‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
Althea turned slowly from the window. Demos stood in the middle of the room; he’d shed his jacket and loosened his tie. He looked beautiful, virile, and utterly furious.
‘Nothing’s wrong with me,’ she said slowly.
‘You’ve been acting like a ghost since we married,’ Demos accused. ‘Did I marry a woman, Althea, or a shell?’ He raked a hand through his hair.
‘It’s too late to back out now, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Yes, it’s too late,’ he agreed, his voice pitched low, a parody of pleasantness. ‘No one’s going to back out now.’
Althea knew what he meant. She’d been preparing for this moment. ‘What are you saying?’
Demos’s smile widened, although his eyes stayed hard and unforgiving. ‘I want my wedding night.’