When she awoke, her head was on his chest. She rubbed at her eyes. Her head ached dully, and she groaned under her breath. "Yeah, that happens." He pinched the bridge of his nose. She startled up, hitting him in the ribs with her elbow. "Ow, god!" He winced.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry!" She raised her hand to help him.
"Watch your language." He inhaled sharply through his teeth.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!"
He clicked his tongue, squinting open his eyes to look over at her. Her hair was mussed, and fell over her shoulder. The silk shirt had been pulled to the side in her sleep so that her slender collarbone poked through. The neckline was shifted, exposing the soft skin of her clavicle and the top of her left breast. He groaned and laid his head back down. She looked down, and flustered, clutched the open shirt closed. Her hands were covered by the length of the sleeves. He smiled, laughing at the sound of her gasp, still covering his eyes. "Don't worry, I hardly care."
"Really?" She raised an eyebrow.
"No." He sighed. "You're a very attractive woman."
She froze, unsure how to react.
"Are you surprised? That is my silk shirt you're wearing, after all. Surely you must have figured out that I am a man with finer tastes."
She fiddled with the buttons, pausing. "It is a nice shirt."
He smiled, grunting his reply before pushing himself up and off the bed.
"I'll go put on the coffee."
It was going to be a long day. He had a meeting with his cast of ne'er so wells, no pun intended, which meant she was busy cleaning the house so that assorted dirty people could ruin it again.
It was an important meeting, she knew that much. She was never allowed enough information to know what they were really about. She was permitted into the room as his trophy wife, in perhaps a most literal way, occasionally as suited his whims. Mostly she was expected to stay out of the way. She didn't mind that. Their hushed tones behind closed doors was much preferable to the loud nights of drinking.
She scrubbed at the floors of the kitchen, hearing the rising notes of their voices in the other room as they plotted away. She didn't mind the manual labor too much. It was easy, repetitive work, and it allowed her mind to wander. In fact, she was just now so in thought, inventing a scrubbing machine, that she didn't notice when a man stole into the room and quietly stood behind her. She stood up to get to the sink and gasped, startled at the unexpected intruder. He leered at her.
"Didn't mean to scare you, Countess." He spat the word, emphasizing his distain. It was the squat man from a few nights before. He stepped closer to her, cornering her against the counter. He wasn't much taller than she was, but he was large and overwhelmed her small frame. Her heart quickened.
"I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. Does Olaf need something?"
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head.
"With a pretty bird like you, what man could ask for anything more?"
She reached behind herself slowly, feeling the counter for the cloth-wrapped glass shards she had abandoned there a few nights before. Her hand fumbled behind her, feeling for it. He stepped closer.
"If you don't need anything, I should be getting back to my work."
"If you ask me, you're a bit of a wasted potential. If you were my girl, you wouldn't have time to spend dittering about the kitchen." He stepped in close enough that she could smell his breath. "Nah, we'd be far too busy seeing about getting those footprints on the ceiling."
Just as she found the cloth, he grabbed her, covering her mouth, poking her in the gut with something that felt suspiciously like a knife.
"Come on now, it's no secret you're not exactly in the running for happiest bride of the year, so let's see if I can't do something about that for you. It'll be our little secret."
Panicked, she swung her arm at him, hitting him in the head with the glass. The knife, which she could now clearly see was a knife, sliced at her abdomen, tearing her dress.
"You awful bitch!"
Now he was angry, and before she could escape, he grabbed her by the back of her dress and threw her to the floor. Pressing his hand again to her mouth, he straddled her, using his other hand to fumble at the clasp on his belt. She hit at him, but his hand covered both her nose and mouth, and the burning in her lungs was growing. Hateful tears began streaming down her face. She hated crying, she hated this weakness, she hated him.
Just as quickly, there was a loud crack, and he slumped over her with a great clatter. She gasped heavily, forcing the air back into her lungs. Olaf stood above her, the top half of what used to be a wine bottle in his hand. The other half was shattered all across the floor, the wine itself covering her and her attacker in a puddle. Fire burned in his eyes.
"We came to see if lunch is ready."
He dropped the still intact bottle half to the floor.
"Looking at the evidence, I'm assuming not."
She looked around herself, surrounded by shards of glass, the unconscious or perhaps dead man laying across her knees. The few members who had followed him in hoisted up her attacker, carrying him off.
Finally, only her husband remained, standing above her. She froze, trying to process everything that had happened. She began to sob warm salty tears, covering her face in embarrassment and shame. Her cries racked her body, echoed against every hallow inside of her, drowned her insides with tears.
He stood there, unsure what to do. A large part of him wanted to go kick a few ribs in. He has been undermined in such a heinous way, all punishment was too merciful. But as his wife continued to cry, that protective instinct tugged at him again. "Come on." He lifted her by an arm, and placing a hand behind her, guided her up the stairs and into the master bathroom. She continued to weep, outsized tears falling from between her fingers. He began to draw a bath. "Come along, do as you're told." His tone wasn't particularly kind, but he kept it even and calm. He pulled the wet dress above her head, leaving her in a stained white slip. Only then did he notice the puncture mark on her abdomen, just above the left hip, staining the white fabric with blood. He sat her on the edge of the tub and attempted to lift the fabric. She squeaked in resistance, batting his hands away. He raised his arms in surrender. "I just want to check the wound. Besides, I'm your husband. It hardly counts."
She gazed at him for a few moments longer with tear-brimmed eyes before nodding softly, and then sniffling, lifted the hem just high enough to expose the cut. It was wider than it was deep, about three inches across but no more than a shallow graze. He clicked his tongue. "I've seen much much worse. It'll heal within the day practically. Hardly scar material." She pulled her slip back down, tugging it to her knees, embarrassed. "Take a bath. Hot water will do you good." He stood up, closing the door behind him as he left. He leaned against it, face in his hands, exhausted, but only for a moment before pushing off the doorframe and striding down the hall. Entering the kitchen, he surveyed the damage. Nothing too bad. Lots of glass, but the house had seen worse. He kicked at the broken bottle, and then noticed her hair ribbon, soaking up wine off the floor. Walking softly, he went to the sink and rinsed it in the tap water. He ran it between his fingers, feeling the faux silk finish. Grabbing his decanter, he poured himself a shot of whisky, quickly swallowed it, and then poured another. He held it in his hand, looking at it through the sunlight streaming through the window. Outside, he heard muffled thuds. Best not to get his hands dirty yet, no matter how badly he wanted to. He began to pick the glass shards off the floor.
By the time he went back upstairs, she was sitting on the edge of the bed in his robe. Her arms were crossed tightly. He strode over to her softly, handing her the whisky. "Here, drink this."
As she clutched it in both hands, he went behind her and tied the ribbon in her hair. She didn't move.
He watched her for a few seconds more, and then quietly, got off the bed. Leaving the room, he shut the door softly behind him.
It was time to break some ribs.
