Elizabeth
Sharing a room with Alexander was never part of the plan. It wasn't a clause in our agreement, nor a consequence I had considered when I signed away my future. The weight of the evening settled on my shoulders the moment the door closed behind us and the click of the lock sounded louder than it should have, echoing in the room like an omen.
I stood frozen near the door, my eyes darting around to take in the space that was to be ours now. This was it—the wedding night. The very words made my stomach twist in knots. I didn't know what to expect, and the uncertainty gnawed at me.
"So…" I started, breaking the silence.
Alexander wheeled himself further into the room, stopping near the couch by the window. "You don't have to look so terrified," he said dryly, not bothering to glance in my direction. "I'm not about to pounce on you."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I wasn't—"
He raised a hand, cutting me off. "Relax. I'll sleep on the couch."
The bluntness of his tone caught me off guard, and for a moment, I didn't know how to respond. "You don't have to," I said finally, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "The bed is big enough for both of us."
He turned his chair slightly to face me, his eyes meeting mine with a sharpness that made my breath catch. "Do you really want to share a bed with me?" he asked, his voice low and unreadable.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how to answer. I didn't want to offend him, but the idea of sharing a bed with someone I barely knew—even if he was my husband—made my stomach twist with nerves.
"That's what I thought," he said, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "Don't worry. I'll stay out of your way."
He turned back to the couch, effectively ending the conversation. I stared at his back for a moment, feeling a strange mix of guilt and relief.
"Okay," I mumbled, fiddling nervously with the bracelet on my wrist. The awkwardness hung heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on.
I turned toward my suitcase, desperate for something to occupy my hands. As I unzipped it and began to rummage through the neatly packed clothes, my fingers froze. The sleepwear staring back at me was not what I had packed.
"Leslie," I hissed under my breath, instantly recognizing my best friend's meddling. She must have switched out my modest cotton pajamas for these… things. Lace, satin, sheer fabric—each one more scandalous than the last. My cheeks burned as I pulled out a deep burgundy slip with thin straps and far too much skin on display. This was the most "decent" one, though calling it that felt like a stretch.
My pulse quickened as I held the slip up, inspecting it under the dim light. It wasn't just revealing; it was downright mortifying. The fabric shimmered in my hands, soft yet provocative, with a hem that barely grazed the middle of my thighs. The neckline plunged deeper than I was comfortable with, and I couldn't imagine myself wearing it in front of Alexander.
But what choice did I have? I couldn't sleep in my wedding dress, and I certainly wasn't going to fish through the suitcase for something worse.
I glanced over my shoulder. Alexander seemed wholly uninterested in my predicament, but that didn't make it any less mortifying.
"I'll… I'll go take a bath," I mumbled, grabbing the slip and hurrying toward the bathroom before he could respond.
*******
The warm water did little to ease the tension in my muscles. As I scrubbed off the remnants of makeup and the weight of the day, I couldn't shake the anxiety buzzing under my skin. When I stepped out and caught sight of myself in the mirror, my heart sank.
The slip clung to my skin in a way that left nothing to the imagination. I tugged at the hem, willing it to grow longer, but it stubbornly stayed where it was. My hair fell in loose waves around my shoulders, damp and messy.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the bathroom door.
Alexander's gaze snapped to me the moment I stepped out, and I froze. His eyes traveled down, briefly taking in the slip before flicking back to my face. There was no smirk, no leer, just a heavy, unreadable expression that made my stomach twist.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The air felt charged, as if the room itself were holding its breath. I felt exposed under his gaze, vulnerable in a way I hadn't anticipated. My fingers gripped the edge of the bathroom door, my knuckles turning white.
Then Alexander cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "I'll take my turn now," he said, his voice gruff. Without another glance, he wheeled himself toward the bathroom, disappearing inside and shutting the door behind him.
The breath I hadn't realized I was holding escaped in a rush. My cheeks burned as I hurried to the bed and slipped under the covers, pulling the duvet up to my chin as though it could shield me from the awkwardness of the situation.
But sleep wouldn't come. I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn't quiet. The tension in the room lingered, pressing down on me even in Alexander's absence.
When he returned, I pretended to be asleep. I heard the soft whir of his wheelchair as he moved to the couch, the faint rustle of fabric as he settled in. I wanted to say something, to break the silence, but the words wouldn't come.
Minutes turned into an hour, and still, I couldn't sleep. The bed felt too big, too empty, and the tension between us was like a wall I couldn't scale.
A sudden sound broke the quiet—a soft curse, followed by the faint clatter of something hitting the floor. I sat up, my heart racing. "Alexander?"
He was by the couch, his wheelchair tilted awkwardly, his hand reaching for a water bottle that had rolled out of reach.
"Don't," he said sharply when he saw me move. "I can handle it."
I ignored him, slipping out of bed and padding over to him. "It's fine," I said softly, crouching to pick up the bottle.
When I handed it to him, he didn't take it immediately. His gaze met mine, and for a moment, I thought he was going to argue. But then he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Thanks."
I nodded, stepping back to give him space, but he surprised me by speaking again. "You don't have to… tiptoe around me, you know. I'm not made of glass."
His tone wasn't harsh, but there was an edge to it that made my chest ache. "I'm not tiptoeing," I replied quietly. "I just… don't know what to do."
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something other than bitterness in his expression. There was exhaustion there, and pain, but also something softer, something I couldn't quite name.
"Neither do I," he admitted after a moment. Then he turned his wheelchair toward the couch, signaling the end of the conversation.
I climbed back into bed, pulling the duvet tightly around me.