"And you agreed to this?"
He looked confused, as if the concept that her consent might matter was foreign to him. "The colonel said I should, miss."
"But do you really want it?"
The question took him by surprise. His eyes met mine. Dark brown, surprisingly gentle for such a fearsome face. "I... I don't know what I want, miss. I'm a slave. Usually what I want doesn't matter."
The honesty was brutal and ruthless at the same time. My father cleared his throat. "Perhaps you should talk in private. I'll be in my study."
He left, closing the door and leaving me alone with a seven-foot-tall slave man who was supposedly my husband. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like hours.
“Do you want to sit down?” I finally asked, pointing to the chair in front of me.
Josiah looked at the delicate piece of furniture with its embroidered cushions, then at her imposing figure. "I don't think that chair would hold me, miss."
“So, the sofa.”
He sat carefully on the edge. Even sitting, he towered over me. His hands rested on his knees, each finger like a small club, marked with scars and calluses.
“Are you afraid of me, miss?”
“Should I be?”
"No, miss. I would never hurt you. I swear."
