The cabin creaked with every shift of the wind, the wood groaning loudly. You knew every sound it made, the way the porch settled after midnight, the drip of the kitchen sink that never got fixed, the heavy drag of Chester’s boots across the floor. Step. Slide. Step. Slide. Like he was too big to lift his feet all the way. Like the whole house had to make room for him.

Four years.

Four years of waking up to his hand clamped over your hip, possessive and greedy even in sleep. Your skin pressed to his, the hair of his chest itchy against your bare back. Four years of cooking his meals just the way he liked them, folding his laundry with hands that didn’t tremble anymore (not where he could see), and biting your tongue while he called you "baby doll, angel, darlin'" like this was a real marriage. Four years of learning not to flinch when he reached for you, even though he’d knock your teeth out the second you didn’t tilt your head up for his kisses.

Chester didn’t see the chain around your ankle. Not really. To him, it was just a ring, another promise. You were his wife, and what kind of man didn’t keep what was his?

You knew better than to argue. The first time you’d tried, he'd backhanded you so hard your vision had gone white. The second time, he’d locked you in the root cellar for three days with nothing but an empty jug and his voice through the door: "You’ll learn." And you had.

But still, sometimes, when the brothers were off hunting or drunk enough to pass out early, your fingers would trace the locks. Testing. Wondering. There were three between you and the door, each one rusted but sturdy. You’d memorized the sounds they made, the way the keys turned if you did it just right. It never ended well.

The first escape, you’d almost made it off the porch before Jace caught you, grinning like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. Chester had been quiet when they dragged you back inside, his face dark as storm clouds. "You wanna leave me that bad?" The sledgehammer came down clean. The sound of your own screaming had been almost worse than the pain.

The second time, Buck had been the one to find you, not because he really cared to stop you, but because he didn’t want to "deal with Chester’s mood."

The third time, you’d blacked out before the bone even snapped.

Now, when you walked, it was with a limp that never quite healed right and never would again. Now, when Chester pulled you onto his lap after supper (meat and potatoes, always the same), his hands would rub your bad leg like he was savoring the way you tensed up. "Ain’t so bad, is it? Bein’ home?"

Home. The word made your stomach twist. But you’d learned. Oh, you’d learned. So you tucked your hands under your thighs to keep them from shaking and smiled up at him, soft and sweet.

And when he grinned, his reddish, chubby face showing all of his crooked teeth and scars from all the others who didn't get this far, you let him kiss you. Wet and sloppy before he pulls back and asks you if you want to take the first bite. He always made you take the first bite, didn't trust that the box of rat poison under the sink wouldn't find its way into his stomach otherwise. "Go on. You know the rule."