She was a good wife, in almost every way. Easy on the eyes, small, obedient. Sure, she sometimes spoke as if she were throwing rocks, but he'd be lying if he said that that wasn't damn attractive. At any rate, she was light enough to throw over his shoulder when she did speak out of turn, and while locking her in towers no longer seemed appropriate, a good old fashioned week of hard work usually straightened her out, or at least made her tired enough to take off the edge. "My Countess," he'd croon, fingers hooked beneath her chin as she softly looked down and away. He'd chide her for the bags under her eyes, "They're almost as violet as you are," laughing as she looked down, averting her face from his gaze.

"My Countess," he'd croon, wine still on his hot breath, unsteadily using her for drunken support. And his dreadful henchmen would laugh and whistle and she would stand beside him, silent, a pet, as he gripped her. One time she threw a wine glass. He made her glue it all back together, and after nights of painstaking work, when she had finally finished he dropped it, shattering it at her feet. That was one of the first times he had smiled at her. "My Countess," he'd croon, "my Delectable Dearest."

She had rounded 18 quickly. Had it really been four years already? "Our anniversary's arriving," he'd joked, holding her shoulders, nipping at her ear. He didn't strike her anymore. Her face was too pretty to be risked. Truly, she had only blossomed with age, if the pun would be allowed. Her eyes were dark and her skin was soft and pale from soaking in so many nights of moonlight. True, her hands were calloused, but who among his troop couldn't say the same? Sometimes he'd take her hand just to hold when she stood beside him at table. It unnerved her. He liked that.

She was just past 18. And a month after that, was a wife of four years. A Countess of four years. She missed school. She missed her family. She missed her home. She missed being a child. She longed now for solitude, away from prying fingers and leering faces and pinching hands- she just wanted to be alone. That was all she wanted anymore- to be left alone.

His Countess, his Bride. His. He often had to remind a wandering eye of that via sharp slap when she left the room for more wine. Not that she ever looked at any of his men, or women for that matter. It was more so that he didn't trust them to keep their hands nor hooks to themselves. Many of them had come smiling, nudging, leering to him the first day of his married life, asking if she really was worth all that wait. And of course he told them stories. He was an actor, he was good at creating stories. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, and might in fact encourage them to keep their hands, real or otherwise, to themselves.

She made no secret of the fact that she hated his men. She had spoken out of turn many times. Sometimes he would get angry. Sometimes he would laugh. The worst always came when they were drunk.

When they drank, it became particularly bad. Since that was more or less a constant state of affairs, it was a continual battle.

When they drank they would get lazy, forget to look away, lick their lips as she walked by, her petite, grab-able frame waltzing between them, pouring wine. He would call to her, "My Countess," pull her into his lap amongst a crowd of cheers, let someone else finish the wine-pouring. She was his to protect and preserve. She was his prize.

She had learned to act like she didn't notice the gaping glances, hands "accidentally" brushing her thigh, skirt getting caught on some fake appendage or another as they would laugh. And then he would call her. His drunken voice loud and merry, but his eyes twinkling with anger. He would pull her into his lap, clutch her shoulder with bony fingers, place his other hand on her hip, kiss at her neck, if he'd had enough to drink. And while it was a relief to be away from the direct assaults of the henchmen, she couldn't help but worry when he would begin to ask for more in return for her protection. He was her husband of four years, and he was a man of appetites. He was biding his time, and she knew it.

He was biding his time. She would be his.