My bride does not look at me. She is determined, as ever, to shunt me to the periphery of her existence, even on this, our wedding night. I touch her. Her skin is as cool as marble, the flesh beneath firm and resilient. I turn her face to look into her eyes, haughty eyes that have scorned me for as long as I remember. “Why are my hands tied?” she murmurs. “Are you afraid of them?” “Of course,” I reply, “A man who stalks a lioness should ever be wary.” “And what does a man do when he has caught said lioness and put her in a cage?” I brush aside a strand of hair that has fallen before her eyes. “He teaches her that captivity can be wonderfully enjoyable."