Antonin sat bolt upright in bed, clutching a glass of whiskey so hard his knuckles were going white. He didn't know whether he wanted to go out and kill someone or pull the curly-haired witch into his arms and never let her go.
He still couldn't say he liked the girl, but damn it... she was his wife. In addition to having an explosive temper, Antonin Dolohov was a possessive man by nature. He had grown up in a vicious, cutthroat family. Anyone who didn't firmly stake a claim on what was theirs would have it ripped away from them. He had spent the whole week silently seething every time Lestrange's eyes followed his wife out of the room.
A slow, vicious smile curled across his face at the thought that after today's display, Lestrange would think twice about giving Hermione the eye. The woman in question made a soft noise and turned over, moving closer to him in her sleep. His posture softened slightly as he looked down at her. Although he still had no real desire to be married, he couldn't deny that she had earned his respect over the past week.
He had been impressed against his will when she strode into the dining room on that first day as if she owned the place. Despite having been raised by muggles, the natural poise she exuded was something that most pureblood women only dreamed of. He could imagine how furious she was to be stuck here, and would be shocked if she wasn't plotting an escape. Nonetheless, she kept her cool and had a pokerface to rival that of Narcissa Malfoy. Antonin knew only too well that women like that were the most dangerous kind, because they gave no warning before they struck.
She was certainly a contrast to the string of vapid, clinging witches he had bedded. For the first time in his life, he found himself unsure how to break the ice with her. She seemed perfectly content to coexist alongside him without speaking a word. He'd been expecting her to plead to be let go, or try to bargain with him. But infuriatingly, she made no such demands. He had opened his mouth at least twenty times this week, in the morning at breakfast or as they read at night, to break the silence but hadn't ever managed to get the words out to start a conversation.
The first day he had seen her cleaned and dressed in proper witches' robes he had immediately wanted to tear them back off her. He'd fantasized by now about taking her hard on every surface in their bedroom. But what could he say to her?
"I'm glad I did not succeed in murdering you those two times. Want to get naked?"
"I bet you've got scar from where I cursed you. Let me see it, and that fantastic pair of tits while I'm at it?
It didn't help that he always felt tongue-tied in English. The words just didn't come out of his mouth properly. They were all the wrong shape, and he knew his grammar was abominable. He also knew that nobody ever corrected him for fear of triggering his legendary temper.
She had certainly warmed up to him tonight, though. He felt himself grow hard as he thought about slipping her towel down to expose the tanned skin of her bare back. He had almost lost all control at the feel of her taught muscles and soft skin. Antonin groaned softly as her words replayed themselves in his head, "Please don't stop." His whole body throbbed as he remembered the blush that stole across her face after that.
He let himself look at her now, really look at her. Her face was relaxed, lacking the controlled wariness it usually held during the day. She had a light dusting of freckles across her nose, and her riotous hair curled around her head like a halo. Her skin was an olive color, and he wondered if the Vance family had Mediterranean roots. She might not be considered a classical beauty, but even in sleep there was something arresting about her.
"Fuck," he groaned softly. Antonin skolled the rest of the whiskey and climbed carefully out of bed and walked into the bathroom. As he turned on a cold shower, he cursed every gentlemanly instinct that had kept him from ripping her towel off tonight.
"She was probably in shock," he told himself sternly as he stepped under the cold spray. Still, he smiled to himself. Perhaps it was a start.