Page 73 of Lost in the Dark

After the sound of his footsteps had disappeared, Anna crept toward the painting and gently removed the cloth. There, on the freshly polished strip of copper, was the name of the piece—and the answer to her question:Service To The Manor.

Anna sat at the breakfast table, doing her best to make half a biscuit and three wedges of tired apple last, all while her husband shoveled oats and sausages into his mouth. Had it gotten wider? Were those flashes of white at the corners of his mouth bigger now than they’d been that first night?

She feared they were.

Six days into her stay at Rathbytten, she feared many things.

But she couldn’t let fear stop her, not when her family’s livelihood hung in the balance. She had to consummate her marriage, had to ensure the coins given in exchange for her hand never had to be returned. Straightening in her hard wooden chair, she placed her hands neatly on the table and focused on the enormous figure dominating the head of the table. “Dearest husband?”

He grunted and regarded her over the edge of his bowl. “What?”

“I have been working hard to serve this manor and I thought we might spend the day together—”

He grunted again. “I have important business.”

“But…” She swallowed hard, and forced herself to persevere. “It has been six days since I joined this house. You counseled me to serve Rathbytten and—” Images of that painting, the woman’s pleasure and the man’s tusks, flashed through her mind. Her body tightened with a strange desire. “—I understand that cleaning is not all that entails.”

“No?” His head tipped to the side.

Those black eyes were so cold she felt the chill in her bones. When she looked into them, she swore she could hear the mora crying, as they did over her bed every night. It made her want to run—to hide. But she had so many questions, and even Enulf had avoided her since that moment in the gallery. The urge to glance at him—the only source of kindness she’d found in this house—was nearly overwhelming.

She kept her gaze on her husband. “I understand that serving this house involves more…intimate acts.”

He stared at her in silence.

Heart pounding, she returned the gaze.

“Intimate?” His heavy black brows rose. “You think… you think I would share myself with you? A pale, scrawny creature dressed in tired rags who hasn’t yet managed the rest of her duties as due this house thinks to serveme?” A laugh bubbled out of him, a deep, grating bray that struck her body like a series of blows. “You do not serve me first, wife. You will fillmethrough Rathbytten.”

Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, but she lifted her chin. “If not you first, then who? Another member of your family?”

“Another?” Her husband’s head tipped to the side, lips curving into a cruel smile. “Ah. You mean my worthless half-brother? Crippled, weak creature. You want to serve this house in such a place?”

Wood scraped across stone as Enulf shoved away from the table. He gripped the back of his chair, body hunched in pain.

“Look at that,” her husband mocked. “Useless!”

Shame contorted Enulf’s features.

Her heart ached in sympathy.

“Hah!” Another laugh burst out of her husband. “Look at him. Who would want such a thing?”

“None.” Enulf bowed his head. “She did not mean to imply she’d—”

“What… what if I did?” Anna asked.

Golden gods preserve me. What was she doing? But she couldn’t seem to stop herself, couldn’t look away from the defeated angle of Enulf’s head, or the way those gorgeous, massive hands flexed against the back of his chair. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d rubbed that painting clear and revealed its sinful secrets, or how his question had seemed to offer so much more than she’d initially understood.

She forced herself to turn and regard the man she thought was her husband.

In the shadows of the breakfast room, his skin appeared almost green. White teeth flashed behind the silvering curls of his beard. Huge and cruel, he seemed to rejoice in her confusion—and her obligation.

Troll country, her grandmother had said.

Her throat ran dry.

Trolls.

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