"You belong to me."
Margarethe pressed close, her face in his shoulder, hiding the initial pulse of revulsion that moved through her at those words. She would deny it, if she dared–she wanted to deny it–but–
–he made her. Was she not, after all, his creature?
If anything else had ever laid a claim to her, it was gone now. Her daughters. Her husbands. Her parents and brother. Who was there to remember? Where else would she belong? Life in his castle was intolerable, but the world outside it was worse: an empty landscape, devoid of meaning, absent of desire.
But to belong to him! To the fiend!
(What choice did she have?)
Her voice failed her. To tell him no would satisfy her disgust, her instinct to rebel–but perhaps (God!) it would be a lie, and she couldn’t stand to realize the falsehood in telling it. But to tell him yes…
She couldn’t bring herself even to nod. Her hands tightened on him, needing something, anything, to hold. Let him make of it what he would, acquiescence or submission, whatever he wanted. What did it matter? Even if she rebelled, would she not belong to him anyway?











