughts, shouldn’t even think them. Yet her fingertips desired to brush the hair from his face. They wanted to explore the contours of that muscle and—

She pushed her hands into the folds of her skirts. “Th-thank you.”

“You should read your contract, wife,” her husband said. “For it is with this estate. I am master of this place. To be worthy of serving me, you must first prove your worth to Rathbytten.”

Two days later, Anna still didn’t understand what her husband meant. Serve the estate to serve him? If serving him meant cleaning the manor, she was trying to oblige. But the mora continued to haunt her, and her husband continued to avoid her bed. So clearly, she needed to figure things out.

Gods help her, she was doing her best.

Even if the mora screamed at night.

She’d worked through the main hall, pulling out the dead reeds and scrubbing the floor until the smoke-hued stone shone like burnished iron. She’d done the same to the curving stairs, working until her fingers ached and her body cried out for rest. But there’d been no rest.

No respite.

No man in her bed.

Blowing out a breath, she pressed her palms into her back and stretched. Before she’d come to this house, she’d never have imagined the lack of a man being more of a problem than scrubbing an entire entryway. But it was. Even if her husband was inhumanly large and ate enough to feed a household every day. She’d come to Rathbytten intent on becoming a wife, and all she’d done was clean, be ignored by her husband at the table, and get yelled at by angry spirits.

Couldn’t she at least lose her virginity?

“Demons take it,” she muttered.

Clad in her oldest skirt, chemise tied up to protect its hem from the dust coating the castle floors, Anna found her way into the portrait gallery. Full of towering oils in gilt frames, the gallery was a marvel—and the first she’d heard of outside the royal residence or the great churches.

Such wealth, and such disrepair.

She ran a finger along a gilt frame, tisked at the thick layer of gray it deposited on her fingertip. Dust coated every surface and damp had long turned white sheets brown and speckled. There were paintings stacked along one wall, and she could only imagine the treasures slowly moldering—especially as the frames were so thick she could barely budge them.

“Lady,” a deep voice rumbled in her ear. “How might I help?”

She jerked back, hand pressed to her breastbone. “Enulf!”

“Apologies, Mistress.” His massive form retreated, arms curling inward as if bracing for a blow.

“No…please.” Heart pounding, she tried to reassure him.

It didn’t matter that he’d surprised her, she couldn't bear the thought of Enulf thinking she was upset with him. So far, his quiet presence had been the best thing about Rathbytten. He helped when he could, moving items and fetching clear water—and barely saying a word the entire time.

How did he manage to move so silently?

It seemed unlikely for so large a creature to step so softly.

“No apologies necessary, I am grateful for the company.” She smiled up at him. “I am afraid the sheer volume of painting in this gallery might defeat me. These frames are carved from stone.”

“We can’t have defeat,” he said. “Allow me to help.”

“Gratefully.” She laughed. “I dare say you’re one of the few who’d be able.”

He ducked his head, but not before she caught the sharp stain of color on his cheeks.

Had he been teased for his awkward form? For all her new husband’s talk of serving the household, she’d learned he wasn’t always kind to his servant. It baffled her. Enulf was loyal and huge and capable and…

And sometimes she thought about him at night.

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