Until I Really Do

Chapter Three

Sharon spat in the eyes of her captor —whose name she now knew was Jenkins— as he leaned forward that evening, and tried to reach for her.

He fell back growling, his hand rubbing furiously at his most likely stinging eyes. She scampered back, until her body hit the solid wall behind her.

Having stayed in his house for what she assumed was three days, she had used every weapon within her reach to keep him from defiling her; a chair, a lamp, a portrait, a spoon, a plate, everything! She had inflicted several injuries on him, and considering the fact that he was drunk half the time, he was always too weak to fight back. He had however, emptied the room of its furniture until she was left with no other weapon to use against him... nothing but her saliva.

“You wench!” He roared, brown eyes fixed on her like a shot gun.

It was the early hours of the morning and unlike the last two days when he had practically tried to rape her while drunk, she could tell just by looking at him, that the effects of the alcohol from the evening before had worn off.

She squared her jaw, hoping he would hit her. She had been hoping he would hit her —and eventually kill her— after she had failed to kill herself on the evening she was captured; after hitting her head consistently on the wagon, the only thing she had ended up with was a bruised forehead and a headache. Not a concussion, not a terrible illness, and certainly not death. She had woken up disappointed the next morning. He had cleaned her wounds, and had told her of his decision to have them wed once she was completely healed of her injury. He couldn't have the court thinking he was abusing her —he had smiled, displaying his crooked teeth, seemingly delighted by his own presumed wisdom.

Perhaps that was the reason he did not hit her? Perhaps it was why, no matter how much she provoked him, he did not give in to his anger?

Still, while he was willing to wait for her injuries to heal before taking her down to the courthouse and forcing her to say her vows, he was unwilling to wait for their accursed union, before trying to force himself on her.

Sharon did not know for how long she could continue fighting him. She was exhausted from clawing at him, and her head still ached from hitting it against the wagon that evening.

He began making his way to her, fear clawing at her heart as she watched him approach. While she hoped he would finally give in to his anger and hurt her, she had to admit —she thought, her eyes drifting to his massive hands that swung back and forth as he approached— that she was afraid of how much it would hurt.

He lowered himself before her, and instinctively, she recoiled back against the wall. He reached out suddenly, his fingers entangling themselves in her hair. He jerked her hair forward, the movement threatening to rip her head off of her neck.

With a loud cry, her body fell forward. He grabbed her chin, his mouth smashing hard against hers. He kissed her, the stench of alcohol clinging to his skin and mouth, causing her stomach to churn in disgust.

She tried to back away, but his hold on her hair and jaw tightened, holding her captive until he had gotten his fill of her.

The kiss ended as suddenly as it had begun, and with it, a sting to her cheek.

Letting out yet another cry in agony, she placed her palm on her stinging cheek, somewhat stunned that he had slapped her.