Much as she has not often been struck, nor has she often struck another in anger. Rarely would it ever be needed; rarely has she had to resort to such brute methods, where her cold command and the cloak of her station would suffice. It will come to her later that she has missed her chance; that if she had not stood a moment too long watching him reel, she might have found better ground to fight, with spindle and loom if need be. She might have run, barred the door against him from outside, and kept something of herself.
She does not. She is too slow, in the breach; she is too off-balance already, and reeling too heavily from the shock of all that has crashed down around her in so short a time. He recovers before she does, and there is a sharp, yawing pain in her scalp as he grabs the golden fall of her hair, and his hand closes on her white throat, a clawing and choking grip. She staggers back a step, then two; the edge of the table bruises sharply against the backs of her thighs, and she cannot catch her balance, and there is nowhere to go. She claws at the hand that grips her throat, her nails raking against the steel-taut cables of his tendons, her teeth bared like a snarling wildcat as, for want of any better weapon, she kicks out hard at the inside of his kneecap.
"Do it!" It is hard to speak around the grip he has on her throat; her voice, for all its venom, is strangled and strained. "Craven! Do it! Tear me to shreds for all I care!" She kicks out again, blindly, cursing the soft cloth of the shoes she wears; wishing for riding boots whose heel might shatter bone. To her shame, panic has risen like a tide, and she barely thinks any more, only fights against his grip, writhing against the press of his body. "I am not afraid of you!"
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-01-29 11:15 pm (UTC)She does not. She is too slow, in the breach; she is too off-balance already, and reeling too heavily from the shock of all that has crashed down around her in so short a time. He recovers before she does, and there is a sharp, yawing pain in her scalp as he grabs the golden fall of her hair, and his hand closes on her white throat, a clawing and choking grip. She staggers back a step, then two; the edge of the table bruises sharply against the backs of her thighs, and she cannot catch her balance, and there is nowhere to go. She claws at the hand that grips her throat, her nails raking against the steel-taut cables of his tendons, her teeth bared like a snarling wildcat as, for want of any better weapon, she kicks out hard at the inside of his kneecap.
"Do it!" It is hard to speak around the grip he has on her throat; her voice, for all its venom, is strangled and strained. "Craven! Do it! Tear me to shreds for all I care!" She kicks out again, blindly, cursing the soft cloth of the shoes she wears; wishing for riding boots whose heel might shatter bone. To her shame, panic has risen like a tide, and she barely thinks any more, only fights against his grip, writhing against the press of his body. "I am not afraid of you!"
It is a lie. It is a bitter, bitter lie.