Chapter three
When Emma returned from the front door with two steaming pizza boxes, Regina was nowhere to be found.
'Regina?' she called out, wincing at the foreignness of her loud voice in that pristine house. When there was no response, she sighed, walking towards the open living room door. It was warm in there and the lights were dim, and Emma found herself being automatically drawn in.
She dropped the boxes on the coffee table and settled herself cross-legged on the floor in the space between the table and the couch, the smell of cheese and spices filling her nose.
After a moment she heard a door opening, and Regina came out into the hallway.
'Miss Swan?'
'I'm in here.'
Heeled footsteps approached her, and then Regina was in the doorway, watching her bemusedly with a wine glass in either hand. 'What are you doing?'
'Waiting for you,' Emma said, looking pointedly at the pizza boxes.
'But why are you in here?' Regina said, taking a step into the room. 'And why are you sitting on the floor?'
'Because we're having pizza,' Emma said, as if this was self-explanatory.
'But I set the dining room table.'
There was a long, loaded pause.
'Regina,' Emma said. 'You do not eat takeout at a dining room table. You eat it on the floor, in front of a TV. Now sit down.'
Regina narrowed her eyes. 'You've gotten comfortable, it would seem.'
'No. I'm just hungry,' Emma said, gesturing to the floor beside her. She leaned back against the couch. 'Sit.'
Regina rolled her eyes. 'Let me go and get my plate.'
'No plates,' Emma responded, and for some inexplicable reason Regina found herself halting in the doorway. 'Sit.'
Regina narrowed her eyes once more, but eventually the lure of the pizza and the couch and the warm room was too much for her. She stepped inside, nudging the door shut behind her with her hip, and placed both of the glasses on the coffee table. She hesitated for a moment, then sat down on the edge of the couch.
At once Emma looked round at her, an accusing expression on her face.
'Sitting on the floor is one step too far for me, Miss Swan,' Regina said, smoothing her hands over her skirt. 'Let's call this a compromise.'
Emma rolled her eyes, and all at once Regina learned another thing about her son's birth mother: she turned into a sulky teenager when she got too hungry.
'Fine,' Emma sighed, reaching out for one of the boxes and lifting the lid. She placed it in her own lap before she passed the other one to Regina.
She could smell the salami before she opened the box.
'Well,' Regina said, laughing. 'That's a lot of meat.'
Emma suddenly froze. 'You're not a vegetarian, are you?'
'Absolutely not,' Regina said, and she couldn't hide the almost lustful glint in her eye as she stared down at the pizza in front of her. 'I just wouldn't have expected you to choose this for me.'
Emma smirked to herself. 'I'm good at reading people.'
Then she paused. She knew what Regina must be thinking then.
Except for the man you decided to marry.
She waited for the words, but Regina just let out a moan. Emma jumped in her seat and spun around.
'Oh my god,' Regina mumbled around a mouthful of pizza. 'This is incredible.'
Emma grinned. 'Have I converted you?'
'I hardly needed converting to junk food, Miss Swan,' Regina rolled her eyes. 'But you've certainly reminded me of the taste of it.'
The smile on Emma's face was half barely concealed glee, and half something else. Something softer, that looked like relief.
Regina swallowed her mouthful of pizza and nodded towards Emma's own box, a slice still raised to her lips. 'What did you get?'
'Cheese,' Emma said by way of explanation. When she opened the box, Regina nearly choked.
'Oh my god.'
'What?' Emma said, staring down at it with loving eyes. 'I like mozzarella.'
'That is swimming in it, Miss Swan,' Regina said, covering her mouth as she laughed. 'Did you clean the restaurant out?'
'Say what you want,' Emma said, not even turning her head. She reached into the box and somehow peeled a slice away from its family, watching as the hot, melted cheese slid off of the base and down onto her fingers. 'This is the way god intended pizza to be.'
Regina watched with some fascination as Emma manoeuvred the slice into her mouth. As soon as it touched her tongue, Emma moaned with satisfaction, letting her head fall slightly backwards.
'You are quite something,' Regina said, taking another bite of her own pizza. 'I can see where Henry gets it from.'
At once, Emma paused in her chewing. She turned her head slightly.
'Gets what?'
'The eating habits,' Regina said as casually as she could. 'I've never seen someone eat as enthusiastically as he does before now.'
After a beat, Emma smiled weakly. 'I'm not sure that's genetic.'
'Probably not,' Regina conceded. 'But the similarities are still there.'
Emma's smiled flickered momentarily before she turned back to her food. They ate in silence for a few minutes.
'You don't have any other children, do you?' Regina suddenly heard herself asking. Once again, Emma turned to face her, her bruised face questioning and cautious.
'No,' she responded, and Regina never knew that so much sadness could be forced into one word.
'Is there… a reason for that?'
Emma shrugged, looking down at the strings of cheese that were dangling from her pizza. 'I haven't been married that long. And it's just not… not the right time.'
Regina swallowed. The way that Emma was sitting, with her back mostly turned and her head tilting forwards, Regina could see the bruises around her neck all too clearly. There were fingerprints embedded deeper than she'd thought was possible along the nodules of her spine, and two thumb prints at the hollow of her throat. They made Regina shudder.
Without thinking, she reached out a hand and pushed Emma's curls away from her neck. Emma jumped – but she didn't pull away.
'It's definitely not the right time,' Regina said, tracing a single finger over the nearest bruise. It was dark blue and surrounded by mottled yellow. She thought that she could still make out the hair-thin lines of a strange man's fingerprints.
It wasn't long before Emma shrugged away from her touch.
'So,' she said, taking another bite of her pizza. 'Do you go and see Henry every day?'
'Twice a day,' Regina said. 'Before and after work. I try and stay there all evening.'
'And is he…' Emma paused. 'Is he okay on his own all day?'
Regina automatically bristled, ready to defend herself and her job and her position as Henry's mother. But Emma was watching her anxiously, and she knew that she hadn't meant it like that.
Sighing, Regina said, 'I don't really know. He says he is, and I know he's brave, but I still feel guilty.'
'I can imagine,' Emma said. 'But I guess, as mayor, you don't really have a choice. You basically have two full-time jobs.'
Regina blinked, taking this in. 'Yes. Exactly.'
Emma shook her head, more to herself than to Regina. 'I really don't know how you do it. Being a single mom – that must be the most stressful job in the world. I know I sure as hell didn't fancy it.'
Something tingled down Regina's spine, and for the first time that evening she felt a flicker of anger in the base of her stomach. She narrowed her eyes at the back of Emma's head.
'That's a bit blasé, wouldn't you say?'
Emma froze. She didn't turn around. 'I didn't mean it like that.'
'I should hope not, Miss Swan,' Regina said coolly, dropping her slice of pizza back into the box. 'Because that is my son, and you do not get to talk about him that way.'
Emma's posture slumped forwards, and Regina saw her swallowing.
'Regina,' she said quietly, her eyes down. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'm just… not really comfortable right now. I made an awkward joke.'
'Henry isn't a joke.'
Part of her was expecting Emma to snap back at her, but she didn't seem to react at all. Her body was rigid.
'...I know he's not.'
In a lot of ways, it was a disappointing reaction. Regina frowned, ready to snidely accept Emma's apology and move on – but then she looked down. Emma's hands were trembling in her lap.
When Regina slowly reached out, ready to put a hand on her shoulder, Emma immediately flinched.
Regina swallowed, withdrawing her arm.
She doesn't like being shouted at.
The realisation made her want to weep, and with that feeling her anger from seconds earlier ebbed away entirely.
'It's okay,' Regina said quietly. When Emma still didn't react, she let out an impatient sigh. 'I may have overreacted. I'm… a bit stressed. As I'm sure you can imagine.'
Emma turned her head an inch. 'I know. I'm sorry.'
'Stop apologising,' Regina said, picking her slice of pizza back up again. 'And finish your food. Unless you've just realised that you made a horrible mistake ordering all that cheese?'
Emma's head still hung over her chest, but Regina saw the hint of a smile on her face. 'Never.'
'Then show me what you're capable of,' Regina said, and watched with some relief as Emma re-opened her box.
When Regina came downstairs with the pile of blankets in her arms, she found Emma stood next to the couch, looking down at it with her hands on her hips.
'Having second thoughts?'
Emma looked up and smiled briefly. 'No. It's good.'
'Are you sure?' Regina said, dropping the pile at one end of the sofa. 'There's still a perfectly good guest bed waiting upstairs. Two, in fact.'
'I don't need a bed, Regina,' Emma said. 'I'm only crashing here. The couch is just fine.'
Regina shrugged like it didn't bother her either way, but the thought of Emma curled up down here by herself all night filled her with a strange bitterness. 'Suit yourself.'
She rummaged through the pile that she'd just brought downstairs, separating the blankets from the pillows. Then she paused, swallowing.
'I brought you these too,' she said, handing something to Emma without lifting her eyes. Emma slowly reached out and took the soft object.
'Pyjamas?'
Regina went back to arranging the blankets, fluffing up the pillows and placing them at the opposite end of the couch.
'They're just spare ones that I have lying around. You don't have to wear them if you don't want to.'
Emma lifted them closer to her face: there was a pair of grey flannel pyjama pants and a baggy black shirt. They smelled like clean laundry.
She held them back out. 'I can't take your clothes, Regina.'
'Do they look like something I'd wear?' Regina responded, more harshly than she'd intended. 'Just leave them on the coffee table then. I'm not going to force you.'
Emma blinked, a sudden lump rising up in her throat. She held the soft clothes to her stomach.
'Okay,' she said quietly. 'Thank you anyway.'
Regina finished spreading the blankets across the couch and finally stood upright, turning to face her guest. Emma was taller than her by a good few inches, but she was so curved in on herself that she appeared half her size. Her green eyes were fixed to the floor.
Regina took a step closer, crossing her arms over her chest. She was only inches away from Emma, and up this close she could see that there was an eyelash resting on one cheek. She could see the tiny, glistening patches of healing flesh in the cut that had been carved out of her face.
'Emma,' she said quietly, surprising herself with how sincere she sounded. 'Please don't stay down here by yourself.'
She waited for Emma to look up at her. When she did, the eyelash on her cheek fluttered away.
'I'm not a child,' she said, forcing a smile. But to Regina, that's exactly what she was – she knew that Emma would spend the night panicking at every creak in the walls, at every flash of headlights on the road outside. She knew that any shadow at the window would keep her awake for hours. Emma was already twitching in the dim light, those old pyjamas still clamped against her stomach, and if she'd asked Regina then to stay down there with her, Regina would have agreed at once.
But she didn't ask. She forced herself to stand upright, her blonde hair tumbling across one shoulder, and she offered Regina a smile that was very nearly genuine.
'You should go to bed,' she said. 'It's getting late.'
Regina glanced up at the clock: it was ten thirty. Only ten thirty? It feels like two.
She swallowed. 'Shall I show you where the bathroom is?'
'I know where it is. I went earlier, remember?'
'But that's just the downstairs—'
'Regina,' Emma interrupted, that old look of exhaustion tugging at her features again. 'It's okay. I'll be fine. You should go.'
There was a long pause. Regina couldn't be sure if it was from tiredness or from sadness, but she suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and hug her.
'Very well,' she said. 'If you need anything, my room is at the top of the stairs and to the left. End of the corridor.'
'I'll be fine.'
'Don't be afraid to wake me up,' Regina said, and suddenly it was very important to her that Emma knew that. 'Really. Okay?'
A frown flickered across Emma's face at the intensity of her gaze.
'Okay.'
'Good,' Regina nodded, taking one last look around the room. 'Help yourself to whatever you want from the kitchen.'
'Okay,' Emma repeated. She still held onto the pyjamas.
Eventually, Regina nodded a final time and turned away, headed towards the door.
'Thank you, Regina.' The voice came from behind her and made her stop in her tracks.
She turned her head. 'For what?'
Emma already looked like she regretted saying anything. 'For… letting me stay.'
It was half a thank you. Half of what she actually wanted to say. But it was enough, and Regina nodded.
'You're welcome,' she said, resting one hand against the doorframe. 'Goodnight, Miss Swan.'
'Goodnight.'
Regina finally left the room, heading up the stairs with a heavy weight in her stomach.
Emma stood in front of the bathroom mirror, cold water dripping off of her face. She winced as the soap stung against the torn flesh on her cheek.
She examined herself in the glaring light as she patted her skin dry with one of Regina's guest towels. She seemed to look older every time she looked into a mirror nowadays. The dark circles under her eyes were more pronounced, and as the bruises on her face finally began to heal, the rest of her just looked more broken. The lines by her eyes were cracks. The hollows of her eyes were dents.
She rubbed a hand across her face, letting it rest over her eyes for a second. It still smelled like home.
She hated herself for feeling homesick already.
Emma had bought the house in Boston three years ago, only six months after she and her husband had met. The beatings hadn't started until after they had gotten married, but from day one, things had been… not quite right.
When he'd asked her to stop working, she had resisted. He stopped speaking to her for a week.
When he told her that he wanted kids and she'd said she wasn't ready, her birth control pills went missing.
He loved her and kissed her gently, and he could make her laugh on her very crappiest days. But when they went out together, his hand would forever stay at the small of her back, guiding her around the room and away from other people. If someone came over to talk to Emma while he was in the bathroom, she would panic, inwardly begging them to leave again, knowing then – even before things really started to go wrong – that if he came back to find another man talking to his girlfriend, the rest of the evening would have been ruined.
Then he'd had his accident. The laughter became less frequent. He got better, and they got married, and but all the while, things were changing.
Emma looked down and hitched up her shirt a few inches. Her biggest scar was there: it was a mottled white mess across one hip from where he'd pushed her into a wall and she'd managed to catch herself on the door handle. That day, he had come home from work and suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, told her that he was afraid she was going to leave him. He wasn't the man she'd fallen in love with and so she was going to leave and break his heart, and he couldn't live without her. So he'd pushed her about and watched her cry, and then he locked her in the bedroom and dragged the cabinet from the hallway in front of the door, just in case. He'd gone out and left her there all night, and most of the next day.
When he came home, he hadn't apologised. Her hip was still bleeding and she hadn't had a drink of water in 22 hours, and she fell into his arms when he opened them.
Emma glanced down at the dents on her knuckles from where she'd tried to punch the window out that day. She wasn't as strong as she used to be, and all she'd managed to do was hurt herself.
The bruises and scars that were scattered all over her body were utterly familiar to her now, but it was so rare that he left marks on her face that she couldn't stop staring at them. In a way, she almost liked them – finally, there was something that told her that this wasn't right. Up until now she'd been able to convince herself that their marriage was okay – he did love her. He just had anger issues. It wasn't his fault. She provoked him, and it was only natural that he lashed out sometimes.
But a week ago, he'd come home drunk, his dark hair falling into his eyes and a cruel sneer on his lips. Emma had been getting ready for bed. She froze when she saw him in the doorway.
'What?' he had snapped at her. Immediately she turned away, going back to the shirt she'd been folding.
'Nothing,' she said, her heart already pounding. She took a breath. 'You just scared me.'
He walked slowly into the room, his steps somehow steady even though Emma could see from the bleary look in his eyes that he had had far too much to drink.
For a second there was nothing. Then she felt the familiar leather jacket against her back. She could smell the rum on him.
She swallowed. 'Did you have a good time?'
His right hand reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. In spite of the fear that was bubbling up inside her stomach, she felt a shiver run down her spine.
'It was alright,' he murmured against the back of her head. 'I missed you, though.'
Emma smiled. 'I missed you too.'
His other hand – the one that bothered him far more than it bothered her – rested on her waist. 'What did you get up to while I was gone?'
His good hand was straying away from her hair, trailing down her shoulder and around to her stomach. It settled just above her navel.
Emma closed her eyes. 'Not much. I did some laundry. Watched some TV.'
'Anything else?' he asked, pressing his lips against the back of her neck.
'Not really,' she said, holding her body very still. 'Why?'
'I just wanted to make sure you didn't do anything to tire yourself out,' he murmured, lifting his hand off of her stomach and reaching around to cup one of her breasts. 'I have plans for you.'
At the exact same moment, Emma felt herself shiver and flinch. He was drunk, and when he was drunk he was always just seconds away from getting aggressive. Having sex in those moments was never particularly enjoyable.
'Now?' she asked, trying to laugh. 'Aren't you tired?'
He suddenly pushed her forwards, wedging her against the wall, and pressed his crotch against her ass.
'Does it feel like I'm tired?'
Emma swallowed. 'No. Have you eaten yet?'
'No, but give me two minutes and I will be.'
'Maybe I should make you some dinner. It might—'
'I don't want any bloody dinner,' he hissed in her ear, dragging his hand down from her breasts to the waistband of her jeans. 'Are you sure you haven't been doing anything while I've been out all day?'
'Of course I haven't,' Emma said, trying to turn around to face him. Whenever she was able to look him in the eye, it was slightly easier to get through to him. But he kept her pressed against the wall, the smell of alcohol reeking from him and the stiffness in his jeans rubbing against her ass. 'I just—'
'Don't,' he interrupted, undoing the button on her jeans. 'Stop talking.'
Emma swallowed, that familiar panic rising up inside her. The wall was cold against her cheek and the rubbery feeling of his left hand on her waist was starting to make her feel sick.
'Killian—'
'I said, shut up,' he snapped. He pulled her zipper down and slid his good hand inside. As usual, when he found her panties completely dry, he hissed with annoyance.
'What's the problem, Emma?'
'There's… there's no problem,' she said, once again trying to turn around. He forced her back. He kept on prodding at her panties, barely able to move his fingers because of how firmly he had her pressed up against the wall. Emma grimaced. 'I just wasn't exactly expecting this. I might need a minute to—'
And all of a sudden, he was gone. He tore his hand out of her jeans and took a step back, leaving her to stagger sideways. When she regained her balance, she turned to face him, hating the look in his eye. She pressed her back against the wall.
'What is it?' she asked.
Killian glowered at her. His eyes trailed from her flushed cheeks to her wrinkled tank top down to her unzipped jeans.
'Who was here today, Emma?'
Emma's stomach dropped. It was always the same conversation, again and again.
'No one. I've been by myself.'
'Then why are you pulling away from me?' he demanded. His cheap, prosthetic hand was dangling like a rubber glove by his side. It was the best one that he had been able to afford. 'What's wrong with you?'
A surge of familiar resentment started to burn in Emma's throat. 'Nothing is wrong with me. You're just drunk and I wasn't expecting this. I don't have to be ready to have sex with you 24 hours a day, Killian.'
His eyes immediately narrowed. 'I'm sorry?'
Whenever his voice went cold like that, Emma felt like her blood had stopped moving. The anger inside her immediately subsided.
'I just…' she said, desperately wanting to do up her jeans. 'I'm not really in the mood. That's all.'
Killian just looked at her, disgust dripping from the downward curl of his mouth.
'You expect me to believe a whore like you isn't in the mood?'
It was Emma's least favourite word, and he knew it. He sneered at her as he said it.
Swallowing down the shame that was licking at her insides, Emma said, 'Can I please go and make you some food?'
'Why?'
'To sober you up a bit.'
'I'm not drunk, woman.'
'Just let me go and make you something, Killian,' she asked, cringing at how close to tears she sounded. 'Please.'
Her husband watched her for a moment, his upper lip curling. And then he rolled his eyes.
'Fine,' he said, shrugging off his leather jacket and dropping it onto the bed. 'Go.'
Emma turned at once, the knot in her chest loosening ever so slightly. She zipped her jeans back up as she rushed over to the stairs.
'Wait.'
The voice from behind her made her halt in her tracks. She rested one hand on the railing and closed her eyes.
'Turn around.'
She did as she was told. Killian was stood in the doorway to their bedroom, the light streaming out from behind him into the pitch-black hall. Shadows engulfed his face, but Emma could see the frown there.
'What's wrong?' she asked. He took a step towards her.
'Move your hair,' he said. She blinked. Her curls were spread across her shoulders, half falling down over her chest and half covering her back. She glanced down at them.
'Why?'
'Just do as you're goddamn told for once,' Killian barked at her, and Emma flinched. She reached up and gathered her hair up into a single bunch, pulling it away from her body.
Killian took another step into the hall, peering down at her. Emma stayed still, holding her hair in a loose ponytail at the back of her neck.
'What is that?' he asked. At once, Emma felt her insides recoiling. She recognised that voice, and it made her want to run. Always.
She followed his gaze down to her body. It took a moment for her to realise what he was referring to.
'This?' she asked, pointing to the dark splotch just below her collarbone.
'Yes, Emma,' Killian bit out, crossing his arms over his chest. Even in the dark, Emma could see that his eyes were burning. 'That.'
'It's… a bruise, Killian,' Emma said quietly, because ordinarily, she never acknowledged her injuries out loud. Neither of them did. She could be purple across one side of her body and unable to sit down for a week, but it was never discussed. Killian would just help her if he was in a good mood, or ignore her if he wasn't.
'It's a fucking hickie,' he snapped. Emma blinked.
'No, it isn't,' she murmured, letting go of her hair. 'I promise you.'
'Oh, because your promises mean so much?'
Emma blinked several times, trying to take a deep breath.
'Killian,' she said as slowly and patiently as she could manage. 'It's just a bruise. Don't you… don't you remember what happened on Saturday?'
Killian scoffed at her, taking another step closer. 'Don't lie to me, Emma.'
'I'm not lying,' Emma snapped, tears prickling at her eyes. 'You pushed me, remember? I fell into the cabinet and it left a bruise. Remember?'
At once, her husband stopped moving. His eyes met hers with a flash of malice that she hadn't seen in a long time.
'I can't believe you would use that against me.'
Emma could feel panic starting to fizz in her stomach like it had been dropped in a fryer.
'I'm not—'
'How dare you?' he demanded, his good hand suddenly reaching out and grabbing hold of her wrist. He tugged her closer, pulling her flat against his chest. 'You want to blame me for this? You're here at home, whoring around all day, and when I decide to call you on it you bring up that… that one mistake I made? Is this suddenly my fault?'
When a tear dribbled down Emma's cheek, Killian released her wrist and reached out to slap her sharply across the face.
'Don't you dare start crying,' he hissed. 'God. Sometimes I can't even bear to look at you.'
'Killian,' Emma whimpered, pressing her hand to her cheek. 'I haven't done anything! I'm sorry I brought up what… what happened, but I promise you, this isn't a—'
'Stop promising me!' Killian shouted, pushing her abruptly backwards. She hit the sharp corner of the wall that marked the top of the staircase with a thud. 'You've been promising shit for too long, Emma. You promised to love me in sickness and in health, and look at you! This happens,' he lifted up his prosthetic hand, 'and suddenly you can hardly stand to look at me.'
Sometimes, Emma wished that he would hit her. It would certainly hurt less.
'Killian,' she whispered. 'I've told you a hundred times – I don't care about that. I've never cared. I'm not going to leave you because you lost your hand and I wish you would stop thinking that I am. I love you.'
'You're a liar,' he spat at her, suddenly taking two strides across the hall until he was pressed up against her body. He grabbed her throat with his right hand, the stench of rum hovering between them. 'The second you got that phone call from the hospital, you were wondering how you could get out of this.'
'I married you after you got out of hospital,' Emma choked out from beneath his fingers, and the rage in his eyes grew stronger. 'How dare you say that—'
Her sentence was cut off by and another slap. She tried to press her hand to her face, but he caught her by the wrist.
'Don't you ever speak to me that way,' he hissed in her ear. As he pushed her back against the wall, she whimpered, struggling under his weight. 'God. Whatever did I do to deserve you? I'd take losing my hand all over again over you any day.'
Emma sniffed, but couldn't bring herself to speak. She closed her eyes, wriggling against him.
'I could do a lot better than you, you know,' he muttered, reaching up with his left hand to brush her hair away from his face. 'Maybe I should stop being so worried about you leaving me and instead start considering leaving you.'
As much as she hated herself for it, Emma felt a drop of utter panic in her stomach.
'I'm not going to leave you, Killian,' she whimpered. 'Please don't—'
'Oh, shut up,' he groaned. 'Stop whining. I can't stand listening to it anymore. All you ever do is complain and cry and make me feel guilty. I'm sick of it.'
'I don't—'
'Shut up,' he roared into her ear, sneering as she flinched away. 'I'm sick of this. Sick of you. You need to get out of my house.'
'Killian, I'm not—'
'Get out.'
'Please,' Emma begged. Her husband let go of her then, taking a step backwards. She collapsed back against the wall. 'I'm not going anywhere.'
'Yes, you bloody are,' he snapped, crossing his arms. He nodded towards the stairs that were directly to her left. 'Off you go, love.'
There was a pause. And then Emma said as firmly as she could manage, 'No.'
Killian raised his eyebrows, possibly in surprise. And then he replied, 'Alright then.'
He stepped towards her and wrapped his arm around her waist, moving them both onto the top step. Emma wriggled against him, feeling herself tipping forwards over the stairs. He held on more tightly, walking down another step and dragging his wife alongside him.
'Killian, stop it,' Emma gasped, frantically trying to pull away from him. The wooden staircase creaked dangerously under their weight and she could feel the house tilting around her as she stared down towards the bottom. 'Please. Stop it.'
'I want you out of my house,' Killian said, and Emma's heart broke all over again when she heard just how calm he sounded. She fought even harder, bucking her body to try and get back up to the hallway.
'Let go of me!'
'Get. Out,' he hissed, tugging her more forcefully. Emma raised a hand and heard the slap of it connecting against the side of his face long before she could register what she'd done. As soon as she realised, she froze. Killian stared down at her.
There was a pause before he said in his flattest voice, 'You fucking bitch.'
And suddenly she was falling. His arm had released her waist and, with a violent shove, he had sent her toppling down the stairs. The wooden steps belted against her as she fell, and suddenly there was a ripping sound. She thought it was her shirt. She didn't register the pain in her face.
She landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs and tried desperately to catch her breath, but her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see her husband coming down after her. He was rolling up his sleeves.
Without thinking, Emma pushed herself up onto her hands and started scrabbling away from the steps. Her back hit the wall and she yelped, turning onto her stomach so she could crawl away. She hadn't even made it a metre before a hand had grabbed her ankle and tugged her backwards.
He flipped her over and climbed on top of her waist, raining his fists down on her. He never punched her in the face normally: slaps rarely left marks, and bruises elsewhere could be covered up. Black eyes and broken noses raised questions. Besides, as he was so keen on telling her – her pretty face was one of the only redeeming features about her. He didn't want to ruin it.
Now though, he'd stopped caring – maybe because her face was already slashed from temple to cheek from the jagged edge of the staircase, or maybe because he simply didn't give a shit about what she had to cover up anymore. He straddled her body and brought his right hand down again and again on the cut side of her face, ignoring her pleas, ignoring the blood on his knuckles. His left hand was useless when it came to beating her, but it did the job just fine when it came to pinning her down.
'Killian,' Emma heard herself moan, her tongue feeling swollen inside her mouth. 'Please.'
He ignored her, as he always did. Grabbing her throat, he lifted her head once and banged it back down onto the floor. Emma let out a shout, and the dark room was suddenly filled with bright, beautiful stars.
Killian leaned close to her, pressing his nose against her own.
'If you ever try to leave me like that again,' he hissed, the smell of rum on his breath finally beginning to fade. 'I'll kill you.'
He finally climbed off of her, not caring that he caught her ribs with the toe of his shoe. Then he disappeared down the hallway, flicking on the kitchen light and slamming the door shut behind him.
Emma stayed on the floor for a few minutes, trying to catch her breath. She could taste blood and salty tears. Every inch of her skull was pounding.
For the rest of the night, those words had rung inside her head.
If you ever try to leave me like that again, I'll kill you.
She hadn't even tried to leave.
Emma shuddered at her reflection, forcing herself to look away. She hated remembering how pathetic she had become. She hated reminding herself of the fact that she'd slept in the same bed as him that night, and had been upset that he hadn't wanted to kiss her goodnight.
If you ever try to leave me like that again, I'll kill you.
Once upon a time, a threat like that wouldn't have done anything to her. She used to be strong, with tough walls and a heart that could never be broken again. Then one day Killian had decided to love her, and she'd ruined herself. Now she was scared of the dark and scared of the man sleeping beside her and scared of everything.
She looked back up at the mirror, trying to stare herself down. Her mouth was a thin, flat line, and her once-toned arms had gotten thin. His threat still ricocheted around her head.
This wasn't a case of what if he found her – this was a case of what would he do to her if she decided to go back.
Because the thought was still there, tugging at the back of her mind like a loose thread on a sweater – she wanted to go back. In spite of everything, she wanted to go home.
She hated herself for missing him.
A/N: It's probably worth clarifying for future chapters that Hook isn't from the Enchanted Forest in this story.
It's also probably worth mentioning that I'm really not a fan of him generally, so if you have some lingering love for him, maybe this isn't the story for you... :D
