He was awoken the next morning by the slight tremor of her shivering. Even when she's unconscious, she's trouble, he mused. Sliding his arm over her, he pulled her close to him. She was his, his. His to protect, his to desire, his. She curled into his side readily, tucking herself against him.

"Don't touch me." Why had her words hurt him? There was nothing she could do to stop him; he always got what he wanted, and he wanted her. He had her, as a matter of fact. She had said so herself. She was his. His. So why did he have to keep reminding himself of that?

They'd be back home soon enough. Everything would be back to normal, if not better. He'd show her. She would fall beneath him, just as she always had; she'd realize that she loved him, eventually. They would get there, just as they always had. He would wrap her all in silk and lace, lay her out, make her scream his name until she had nothing left but adoration for him. His grip on her tightened expectantly. Unawares, she sighed in her sleep, her fingers brushing against his chest. Must such cruelty always be so beautiful, he wondered.

He was ready to be home, ready to put this dismal failure behind him, ready to begin again. He tugged the covers higher over her shoulder, relishing the way she felt against him. If nothing else, at least he now knew that no matter what, she would always come back to him. She needed him, even if she didn't want him the way she should just yet. He re-conjured the picture of her face when she had first said that she was his. If nothing else, he at least had this.

He didn't know how long they lay like that before her hand moved against him softly, a quiet sound escaping her as she battled against wakefulness. He kissed her, feeling the soft push of her reciprocation as she groggily woke up. She stayed pressed close to him, not aware enough to be cruel just yet. The look of confusion on her face when she blinked herself awake was adorably perfect.

"Where… what time…"

"The motel. It's early, we're fine."

She pushed her way up, leaving him feeling barrenly cold in her absence. He tried to tug her back down to no avail.

"Yes, that's right," her voice was still thick with sleep as she leaned forward, rubbing at her face tiredly. The bare skin of her back looked all the more enticing in the dim light, all pallid softness. She stood slowly, lost in her quiet thoughts, not at all mindful to the ways she was killing him.

"Here, come here," he reached for her arm, pulling her back down towards himself, back into the tempting warmth of the bed.

"Don't we have to-"

"You forget who I am. Nothing happens until I say so. And I say that it's unreasonable to expect a man to do any work at all when his wife looks like that."

"Looks like what?"

"Like this." His hand fanned over her, tracing the curve of her waist.

"Oh yes?"

"Yes." Kissing her shoulder, he brought his hand up to her chest. She shivered at the warmth, glad she could attribute the goosebumps across her skin to the coldness of the room. "Of course, it's only natural that any wife of mine would be such a pretty little thing."

"Regardless," she brought her hand to his shoulder, pushing him back, "said 'pretty thing' must protest. We have a ways to go, and I think I speak for the both of us when I say I just want to be home."

"Oh do you, now?"

"Yes. Is that really so surprising?"

"So ready to rejoin domesticity?"

"I'd hardly call us domestic."

"All the same." He stole another kiss from her before she managed to break away.

"Yes, well, the fact remains. And contrary to your belief, I don't actually mind being clothed for most things, so if it's acceptable by your lofty standards, I'm going to go get ready."

"It's a tragedy in action, though it does afford great possibilities for later."

"It's too early for this. I'm just going to go take care of my things now."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, visibly reluctant, "You do what you have to. I'll get the men."

"Sounds lovely." She watched him for a few moments more in the mirror before turning back to her own work. He was so… much. She wondered if they had any liquor left in the house; she hadn't checked before they'd left. They'd both need it, of that much she was certain.

"I'll be back," he muttered, walking out the door.

They must have something tucked away, she mused to herself, barely noting his departure. This was the longest she'd been sober since… She strained to think. In a long time, anyway.

Carefully, she pushed through her bag, pulling out a dress that he had packed for her. What she needed now was to stay in his good graces until she could sort everything out. She just needed him to be not-angry with her until she had time to figure out where she was going, what she was doing. Assuming she was going to do anything, she thought mournfully. It seemed so simple in theory, but looking at their history, she knew it was sure to be more difficult than was strictly necessary. Freedom felt so empty. She didn't know what to do with herself, how to define herself if not for others. She had done the right thing, and now she was paying the price. That was only fair. It was the least she deserved. Carefully, she pulled her hair back from her face with the ribbon. Her hair had grown quite a bit since she'd lopped it off. Maybe she would cut it again, she thought. He certainly hated it enough to make it worthwhile. It was a small thing, but it was something. There was no point in trying to placate him entirely; the task was impossible. She just needed to maintain the balance. She couldn't lose herself in him, and things felt horribly close to tipping in that direction. It'll be fine, she told herself, staring at her lifeless reflection in the mirror. It would all be fine.