The troop banged their forks on the table, creating a rude clatter. She ran betwixt them, scarcely having served one of them before another would join in on the cacophony of noise. Eventually, they quieted down, or at least as far as the noise was directed at her. They became more and more drunk, laughing amongst themselves. Olaf sat at the head of the table, watching her scurry back and forth obediently.

She was quiet, reserved, well disciplined. He watched her above the brim of his glass, drinking deeply to mark his enjoyment. His chest swelled with pride at having so beautiful a wife. And she was beautiful. Almost perfect.

Then they began one by one, snapping at her for refills of their drinks. She abandoned the pot and, taking up a bottle of wine, began to make her rounds again. One man, particularly brazen, slipped a hand along her thigh, whispering "And dessert?" Her face flushed and she dropped the bottle with a clatter. The man quickly removed his hand, lest Olaf see him and remove it in a very literal sense.

"And now you've made a mess. Not to mention wasted very fine wine." He reprimanded from the head of the table. She stooped, still flushed from the attack, trying to recover the bottle. It wasn't a fine wine- she knew that. Even with plenty of money at his disposal, Olaf still insisted on buying the cheapest liquor he could find in order to buy a great deal of it.

"I'm sorry." She whispered, using a rag to clean the spill.

He wasn't stupid. He had seen his man's wandering fingers. Moreso, he had seen the flush of her face. His pride roared in his chest at the thought that any man might have his wife before he got a chance to take what was his. As she scurried into the kitchen, he stood, jealousy blooming in his sternum, and followed her.

She stood at the sink, wrapping the bits of glass in a cloth to be disposed of. She could use them as a weapon, she mused. She could kill him. She allowed herself the thought for only a second. No, she wasn't a villain, she could never murder. Not to mention the fact that she had no interest in spending the rest of her days in jail. Perhaps she could melt the pieces down into something, bring something beautiful into her life. Reflexively, she reached back to tie her hair up when her elbow bumped into someone.

She turned, startled. He had followed her into the kitchen, and was standing right behind her, leering down as if in deep thought. He was looking at her face, but didn't seem to be looking at her. She didn't like the feeling it dredged up within her. A mostly empty wine bottle dangled from his hand. She raised her hand to her chest, the other braced behind her on the counter. "I'm sorry, you scared me." She muttered, looking down.

He didn't reply, just kept watching her. He was entirely too close. He lifted a hand to her face.

Instinctively, she flinched. That irritated him. He hadn't hit her in years, not since her last great outburst. She had gotten cleverer since then, learned to undermine and bite rather than throw things. He'd be lying if he said he didn't find the change highly erotic. He took her chin in his hand, softly, as if to prove his point. Firmly, he pointed her face upwards towards himself.

"You're my wife you know."

She didn't respond.

"My Countess. My wife. Operative word being MY."

Resentment flared in her eyes.

"I'm aware."

"Are you though?"

His words slurred together as he leaned in closer, tightening his grip on her. "By the way you let them look at you, I couldn't tell." There was an angry rumble in his voice. He pressed further against her, trapping her against the counter.

"If you're insinuating anything, I haven't-"

"I'm not insinuating anything, simply implying that-"

"That's what insinuating means." He paused at her impudence. She stuttered. "Insinuate, it's a word that means-"

He growled, and lifting her under her arms, hoisted her up, sitting her on the counter. She flinched backwards against the backsplash. Closely, he leaned in toward her so they were eye to eye. He stood between her knees, gripping her tightly by the waist.

"It means that I don't want to be undermined by a forgetful wife." She shivered against his words, trying unsuccessfully to hide the fear on her face. "It also means," gripping her at the knees, he pulled her forwards, holding her fast at the back so that she was against him, her arms braced to his chest, "that you could stand for a bit more pluck." He spit out the last three words from between his teeth.

"Pardon me for not committing suicide via catcall."

He paused for a moment before smiling hungrily. "Perfect, just like that." He growled, stealing a sharp kiss against her jaw. She gasped. He grabbed at her, hoisting her up bridal style before kicking the door open with his foot, loudly, causing the entire troop to turn and look at them.

"Time to leave, I want to fuck my wife." His drunken voice boomed in the hall, and was met with a loud cheer from the group, followed by the scraping of chairs away from the table and dropping of bottles. Of course they didn't clean anything up, Violet noted dejectedly. She felt an anxious heat rise in the back of her sternum. He stood there, waiting, until the last of them left, slamming the door behind them, before walking over and dropping her onto the couch. He staggered over to his arm chair, and fell into it with equal irreverence. Resting his head against his hand, he began to massage his eyes tiredly.

She slid her knees over the side so that she was sitting up. He wasn't used to not taking what he wanted, and she wasn't sure how much longer he would wait. She remembered the fear of the first night, feeling as if she would throw up with the anxiety as he scooped her up and proclaimed to the troop that they were on their way to retire to their wedding chambers, only to have him unceremoniously dump her on this same lumpy couch. "There is a master bed in my room, and a broken couch beneath you. Take your pick, I'm leaving now." He had turned and left her, afraid and very much confused.

Since then, she had spent every night in the hall. In fact, the couch was the only thing he refused to change despite his newfound wealth. He refused to coddle her decision, though he would not fight it. He was however careful to make sure she was always awake before any guests might arrive, not wanting them to catch a glimpse at his softness. It wasn't his fault, though. Even a villain accustomed to continual wickedness ought to have their stomach turn at certain crimes. It let you know that you were wicked by choice, and not simply because you didn't know any better. He was a villain by choice, which in his pompous opinion, made him much worse.

She cleared her throat. "Thank you." He grumbled in reply.

"I didn't do it for you."

"All the same, thank you."

He peered up at her. Her legs looked so pale against her dark dress. She would be so easy to take. He wouldn't though. He fancied himself a Don Juan, (not that he knew who that was), a master of seduction. Even more than he wanted to bury his face in her hair, he wanted to hear her cry out "oh yes!" in ecstasy. Oh yes. He would bed her, and she would like it, whether or not she expected to, and it would be awesome. No crying involved.

He kept his hand to his eyes. "You are my wife, Countess. Not some common whore they drag in. If they touch you, put a fork in their hand. Unless I happen to need them for an upcoming heist. Then act upon your own discretion."

She looked down at the floor, nervously smoothing her dress. Tiredly, he stood up, leaving to go to his room. She sighed deeply, and pulled her cardigan from her shoulders. She waited until she heard the door to his bedroom close, and then slunk into the small room she was allowed for her things. He had offered her fine clothes, but she never particularly liked the scratchy, gaudy outfits he always seems to suggest. Slipping out of her day dress, she pulled a cotton nightgown over her head. She looked in the mirror. She felt most like herself in simple clothes- outfits fit for running and inventing, no extra fabrics to get caught in the gears. They at least made her feel a bit more at home within herself. As she folded her worn clothes, she noticed a box in the corner. Sighing, she opened it. Inside lay a folded blue velvet dress. She lifted it, expecting lace and frills to unfurl behind it. Surprisingly, the dress was simple. Clean figure, reasonable hem, it was quite nice actually. She smiled softly before refolding it and tucking it back into the box. The house was quiet. She took a moment to appreciate that, wrapping her thin arms around herself. She could hear the muffled chirps of nocturnal insects, but other than that, everything was still. If she closed her eyes, she could be anywhere. She let her mind wander, freeing herself, before she began to shiver in the cold. Pulling on some thick socks, she gathered her blanket, and left for bed.