SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
His cruelty inflicts no noticeable damage.
She does not flinch or pout. She does not beg him not to think her a worthless mother.
She takes no pride in her ability to raise children. It means nothing to her to know he thinks her a poor mother. The children are alive, at least. Though she had wanted to, she had not killed them and that is perhaps the most anyone could have asked of her.
So, she does not cower or grovel. But nor does she further antagonize him. How easy it would be, she thinks, to tell him to find someone else to mother his children if he is so dissatisfied with the job she has done. It is a sharp spike of jealousy alone that stills the retort in her throat.
She does not love a thing that cannot be loved.
But to think that she does not belong to him would be foolish.
Though it is a dangerous thing to think he belongs to her, too.
He straightens and she knows what comes next. It is not fear she feels, though. It is unhinged delight. Almost delirious.
It catches her breath, the force with which he takes hold of her. The heart chugs and spasms and she sways on her feet. It gets her eyes rolling, the thrill of it. She does not struggle for breath, merely lets the air bleed out of her slow. The sound of her blood rushing hot through her head almost drowns out his words. And still she smiles, her knees trembling.
Tips back her head and exposes her throat. Take me, it says.