[Content Warning
This chapter contains explicit sexual content, including non-consensual acts and sexual violence. Reader discretion is strongly advised.]
ROSAMUND'S POV –
The world felt like it was closing in on me.
The carriage swayed. Horses' hooves struck the hard ground. My stomach churned. None of it mattered. Not now.
I needed to be sure I was making the right choice.
I wanted Harold so badly. And now I had him. But the silence was already killing me. I could not even bear to look at him.
A long moment passed. Then another.
"I suppose we are married, then." My voice shook.
He did not answer right away. The pause stretched between us like a thread about to break.
"It seems so." His voice was ice. "My heir. Your title and name."
I saw it then. The detachment in his hazel eyes. The way his brow tightened.
Title?
I could not finish. Of course he thought I wanted a title. A name. The truth hit hard. I had confessed my desire for him like a fool.
He had rescued me. That did not mean he cared.
I stared at my hands in my lap. The silence grew heavy.
"I will give you an heir." I forced the words out. "Children from my body. That I promise. All I ask is my dignity."
He said nothing. The quiet was worse than any answer.
"You have dignity?"
A pause. Then he said it. "Vulgar."
I turned to the window. My eyes burned. I would not let him see me cry.
---
The carriage rolled on. Minutes passed. Neither of us spoke.
Then the wheels slowed. The carriage jerked to a halt.
"My lord, we have arrived."
The door opened. Harold stepped down. I stayed where I was.
I heard his boots on the gravel. Then his voice, distant now.
"Has the second carriage arrived?"
"Not yet, my lord. Another route. With this weather, they will not come tonight."
Silence. Then his footsteps faded.
I sat alone in the dark of the carriage. I counted my breaths. One. Two. Three.
Then I stepped down slowly.
Before me stood the great house. Stone and iron. Turrets like black teeth against a bruised sky. A fortress to keep the world out. Or keep something in.
I watched Harold enter. He did not look back.
The door closed behind him. I was alone on the drive.
A strong wind hit me. My white dress swam in the air. My thigh was exposed. I did not cover myself. I loved it. The freedom.
I stood there. Letting the wind touch my skin. Letting myself feel something other than fear.
"My lady."
I ignored them.
"My lady."
The rain began. Light at first. Then heavier. It lashed at me until my dress was soaked.
I smiled.
"My lady!" Closer. Louder.
Hands gripped my arms. Reality struck. They guided me toward the mansion. A cloak fell across my shoulders.
"My lady, you are soaked. I shall draw a hot bath." An old woman with grey hair bowed.
"No." Sharp.
She hesitated. "You may fall ill—"
I gave her a look. She understood.
She led me up the curved stairs and down a long corridor. Oil paintings hung on the walls.
We stopped before an oak door.
"Your chamber, my lady." She curtsied and left.
I stood there for a moment. My hand hovered over the knob.
Then I opened the door.
The room was dim and vast. My body shook, but the fire was lit. Thank God.
I stood still. Listening to the rain. Feeling the cold seep through my wet dress.
Then I moved.
I undid my laces until they gave. I pushed the wet dress down my shoulders. It slipped to the floor. Lazy. Heavy.
I walked to the bed. The rain pounded against the glass terrifyingly.
I lay down and pulled the heavy duvet over myself. I stared at the ceiling. The shadows moved with the fire.
Then, slowly, my cold hand travelled to my thigh. Then between my legs. I pressed a finger inside.
"Ahhhhhhhh."
Pleasure. I moved deeper.
"Ugh."
My legs twisted. My head fell back. My wet hair clung to my skin.
For a moment, I forgot where I was. Who I was married to. What was coming.
Then a knock.
I froze. My finger was still inside me.
A heartbeat. Two.
"My lady, the duke demands you in his bedchamber."
I clicked my tongue. I did not answer right away.
"I have brought a clean chemise," her voice came from behind the door.
Another pause. I pulled my hand away. I sat up.
"Come in."
She bowed. I stood. She dressed me in silence.
---
I stood before Harold's chamber.
I did not knock. I just stood there. Listening to the silence from inside.
Then his voice cut through the wood. "Are you going to stand there all night?"
I turned the knob. I stepped inside.
He stood by the hearth. His back to me, as he held a brandy tumbler, drinking in quick swallows. A bottle clutched in his other hand. There was tension in his shoulders. A strange curl to his brow.
I did not speak. I waited.
The glass fell from his hand. It shattered on the floor.
I flinched. The sound echoed.
He turned.
"What took you so long?" His voice was stripped of all warmth.
"I…" The words died in my throat. I had none.
He walked toward me. The air seemed to leave the room. I felt cold. Utterly still.
He stopped inches from me. He looked down at my face. He said nothing.
Then: "Strip."
A brief heavy silence. I stared at him.
"You cannot—"
"I need not remind you of your purpose here." His gaze was unyielding.
I held his eyes for a long moment. Then I looked away.
Slowly, my hands obeyed. I found the knot at my back, then I untied it. Let the chemise slip from my shoulders. It pooled at my feet.
I stood bare, before him- before a man.
He stared. I watched his face. In his eyes, I saw no desire. Only cold, dissatisfied assessment. The confirmation was worse than any insult.
He said nothing. He just looked.
Then his hands came down on my shoulders. He spun me around. My palms hit the polished surface of a desk.
I looked up. I was facing a tall, dark mirror. My own reflection stared back. A pale, exposed stranger. All I saw was weakness where I had once imagined strength.
I exhaled. A shaky sound. Waiting for something dark.
Then I felt it.
A blunt, shocking pressure. Then a deep, rending pain.
"Ugh—"
A choked cry escaped me. I tried to pull away. His hands tightened on my hips. Pulling me back. Forcing more of him inside me.
I gasped. I could not breathe.
My eyes locked on my reflection. I saw his hand fist in my hair. Holding me still as he moved. I heard my own broken sounds mingling with his rough breathing.
He pushed my face closer to the mirror. Forcing me to watch. My tears traced hot paths down my cheeks.
This was not passion. It was violation.
I closed my eyes. He pulled my hair harder.
"Open your eyes."
I obeyed.
"It hurts. Please." My whisper was lost. I could only hear the creaking of the desk.
He did not respond. The only sounds were his strained breath and the wet, rhythmic noise of the act.
"My Lord... Harold. I do not like this. Please slow down." I was crying.
A pause. His movement stopped. I thought—for one second—that he might listen.
Then he said it. Flat and cold. "Really? It is not meant to be enjoyable."
He started moving again. Faster.
I cried louder. I looked at my reflection. I was a prisoner in his cage.
His movements became more urgent. His breathing rougher. I braced myself against the desk. My knuckles were white.
With a final, guttural sound, he shuddered to a stop. I felt a hot, unwelcome rush inside me.
Then stillness.
He pulled away. I heard him step back.
He spun me around. My gaze fell. I could not look at him. Then I forced myself. I lifted my eyes to his face.
He brought a hand to his brow. His expression was grim. As if the drink had only just caught up with him. As if he was seeing me for the first time.
A long silence.
Then: "Leave."
His voice was thick with cold anger.
I did not move. I could not.
"Leave." Louder this time.
I turned. My legs were unsteady. I reached for my chemise.
"Make it quick."
I covered myself. I walked to the door. I did not look back. I opened it and stepped through.
The door closed behind me.
---
I stood in the corridor. My back against the wall. I did not move.
The tears came. I tried to hold them back. I could not.
I walked. My legs moved shakily. One step. Two. Three.
I reached my chamber door, then, stopped.
Tears fell freely. I tried not to make a sound. I sobbed quietly into my hand.
You have to be strong, Rosamund. You cannot predict the ending from the beginning.
I comforted myself with my sister's words. I whispered them aloud. "You cannot predict the ending from the beginning."
I stood there. Letting the words settle.
Then my hand reached for the doorknob. I turned it and stepped inside.
The fire had burned low. Long shadows stretched across the walls. The rain still hammered against the glass, relentlessly.
I shut the door behind me. I stood there, my back pressed against the wood. The chemise was thin and damp against my skin.
I did not move. I listened to the rain. I listened to my own breathing.
Then my legs gave out.
I slid down slowly until I was sitting on the floor. My knees drawn to my chest. My arms wrapped around them.
The tears came again. The quiet, steady weeping of a woman who had just learned the cost of her choices.
I let myself cry.
I did not stop it. I did not rush it.
Minutes passed. Perhaps longer. The rain did not relent. Neither did I.
Then, slowly, I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I looked at the fire. The orange embers struggling to stay alive.
You cannot predict the ending from the beginning.
My sister's voice was still a ghost in my mind. I held onto it.
I sat there for a long time. Just breathing.
Then I rose to my feet. My legs were unsteady. They held.
I walked to the window. I pressed my palm flat against the cold glass. The world beyond was black, save for the occasional flash of lightning.
I am still here, I thought. I am still breathing.
I let my hand fall.
Then I turned and walked to the bed. I did not lie down. I sat on the edge. I folded my hands in my lap.
I did not sleep.
I waited for the dawn.
---