Claire had once told him that the most dangerous thing a woman could be was beautiful. He'd thought it preposterous at the time, but gradually, he'd come to understand it. Three decades of watching a parade of men, and more than a few women, declare either silently or otherwise their undying devotion and desire for his wife had crystallised those words. The men didn't think he could see the jealousy burning in the backs of their eyes, but he recognised it instinctively - because there had been moments he'd felt it himself. Not in the same desperate, grasping way, of course. His was a jealousy that twisted his stomach in that queer, painful yet delightful way of deep, permanent love. That jealousy was not for Claire's unattainability, but born of the fact that she was his, his wife. She was his mate, and not one person on earth could begin to comprehend what they had or how deep it ran. Frank was jealous because he was hers, and she equally his. He watched the other men glare and mutter when they thought he couldn't see them. And he laughed at how utterly meaningless they all were, like a single grain of sand, a lone drop in a river.
Then Petrov came, and he truly understood why Claire had said beauty was dangerous. He'd floated the idea of taking Claire as his mistress, of all goddamned things. It hadn't been actually a suggestion so much as a polite demand, Frank was sure. Curtesy of one head of state to another. The bastard had thought he could lay claim to her, barter for her, demand her.
Claire was no one's to own.
He'd heard her explain the invisible scars left by a future general. Listened to her recount the actions of spineless teenage boys who not once but twice could have derailed her life with their flagrant irresponsibility. Their cowardice had left Claire to face two abortions alone, with not a word to either of them, because his wife had meant nothing more to them than a trophy. Each had been enraptured by her stunning beauty and charm, and once they had it, all other things be damned.
At last, he understood how dangerous it was for a woman to be beautiful.
In her life, Claire had been underestimated, devalued, placed on a pedestal to be admired and worshiped, judged first for her siren's face, but never asked to prove her intelligence. None of them had ever expected that her mind was far more formidable than her features. So they had never asked, content to gawk at a woman standing like a goddess in their midst. The thought seemed to burn him.
But Claire was his as he was hers, and they operated as one entity, one consciousness sharing two bodies. Her mind was his favorite part about her: terrifying and brilliant in ways even he still failed to fully grasp. Yes, there were occasions in which he was jealous, but only because he ached in his bones to zealously guard her from what it meant to beautiful. They were each other's second parts, two hearts beating in sync.