Now, so crippled and so vulnerable, the thought of hitting him made her sick. Now, looking in his eyes, she thought she saw a kind of hate for her. A wounded envy. She guessed that he blamed her for how things had turned out almost as much as she blamed herself. And she imagined he would very much have liked to fling her across the room, just to prove he still could.

There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he had been almost too gentle with her. Now his one hand clutched her, gripped her, yanked and crushed and twisted, as if to make a point of how strong it still was. There had been a time, fucking her husband, she had occasionally teetered on the brink of boredom. Now she occasionally teetered on the brink of fear.

It was not like it had been. But what was? You have to make the best of it.

She kept rubbing at him. “What I had in mind… is a fair trade…

for both parties.”

“Ah, the business arrangement. I can agree to that.” And he caught her under the arm and heaved her onto her back. Probably his hope had been to flip her effortlessly, but with only one leg and one arm he had to rock one way then the other and ended up with his stump tangled in the blankets.

One of her hands was busy between her legs, guiding him, the other around the back of his head, pulling him close while at the same time she could prop his shoulder up with her forearm and stop his useless hand flopping into the way.

His teeth were gritted with pain and effort, growling more with anger than pleasure. She wanted to stroke his face, whisper calming noises. Fates help her, the same shushing she would have given her crying children. Could he not have let her ride him? It would have been far more enjoyable for them both. But one works with what one has. She strained up to kiss him—

There was a sharp cry from next door and they both froze.

She dropped back against the pillows. “Fuck.”

“Let them cry,” he hissed.

“No.” She made him grunt as she wriggled out from under him, slid from the bed and into the cold.

“You don’t have to be at their mercy.”

After all the damage she had done, motherhood was a chance to do one thing right. She pulled her nightgown on. “We’re all at someone’s mercy, Leo.”

Through their dressing room, dimly lit by the glow of the dying fire, and into the nursery. She could tell them apart by their cries. Ardee’s howls were thuggish demands. Harod’s whines were pleas for mercy. Three months old and already they were so different. Ardee fed with a purpose, and once she was asleep nothing would rouse her. Harod pecked and fussed and shook awake at the slightest sound.

She lifted him from his cot, quivering he was crying so hard. She held him close, shushing and cooing desperately. She pulled the door to and went to sit in one of the chairs beside the fire, the one with the shawl over the back that still smelled like her mother—