She had been married to him for three years and had never conceived.
Not because she couldn't. Because he couldn't.
At night, his fingers roamed over her body. They weren't caressing her. They were measuring her, taking stock. His fingers were pale and slender, moving inch by inch from her collarbone to her waist, as if checking whether this possession still belonged to him.
She lay facing the wall. There was a hole in it, no bigger than a needlepoint, letting in a sliver of light.
There was someone on the other side. She knew. She hadn't blocked it up. Blocking it = admitting she knew = admitting she wanted to be watched = admitting she was mad. More importantly, blocking it = no one watching = no one knowing she was alive = being dead. In a place of exile, being seen was the only way to be alive.
His fingers stopped at the softest part of her waist and pinched.
“Turn around.”
She didn't move.
He pinched her again, harder. “Pain makes you remember.”
She turned to face him. He looked at her, his eyes shining in the dark like a wolf's.
It hadn't always been like this. Once, when the son of the Vice Minister of Revenue saw her, he had to kneel, lower his head, and greet her as “Your Highness.” She never had to return the courtesy; a nod was enough. His hands had never touched her. Not because he hadn't dared, but because he wasn't worthy.
Now he made her hurt.
“Everything you have now, I gave you.”
