This was inspired by a friend of mine, who wanted a story about an abused cellist. It seemed like a challenge to follow up "Broken Pieces" with something like this, as it could turn too similar very easily, but I couldn't pass it up. I also couldn't resist the opportunity to take some...artistic liberties with Erik (a decision that's already given me plenty of anxiety). Please let me know what you think!

She hated him. By all the saints and angels, she hated him.

She sat across from him at the table, watching him eat his breakfast yet not touching a thing herself. His hands worked knife and fork, and their mundane motions were disgusting to her, recalling how just last night they had curled into fists and struck her senseless before groping and violating, taking from her what he considered his right. He was her husband, and she hated him.

He looked up and cast her an irritated glance. "For God's sake, Evangéline, eat something."

"I'm not hungry," she replied. He always called her by her proper name…not that she ever wanted him to use the pet name her mother had given her. She'd always been simple "Ange" to her, an angel, now ensnared by this devil. Séraphin Renard, a serpent wearing the guise of a respectable gentleman…

"You're not going to starve yourself," he told her. "Eat something. Now."

She held back a deep sigh and picked up her fork, toying with the food on her plate. When had her life taken this turn? When had she become this…thing? It wasn't so long ago she'd been so blissfully happy, so carefree, so innocent. Now she was just a trophy, a china doll that had been battered and knocked about until she could scarcely believe she hadn't shattered completely. But no, he hadn't gone that far, not yet. She wasn't allowed the freedom of death, and she wasn't allowed to call her life her own. She belonged to him.

A servant appeared to refill her barely-touched orange juice. She hated orange juice, but under Séraphin's watchful eye, she didn't dare protest. He observed her for a few minutes more then, satisfied when she began to eat, picked up the morning paper and began to read. She stared for a long time at the front page, not concerned so much with the news story as she was with his face hidden behind it. That face was still as handsome as the day she first saw it, though her perception of it had changed drastically during four years of marriage. He'd been charming, pleasant, and nearly angelic during their courtship and engagement, a façade he still maintained for the rest of the world. She was given the honor of seeing the devil that hid beneath.

Ange had lived her whole life with her mother, a woman as close to being a saint as anyone is permitted to be. Her father had died while she was still young, but he'd been a successful tradesman and Lisette, her mother, had come from old money, so they had always been well off. Séraphin was Lisette's solicitor, and though Ange had known him nearly her entire life, she'd never really had that much to do with him. He was fourteen years older than her and didn't take any notice of her until about her sixteenth birthday.

It was a very important occasion, as a provision in her father's will made her mistress of her inheritance at this time, thus enabling her to marry well. The fortune Lisette would leave her wasn't quite so accessible, as it wouldn't fall to her until Lisette's demise, but it made little difference. Ange instantly became one of the most sought-after young heiresses in Paris. Every gentleman bachelor in their acquaintance began to call on her, expressing their admiration and devotion, but none of them managed to catch her eye the way M. Renard did. It was doubtful Lisette knew anything about his sudden interest, or she would have put an end to it, unsuitable as it was. Yet as it happened, her health had begun to fail her at this time, and not eighteen months after the courtship began, Lisette died.

For the first time in her life, Ange was alone, without friend and protector. Séraphin had been there for her, as a trusted advisor, a confidant, and before too long, as a suitor. How could a girl hardly more than a child be held responsible in such a circumstance? How was she supposed to guard against a threat she didn't recognize? Séraphin Renard had seemed a savior to her, and now—

"Stop staring like an empty-headed idiot," he ordered. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"I'm sorry, Séraphin," she apologized. "I didn't realize—"

"Well, start," he snapped. "I won't have anyone pitying me that I married some simple twit without an ounce of common sense. I already have to put up with their sympathies on having a barren wife."

He meant to hurt her as well as vent his own frustration. What Séraphin coveted most, the one thing he desired over all others, was a son. And it seemed that a son was the one thing Ange couldn't give him. For her part, it was a wondrous relief that she hadn't yet conceived, for with a father like Séraphin, what kind of life could any child have?

"Do you know what it's like for a man in my position," he demanded, "to have to smile politely and listen to their condolences when they hear that my wife has failed these past four years to conceive a child? Do you?"

Ange didn't reply.

Séraphin set his newspaper aside with a gesture of contempt. "No, I don't suppose you do," he sneered.

"I can't control whether or not I conceive," she told him, adding silently, and how could I possibly when you beat me to within an inch of my life?

"Be quiet," he ordered. "I don't want to hear any of your excuses."

"Excuses?" she asked. "You know how hard I've tried to give you a son, to make you happy—"

The slap came unexpected, and she nearly fell sideways out of her chair with the force of it. She threw out her arm, landing hard with her elbow on the table and upsetting the orange juice. The bright stain stood out garishly against the white linen of the tablecloth, and the discarded newspaper was drenched. She straightened up, prepared for another blow, but all he said was, "Now see what you've done, you worthless slut? I will not tolerate your disrespect. I am the master of this house, and you will obey and honor me. Is that clear, Evangéline?"

"Yes, Séraphin," she replied softly.

"Speak up!"

She tried to keep her voice from trembling as she looked up into those pitiless eyes. "Yes, Séraphin."

He gave a slight smile of triumph and waved dismissively. "Now get out of my sight."

Ange's legs shook and her cheek burned where he'd hit her as she hurried to obey. She fled the room as fast as she could without running, struggling to hold back the tears she could feel coming until she was out of sight. The fashionable house was large and the staff was already at work; everyone could see her as she ran away, and it only made her more ashamed of herself. Lisette had taught her to carry herself like a lady at all times. What would she say if she could see her daughter now?

She reached the safety of her dressing room, locking the door behind her and dropping onto the bench in front of the vanity. She finally allowed the tears to fall, streaming freely down her face as she raised her eyes to her reflection in the mirror before her.

The image was still the same in its physicality. Still the same wavy brown hair, coiled up neatly atop her head, the same brown eyes that held such sweet expression, the same complexion that was flawless except for that one beauty mark on her right cheek. Nose, lips, brow, and bone structure…all were still as they'd always been. What had changed to make a stranger of the face in the glass lay in its essence. Once upon a time, there had been light and warmth in those eyes. A pleased and contented smile had graced that mouth. The very air surrounding her had seemed to glow with a captivating vivacity and gentleness. That was gone now, replaced by a terrible hopelessness and grim defeat. She was still very young, but the past four years had wrought such damage on her mind and spirit that there was a certain spectral presence about her that hung like a poisonous fog. In her appearance and manner there was something of the deathly ill, and she knew beyond doubt it was Séraphin's toxic influence at work, a disease that would sap her strength and vitality and chase her into an early grave.

She stared blandly at the bruise on her cheek where he'd slapped her. Well, she'd have to take care of that before reappearing again. It was bad enough that all the servants knew how he treated her without the proof so clear on her face. She still had at least that much pride left. Opening one of the vanity drawers, she took out a jar of balm she'd sent her maid to buy for her, as Séraphin never let her out of the house except to accompany him to one of his social engagements. She twisted the lid off the jar, dipped her fingers into the black paste, and rubbed it into her cheek. Replacing first the lid then the jar, she searched through her cosmetics until she found face powder and a powder puff. She didn't use them yet; the balm had to be absorbed into her skin before she could cover it with makeup.

She glanced at the clock next to the wardrobe. It was nearly time for Séraphin to leave for the day. He had a brief drive to the law firm halfway across the city, and he didn't often return until after six in the evening, leaving her free to spend the day in relative peace. She stood and went to the window, parting the damask curtains a fraction to spy out. The carriage already sat parked on the curb waiting, so it shouldn't be too long…Within a few minutes, she heard their front door open and saw him descend the steps to the pavement. He climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and drove away.

Ange sighed. If only he would drive away and never return…

She abandoned the window and crossed the room again, going to the instrument case that stood in the corner. She took it in hand and carried it to the vanity, sitting down and opening it. Inside was a magnificent cello, the last gift from her mother. It still looked just as glorious as it had the day of her sixteenth birthday when Lisette gave it to her, the varnish shining like burnished copper and the body shaped so beautifully it looked like the beginning of a sculpture of some sylvan goddess.

Ange lifted it out of the case and set it on the floor, positioning it between her legs and holding it steady. A cello wasn't exactly a seemly instrument for a young lady to play, but the piano, flute, or harp had never appealed to her. When she began her music studies years ago, she had begged Lisette to be allowed to learn something else. She'd been drawn in by the rich, elegant tone, and after some persuasion on her part, Lisette had bought her her first cello. She had outgrown that one long ago, and while she'd loved it dearly, it was nothing to the one she now held. She would guard this one with her life for as long as she lived.

She picked up the bow and examined it. The horsehair was yellow and nearly a third of it had fallen out; she would have to send someone to get a new one soon. She couldn't play when Séraphin was at home, as he didn't like music—Why couldn't I have known that before I married him? she asked herself miserably—and there was little else she could do with her days, so she spent hours on end shut away in her dressing room, finding the freedom she was otherwise denied in music. Only her maid was allowed anywhere near her room during this time, and only then to bring her mistress her midday meals. Ange held these stolen hours sacred, and while her word had little weight in the running of the household, the servants left her well enough alone. And as long as she was alone, she was safe.

She drew the bow across the strings and the cello began to sigh, the body humming softly and sweetly. She could feel every note resonating in her bones, and the gentle vibrations of the instrument made her sigh along with it as her body tingled and slowly relaxed. She played Saint-Saens "La Cynge," wishing for the thousandth time that she had someone to play the accompaniment. She couldn't do justice to the piece on her own, but she would have to be content to play by herself.

She left every thought by the wayside, shutting out her husband, what her life had become, even the world itself. It didn't matter…none of it did. If she cried, it was because she was so moved by the beautiful music. If she was sad, it was the emotion of a particular piece affecting her so. If she felt any pain, it was simply fatigue from being seated for so long and from endless hours of playing. She could be herself again without fear.

Time had no meaning as the day slipped by. She paid no attention when the maid brought her lunch, and she only spared the clock the occasional glance. She would have to stop playing before Séraphin came home.

There was an abrupt knock on her door and before she could respond to it, it swung open and her maid darted inside.

Ange looked up from her cello reproachfully. "Louise," she said, "I don't want to be disturbed during the day, you know that."

"I'm sorry, Madame," she replied, "but the master has come home, and his brother has come with him."

Ange's eyes widened in alarm. Séraphin was home early, and Émile was with him.

Émile was Séraphin's younger brother, and the black sheep of the family. Séraphin had found success in the law, which was fortunate as Émile frequently found himself on the wrong side of it. Gambling, fraud, black market dealings, even a brief partnership in a counterfeiting ring; if it weren't for Séraphin's interference—and the fortune he'd gained control of in marrying Ange—Émile would never have avoided a prison sentence as many times as he had. He possessed none of his brother's suave manner, adopting an air that was at once ingratiating and condescending. He was every inch as ruthless as Séraphin; he just couldn't hide it so well. And he was absolutely devoted to his elder brother.

Any time Émile came to visit, he was usually in need of his brother's assistance, and when Émile needed assistance it put Séraphin on edge. When Séraphin was on edge, he was twice as likely to lose his temper. And when he lost his temper, Ange was the one to suffer. She hurriedly reached for the cello case and placed the bow inside, then lifted the cello itself—

Another figure appeared in the doorway and she froze in the act. She knew who it was without looking, and she was afraid to meet his eye.

"Leave us," he instructed Louise. She bowed her head and scurried past him into the hallway, and he closed the door behind her, turning the lock. The click was like a gunshot, and Ange gave a startled jump.

"Émile has come to me for still more help," Séraphin began, "begging me to clean up the mess he's gotten himself into again. I've spent another day listening to I don't know how many people begging me to untangle their personal affairs for them so they don't have to trouble themselves with them. I was accosted outside the firm today by some no-account begging me for spare change. Everyone wants something from me, Evangéline, everyone. Even you. You expect me to look after you and protect you from this harsh world. I give you everything you could possibly ask for, and do I ever demand anything in return? What would you do if I weren't here to take care of you? You would never survive without me. You've never had to fend for yourself, and you wouldn't make it on your own. You demand everything from me along with the rest of the world. What about what I want, Evangéline? What about that?"

Ange didn't know what to say. The only thing worse than Séraphin's wrath were the moments just before it was unleashed, when every choice was the wrong choice, there was no right decision, and the slightest error in speech or action could send him into a rage. She never felt as powerless as she did in those moments, not even when he was at his absolute worst. There was nothing more terrible than seeing the disaster approaching and being unable to hide from it or stop it from happening.

"No one gives a thought for what I want," he continued. "They're only interested in what they can get from me. They come to me on bended knee, begging for all I can give them, and how do they repay me? How do you repay me, Evangéline? What do you give me in return?"

"I've—I've tried to be a good wife to you," she replied fearfully, "but—"

"But nothing," he told her. "You haven't been a good wife to me. You don't oversee the household, you think only of yourself, and after all I've done for you, you still do nothing to further my happiness."

There was a menacing gleam in his eye that spelled danger, and Ange could only guess what was coming. She was afraid to move, afraid to stand still, and afraid of what would happen when the inevitable occurred. "I'm sorry, Séraphin," she said tremulously. "I don't—I don't mean to be so selfish—"

"I don't want you to apologize," he replied. "I want you to do what you do best. Beg something else of me, Evangéline. Go on, beg."

"I don't—"

He slapped her for the second time that day, nearly knocking her off the bench. Her eyes watered at the pain as she straightened up, but he hit her again and she fell to the floor. "Ask me to stop," he told her. She said nothing and he made a fist and punched her in the face. She cried out as he continued to hit her, striking her again and again around her head and stomach.

She tried to shield herself with her arms, hearing him order her, "Tell me to stop, Evangéline! Demand something else from me!" She couldn't answer through her cries of pain and he shouted, "Speak, damn you! Are you too stupid to answer me?"

"Please, Séraphin," she gasped, "please stop—"

She didn't want him to stop…Maybe this time would be the time, when he didn't stop and just kept beating her until she was beyond his reach at last, where he couldn't hurt her anymore…"Stop!" she screamed, adding in her mind, just stop this forever. Put an end to it, please…

"Make me stop!" he yelled at her. "Come on, show some backbone for once in your life! Make me stop!"

"Please," she begged. "Please!"

He moved away from her and she felt crushed beneath a landslide of bitter disappointment, then she looked up at him. He stood over the open cello case on the floor, holding the instrument in his hands.

"No!" she cried out. "Séraphin, don't!"

"God damn this thing," he cursed. "If you put half the effort into being a better mate as you did into this, I wouldn't have to be so angry with you!"

"Please don't," she pleaded. "Please put it down, please!"

He gave her one last cold look and said, "Make me stop." Then he raised it over his head and smashed it on the floor.

She let out another scream as the wood splintered into pieces and flung herself across the floor among the fragments, scrabbling to collect them as if by gathering them fast enough she could put them back together again. Séraphin dragged her to her feet as she sobbed helplessly and pushed her forward onto the vanity, standing directly behind her. He forced her legs apart, flung her skirt and petticoat up around her waist and tore off her undergarments, then she felt him thrust hard and deep.

He was rough and ungentle, moving so violently she felt as though her entire body might rip in two at any second. He kept a hand in the middle of her back, pressing her onto the table and holding her down. She gasped and struggled against the agony deep inside her, in her soul as well as in her body. She just wanted to die; she would have blessed the act as the most merciful thing he'd ever done if he would only end her misery; but still he held her trapped in a living hell with no hope of breaking free. The power was all his.

She felt the white-hot rush in her belly that meant he'd finished with her again. He stayed inside her for several minutes, during which she neither moved nor made a sound. Tears continued to pour down her face. If she looked into the mirror, she would see him, always looming behind her, always watching her; she kept her eyes fixed on the surface of the table.

Finally, he pulled away, and she heard the metallic chink of his belt buckle as he made himself presentable. "Clean yourself up," he commanded. "I'll expect you downstairs for dinner in ten minutes." He went to the door and unlocked it then, putting his hand on the knob; he turned back to her and added, "I still want a son, Evangéline. I hope for your sake you give me one this time." Then he opened the door and strode away as calmly and composedly as if nothing worth mentioning had happened.

Ange slid to her knees on the floor, crouching next to the remains of her beloved cello. Large chunks of wood intermingled with strings, tuning screws, and the long neck that hadn't been damaged. She continued to weep as she collected the pieces and put them inside the case, shutting the lid and fastening the latches. Then she gathered the case in her arms, curled up on the floor, and cried.

He always knew how to hurt her, where to apply the right pressure that would bring her to her knees like a wounded animal. But nothing he had done so far hurt as bad as this, nothing. He might as well have smashed her to pieces on the floor along with her one comfort against the black torment she faced in being shackled to him. If he was the master of the house, a king in his castle, then she was no better than a poor wretch sentenced to a lifetime in prison.

There was a gentle tap on the door and Louise entered, looking as compassionate as was proper in her place. "The master wants you downstairs, Madame," she said. "Dinner is almost served."

Ange ignored her, clutching her cello even tighter.

Louise knelt beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Please, Madame," she murmured softly, "please don't just lie here. He wins if you give up."

It wasn't the gentle words that roused her; it was the soft touch on her shoulder. She had given up hope long ago, but it had been so long since she'd known a kind touch that it couldn't fail to stir something in her now. She lifted her head and looked Louise in the eye. She wasn't much older than Ange herself, after all, but she looked much younger. There was no lingering sorrow in those eyes to age them so many years.

Louise helped her stand again and rearranged her untidy hair for her. Then she powdered her face and dabbed a bit of rouge on her cheeks, covering the worst of the bruises. She didn't offer any more words of comfort, for which Ange was grateful. There was nothing she could say that would make her feel any less wretched.

After a few more minutes' work, Ange was ready to face the rest of the house again. She knew it was unwise to test Séraphin's patience any longer, but…She laid her hand on the cello case, unwilling to leave it.

"Don't worry, Madame," Louise told her. "I'll see that it's safe."

Ange nodded silently, biting back the reply on the tip of her tongue. It didn't matter how safe Louise kept it, her cello was lost beyond repair. It was like losing her closest friend. She gave a quiet sigh, wiped away the last of her tears, and went downstairs.

Séraphin glanced at her as she entered the parlor, then turned back to his brother. "I can't pay off any more of your debts, Émile," he said. "You're damn lucky I'm your brother and not another degenerate you owe, or you'd end up in the Seine after failing to reimburse me for all the money I've loaned you."

"I'll be able to pay you back in two weeks," Émile insisted. "If I don't come up with the money, I'll end up in the Seine anyway. You don't want to see your brother come to disaster, do you?"

"It would save me a great deal of trouble," Séraphin replied. He huffed in annoyance and said, "I'll get you the money after dinner, but this has to be the last time."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Émile assured him. "You're helping your old brother make a new start."

"Where have I heard that before?" Séraphin sighed. "I need a new clerk at my office. You can have the position, provided you come in and actually do the job. You'll stay out of trouble there."

"Ah, you're too good to me," Émile replied. "Consider it a deal." He looked up and spotted Ange standing in the doorway and gave her an oily smile. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Evangéline," he said. "You're looking lovelier than ever, I must say."

He had to be mocking her. Even through the layer of makeup, the marks Séraphin had just given her were visible.

"You're lucky to have a man like my brother for your husband," he went on. "I hope you're a good wife to him in return."

Now she knew he was mocking her. He had to have heard the things Séraphin had been shouting at her; the whole house must have. Ange merely gave a bland, weak smile and replied, "Of course, Émile."

"Well, I think we've waited quite long enough for dinner," Séraphin cut in. "Shall we go now?"

"May I do the honors of escorting my sister?" Émile asked.

"Fine, whatever you want," his brother said dismissively.

Ange had no choice but to take the arm Émile offered and let him lead her to the dining room. He had never behaved improperly to her; he loved his brother too much to make any advances toward his wife. But still, she didn't trust him; he frightened her nearly as much as his brother did, in his own way. They went to the table and the servants brought the meal in. Séraphin sat at his customary place at the head of the table, Émile sat next to him, and Ange sat at the far end of the formal settings where she was out of the way but still in plain sight, where Séraphin could always have an eye on her. She looked up across the table at the two of them, already in conversation.

She hated them both.

Several weeks later, Ange sat alone in her dressing room, listening as Séraphin left the house for the day. She'd been miserable since he destroyed her cello, and now there was another worry on her mind.

He hadn't laid a hand on her since that day, not to strike her or to have his way with her. She would normally feel some sense of relief to be granted such a reprieve, but her monthly cycle should have come by now. She'd been late before, but never this long…

It looked like Séraphin would finally get what he wanted—a child.

The thought filled her with fear. Would she even be able to carry a child to term, with the way he treated her? And under his parenting, how would a child grow up? Violent and demanding like him, or frightened and cowed like her? She didn't know which would be worse. She couldn't let it happen. She had to do something!

But what? She could never bring herself to kill the baby she carried, regardless of who its father was or how it had been conceived, not even to save it from him. She could run, but he would be sure to follow her, and she couldn't hide from him forever. There was no one she could turn to, not since Lisette had died. There had to be something, there had to be!

She sighed and sat down at her vanity, staring at the lamp Louise had lit for her in the morning. She didn't need the light anymore, but she hadn't extinguished it yet. The wick burned steadily, flickering slightly as the slightest movement in the air disturbed it. She watched it without really seeing it for several long minutes. She'd been without hope for four years, but she had to escape now. She felt she would willingly walk through the fires of Hell if she could just get away from this life. She would gladly let it die…it was already dead anyway…

Her eyes widened as the force of the thought struck her. No, she couldn't do something like that…but she had no other choice…it was a terrible thing she was considering…but there was no other way.

She was going to kill Séraphin.

Off to a good start?