There were others before her, but that doesn't sound as naturally foreboding as it might to another woman, with greater expectations -- she will never wash another bedsheet, she will never balance another crying infant on her hip, and that will be enough. Six sisters, and she knows enough about sharing.

Her new lord is dark and severe, with a measured stiffness that doesn't match his face. When he looks at her she feels the touch of a hand. His terms are simple. Leave the world behind, and be entirely his -- the world has never been hers. She has nothing to relinquish.

**

His teeth are coarse and sharp, stiletto-points against the skin. She thinks of her sister who had urged her to carry a knife, just a little knife, only a woman's knife. In the moment of mesmerism all the old thoughts clutter up to the surface, romantic silly thoughts that freeze her in inaction as much as any animal fear. His teeth are sharp and his hands cinch her up unnaturally, with a stony strength -- a bridal carry and a bruising fist of body against body. He is speaking to her. She cannot hear him, but the command is felt.