by L. C. Sharp
She had no answers. Nobody had prepared her for this assault.
The weight behind her in the bed told her Godfrey was still there, though she could not hear him breathing. After the last time he’d taken her, she’d clung to the edge of the mattress, terrified of rolling over and into him. She was still clinging. From the moment he’d used his dagger to slice her wedding gown off her body, she’d known nothing but pain and terror.
Every part of her body ached, the place between her legs still throbbing, beyond sore. All night he’d been on her, at her, in her. Pain shot through her when she breathed, but she forced control, trying to keep the rhythm regular as if she was still asleep. For a full five minutes, she concentrated, using the loud tick of the clock as a guide: breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Slowly, waiting for her pounding heart to ease and the tears that threatened to shake her body to abate.
She mustn’t wake him.
The thought of him forced her tension up again, nausea setting in, so she took another breath, as deeply as she dared, and let it out slowly. This was her life. She had better get used to it, that was all. She had learned how to handle other uncomfortable realities, so she could learn to cope with this, too.
But she had not expected the act of making progeny to be so visceral, so painful, so—So, violating. It hurt the first time. It hurt even worse the second, and the third and fourth times she preferred not to think about.
She pushed the memories away. She would weep when she was alone, then dry the tears and get on with what her life had become. She had no choice. She never had.
All her life she had obeyed her parents, done what was expected of her, married the man they chose for her, and what had that done for her?
Nothing.
Then why should she carry on this way? What had obedience and acceptance done for her? It had brought her to this horrific wedding night.
No more. Then and there she vowed it, as sacred as any promise she’d ever made. With that final betrayal from her parents, she was done, finished with obedience and propriety. She’d replace them with honesty and independent thought.
Had her parents known what Godfrey was like? If they had, would they have married her to him? She feared the answer was yes. She was on her own, the only person who cared about her.
What power she had, she would use to save herself. If she did not, she’d be dead in a year. She had one weapon, just one, and she’d use it. Her parents wanted a grandson. In order to do that, she’d have to be alive. She would point that out to her mother, who would then ensure her daughter lived to bear the longed-for grandson.
That was a start. Her heart slowly returned to normal and she could breathe properly again. Decision made, she would make her plans.
The clock struck the half hour, its delicate chimes drawing her out from her thoughts. The light seeping through a crack between the curtains was stronger now.
He did not move. He wasn’t even snoring, as he had last night. Perhaps he was exhausted from his efforts. Had the household heard her screams? Most likely they had, but Godfrey took the sounds she made as encouragement, and only came at her harder. She had bitten her cheek and her tongue after that until she tasted blood, then clamped her teeth together until she feared they would break.
And still he lay quietly, without moving. Juliana dared to shift in an effort to creep slowly over the edge of the bed. If she could get out of it without him noticing, she might be able to make her escape.
Her thighs slid together, slippery but cold. She bit back her cry of pain when her aching body protested a move even as slight as that. Slowly, she eased the covers off her naked body, bracing herself to witness the mess she was in.
Blood stained her thighs, and pooled beneath her. She knew there would be blood, but only a smear, a trace to mark her passage to womanhood. There was more than a smear here, and it smelled rank, the tang hitting the back of her throat. Why so much? Had he ruptured something inside her?
She patted her body, wincing as she encountered sore spots and bruises. Plenty of those, but no gashes, nothing that would cause such a mess. When she dared to stretch a little, no more blood emerged from her body. There was so much that parts of the sheet were crusty with it. If she had lost so much blood, why wasn’t she dead?
The blood was congealing, thick, black dots forming on the surface now she had let in the fresh air.
Something was terribly wrong. Her husband lay so still, he might as well be...
She gave up on stealth. As she sat up, gore squelched beneath her. She turned her head slowly, afraid of what awaited her.
Godfrey lay on his back, naked, the sheets rolled down to his waist, his brawny, hairy chest matted with blood. His pale blue, protuberant eyes were open, but he saw nothing. Because a knife was deeply embedded in his chest.
Juliana leaped out of bed, breath catching in her throat, her mouth open in a silent scream. As she concentrated on her husband’s pale, goggling, dead eyes, her breath came back in a single, great gasp.
When she screamed again, this time people came running.
Copyright © 2021 by Lynne Connolly
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ISBN-13: 9780369702906
The Sign of the Raven
Copyright © 2021 by Lynne Connolly
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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