But there was the nagging idea of being stuck up here for God knew how long, in a snowy wilderness, with nothing but rags to wear. She had no doubt he meant what he said. If she were still dressed when he returned, he would tear the clothes right off of her, probably in a manner designed to make them useless.

She got up, laying aside the box, and slipped the gown over her head before unbuttoning and removing her blouse. There was plenty of room to maneuver. It was probably silly, undressing like this when he was in another room, with the door firmly shut. But still, she couldn't stand the thought of being naked, here in this strange place.

She took off the skirt and folded it neatly with the blouse. That left her with just the gown, and her bra. Jerry still had her panties tucked somewhere. She debated leaving the bra on, considered what his reaction might be, and grudgingly added it to the pile on the table. Then she sat back down in the chair, drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, and waited.

She'd heard water running before. Now there were quiet splashes. In a little while there was the gurgle of water down a drain, then a whirr of some sort of electric appliance. Was that a blow drier? There was the unmistakable sound of someone brushing their teeth thoroughly, then gargling. My god, I think he's... primping himself. For me? The idea was fascinating, and appalling in equal measures. She couldn't recall any man ever taking particular care of their appearance for her sake, and now this? It was twisted.

She froze into a solid lump when the bathroom door opened. Jerry stood for a moment in the doorway, one hand on the doorframe, watching her. He wore only a towel wrapped low on his hips, tucked at the side. He came into the room, shutting off the bathroom light behind him. He went to each lamp in turn, blowing them out: kitchen, livingroom, mantelpiece. At last the room was illuminated only by the flickering fire.

She sat on one side of the hearth, he stood on the other. At last he said, "I want you to get up, and stand in front of the fireplace."

Scribe wanted nothing more than to curl up even tighter, tucking her head protectively under her arms, squeezing knees up around chin. But she had a vision of being dragged out of the chair, and any few seconds she could keep him from laying his hands on her was to be diligently pursued.

She uncurled, and pushed herself to her feet. The hearthrug was warm under her bare toes, a pleasant feeling that she would have enjoyed, some other time. She took a couple of steps forward, stopping directly before the fire, and stood, hands clasped loosely at her waist.

He just stared at her, long enough for her to feel even more nervous. She watched him as he studied her. He was tall enough to make her feel small, and she wasn't a tiny woman. He wasn't massive, but his body was all sleek, hard muscle and sinew, brawn that came from physical work and not a gym. He must have worked outside a lot, because his skin was the light gold of honey, except for the pale patch that started just above the toweling, marking where his tan ended.

His hair was thick, near black, shaggy long. It had fallen well over his collar when he was dressed. His eyes were a dark blue, almost navy. And his face... It wouldn't have been out of place on one of those men's fashion magazines, except for the expression in the eyes. That was too... real.

How old was he? As much as twenty-three? Twenty-four? Dear lord, I could be his mother. Why is he doing this?

Jerry's POV:

She stands in front of the fire, like I told her to. The light from the flames behind her shines through the thin material. The gown is full, but it's so thin that it molds itself to her wherever it drapes, clearly outlining breast, buttock, and hip. She's all sweet, curving woman flesh, not a hard angle anywhere. And she's mine. I wonder how long it will take her to understand that. She isn't stupid, I can tell that. But she's...naive. It's funny that she's older than me, but I'm so much more experienced. I'm looking forward to teaching her.

"You're beautiful, do you know that?" She closes her eyes for a second. She thinks I'm just tormenting her now, like some bully in a schoolyard. The world must have kicked her quite a bit. Well, I'm going to treat her better than the world ever did, and she'll see that, eventually. I think maybe she's going to hate me for a while, though. That's alright. Woman has a right to hate a man who does what I'm going to do. But it won't last.

I hold out my hand to her. "Come here." She just blinks. "Woman, don't make me come get you. You won't like it if I do." She comes closer to stand before me, but she doesn't take my hand. I allow her that small defiance.

I reach up to touch her face, and she flinches, but doesn't draw back. She must be so afraid by now, but she's trying so hard to act brave. I know that she thinks I'm going to kill her when I get tired of her. I don't know of anything I can do to convince her otherwise, and if I mention it, the conviction will only get stronger.

I put a hand on either side of her face to make her look me in the eyes. "Are you gonna fight me? If you feel like you have to, I'll understand. But if that's the way it has to be, I'm gonna tie you to the bed. I AM going to pop your cherry tonight..." again the flinch, "and if you fight me, I might get rougher than I want to. You may not believe this, but I don't WANT to hurt you."

"Can't you wait?" Her voice is weak. "I'm so tired tonight."

I shake my head. I can understand about too tired, or feeling bad...that can come later. Not tonight. Because if I wait for her to be ready, it will never happen. "You know better than that. This is our wedding night, Scribe."

"I'm not married to you!"

"Maybe not by your rules, or the outside's rules. But among my people, after tonight, after I've fucked you... we belong to each other. I'm claiming you as mine tonight. Now, I'll ask you again, are you gonna fight me?"