I mold myself around his moods. I have become very good at surviving.
By winter, I no longer think of escape. I think of endurance.
I tell myself this is marriage. That love can be bruising. That I am strong enough to bear it. That if I am careful, if I am quiet, if I am good, it will not get worse.
* * *
He is gone for a week.
Long enough for my body to relax into the quiet. Long enough for the palace to feel almost safe again. I sleep better, I breathe easier. I even let myself imagine what it might be like if this were permanent. Maybe I could stay here while he starts traveling again in the spring. I am a day’s ride away from my father’s estates. I could visit my parents and my siblings every now and again; they could come and see me here, too.
I look around the room. It’s smaller than our chamber in Acheron, but I have been able to decorate in a way that reminds me of my childhood bedroom. Soft green colors make the tight space feel fresher, like sleeping outside in the woods in the summer. The soft green carpet reminds me of moss on the forest floor and the light green curtains soften the harsh stone optics of the cold palace walls—
The door flies open with a crash that rattles the walls.
The sound is so violent it steals the air from my lungs. I jolt upright in bed, heart slamming against my ribs. The door rebounds off the stone and swings back, groaning.
Charles stands in the doorway.
The look in his eyes freezes me where I am. Not anger—something worse. Something feral. He grips a bottle in one hand, the glass slick with condensation. The smell of liquor reaches me even from across the room.
I know that look.
My body reacts before my mind does. I shrink inward, folding into myself, scrambling back across the mattress. I pull the covers up, past my chin, past my mouth, until only my eyes are exposed. As if fabric might protect me. As if becoming small enough will make me invisible.
He doesn’t say a word.
He paces the room like a caged animal, kicking a stool aside, sending it skidding across the floor. It crashes against the wall. I flinch at every sound. My hands tremble beneath the blankets. I want to hide entirely, but I know I need to keep an eye on him. I need to know what he is doing. I need to be prepared.
He fumbles with his clothes, swearing under his breath, growing angrier when his fingers don’t cooperate. The bottle hits the floor and rolls. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
The bed dips beneath his weight.
He leans over me, his mouth pressing against my neck, my cheek. His skin is hot. He smells of sweat and alcohol and the road. My stomach turns. Usually, he isn’t particularly interested in sex when he is drunk, so I stay still, willing him to ignore me.
He doesn’t.
I feel his cock against me, digging into my back. Panic coils tight in my chest.
“I’m tired,” I whisper finally. “I don’t feel well.”
He doesn’t answer.
“I mean it,” I say, my voice barely there. “Please.”
The word seems to snap something.
Pain explodes across my side. I cry out before I can stop myself. The room spins. For a moment, there is nothing but darkness and ringing.
When awareness creeps back in, my body feels heavy, unresponsive. He is still there, hands on me, tugging, impatient. I whimper, trying to push him away, my strength gone.
“Please,” I sob. “Not tonight. We can—tomorrow. I’m not well.”
He ignores me.
Fear floods me, raw and overwhelming. I know what happens when I resist. I know how this ends.
